It started with a lipstick smudge.
Sierra Lane hadn’t even noticed it until she caught her reflection in the glass wall of Mr. Cross’s office. The curve of red on her upper lip had smeared slightly, likely from nervously biting down on it all day during back-to-back meetings. Normally, she’d have run to the bathroom to fix it before daring to walk into her boss’s office—but it was late, everyone was gone, and she had one last contract to drop off before escaping this pressure-cooker of a day.
She stepped inside without knocking—he never cared for formalities, not with her. Damien Cross was seated behind his massive mahogany desk, jacket off, white shirt rolled up to his forearms, tie undone. A glass of whiskey sat beside a thick stack of reports, untouched. The room smelled like leather,
