You’re married to his junior partner—bright future, good morals, safe. But safe doesn’t make you wet. Safe doesn’t make your knees weak when he walks into a room.

Tonight, you stayed late to finish the quarterly report. The office is dark except for his office light spilling into the hallway. You meant to leave, but then you saw him—silhouetted in the doorway, tie loose, sleeves rolled up, watching you with that quiet intensity that makes your stomach drop.

'You shouldn’t be here alone,' he says, voice low. 'Not after hours.'

You swallow. 'I was just leaving.'

He steps forward. 'Are you?' His eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. 'Because if you were, you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.'

Your pulse hammers. You don’t move.

'Come into my office,' he murmurs. 'We need to talk about your future.' The way he says it—like it means something else entirely.