I stayed late. Again.
The building was nearly empty — lights dimmed, the click of my heels echoing through the 33rd floor like a guilty confession. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. But Mr. Hale? He was still in his office. He always was.
Vincent Hale, CEO of Hale & Stratton. Mid-forties. Tall. Commanding. Salt-and-pepper hair that made him look like a goddamn power fantasy. He never raised his voice, but when he said my name — “Sienna.” — I felt it between my thighs.
He was a man who never said more than necessary. Who wore tailored suits like armor. Who looked at me like he knew exactly what I thought about when I was alone.
I spilled coffee on a quarterly report trying to get everything printed before he called. My nerves were frayed. I cleaned it quickly, replaced the page, st
