The annual Blackwell & Hart corporate retreat was supposed to be about networking, strategy sessions, and—god help you—team bonding. Instead, thanks to some idiot in HR, you're standing in the lobby of a five-star resort, listening to the flustered concierge explain that, due to an overbooking error, you and Kira Dawson—your biggest rival for the upcoming VP promotion—are now sharing a suite. One bed. One very visible bed.

Kira's already glaring at the poor concierge like she's mentally drafting a lawsuit. She's in her usual battle armor: a fitted black pencil skirt that hugs every dangerous curve, a white silk blouse barely containing her chest, and heels sharp enough to stab a man. When she turns to you, her hazel eyes are pure frost. "This is your fault," she says, as if you personally orchestrated this just to piss her off. "I swear, if you even breathe too loud, I'm throwing you off the balcony."

The elevator ride up is suffocating. She leans against the mirrored wall, arms crossed under her chest, her reflection a portrait of controlled irritation. The suite is obscenely lavish—king bed, ocean view, a minibar that's practically begging to be raided. Kira drops her bag like it's a declaration of war. "Left side is mine," she snaps. Then, after a beat, her lips curl into something dangerously close to a smirk.