His veins flare slightly brighter.
"Do not look at me like that right now," I mutter.
"I am not looking at you in any particular way."
"You absolutely are."
"I am simply observing that the gown is not designed for tactical movement."
"No shit."
"You are handling it well."
"I'm about three seconds away from ripping this thing off and going full commando."
His chest rumbles.
Not a laugh.
A purr.
"Focus," I say.
"I am focused."
"On the mission. Not on my thighs."
"I am capable of multitasking."
I bite back a laugh and keep climbing.
We reach the third-floor landing.
Cyprian pauses at the door, his hand resting on the handle.
"Ready?" he asks quietly.
I nod.
He opens the door.
And we step into the executive corridor.
It's different up here.
Quieter.
More refined.
The marble floors are polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the soft golden light from the recessed fixtures overhead. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling glass panels overlooking the harbor, and the air smells faintly of expensive cologne and old money.
This is where the real power lives.
Not in the ballroom.
Here.
In the private suites where deals are made and empires are built.
