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He agreed. He didn't make an excuse or try to negotiate. He accepted the terms.

And if my instincts are right—if Vanguard is the man who sits across from me during parent conferences—then everything that happened over the last two weeks is about to collide with reality.

Thursday evening arrives with agonizing slowness.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror in my apartment, gripping the cool ceramic edge of the sink until my knuckles turn white.

I chose a simple dark burgundy wrap dress that hugs my waist and falls past my knees, my long, dark brown hair left loose over my shoulders, my makeup minimal. I look put-together and calm on the surface, but underneath, my stomach is in violent knots.

What if you're wrong?

What if I open that door and find an utter stranger who happens to share Brock's towering build and low voice, someone who simply grabbed a promotional pen from a corporate conference table?

What if more than a year of wanting Brock have made me so desperate to see him in Vanguard that I'm inventing connections that aren't there?

I close my eyes, press a hand over my racing heart, and force myself to breathe.

You'll know the truth in less than an hour.

I grab my wool coat and my handbag, slip the heavy black pen into the inner pocket, and leave the apartment before my courage fails.

The lobby of the Grand Sovereign is quieter tonight.

The Halloween decorations have been cleared away, replaced by understated arrangements of bronze chrysanthemums and dark amber glass. Soft jazz filters through the vaulted ceiling as well-dressed professionals linger by the bar.

I keep my chin up, walk briskly past the concierge, and step into the elevator.

Twelfth floor.

Suite 1204.

The same suite where Vanguard pinned my wrists with his leather belt. The same suite where he went down between my thighs and made me come until I lost my voice. The same suite where I woke up thinking I had finally found a safe way to purge Brock Rhodes from my thoughts.

I slide the keycard through the sensor. The latch clicks, and I step inside.

The room is pristine. The king bed is made with crisp white sheets, the city lights shimmering through the floor-to-ceiling glass, the subtle ambient fragrance of cedarwood and polished leather hanging in the air.

With shaking fingers, I take off my coat and hang it in the closet. I pull the Rhodes, Mercer & Vance pen from my bag and set it squarely in the middle of the dark mahogany desk, angled toward the doorway like an indictment.

Then I sit on the edge of the mattress and wait.

At eight o'clock, the hallway is quiet.

At 8:04, my chest tightens with the agonizing thought that he chose not to show up after all.

At 8:07, there is a knock at the door.

Three slow, heavy, deliberate raps against the wood.

My breath catches. The room feels suddenly weightless. My knees tremble as I stand up and walk across the carpet on numb feet.

I reach the door, grip the brass handle, and pull it open.

Brock Rhodes stands in the corridor.

No velvet mask. No shadows. Just Brock.

He wears a charcoal-gray tailored three-piece suit, his overcoat folded over one arm, his silk tie loosened slightly at the collar of his white dress shirt. His broad shoulders fill the doorframe, his dark hair brushed back with a few stray strands falling across his forehead, and his dark brown eyes are locked onto mine with fierce, unblinking intensity.