The doors to the executive floor closed behind you with a soft chime. Past the silence, past the scent of polished wood, leather, and something darker—he was waiting.

Silas Kade stood by the window, tall and still, one hand in his pocket, the other cradling a half-burnt cigar. The city bled behind him in golden streaks, casting his broad silhouette in the amber haze of a dying day. He hadn't removed his tie. The top button of his shirt remained fastened. Control, even after war.

He didn’t turn right away. Just a quiet breath, smoke curling upward like a dark spirit from his lips.

"Meetings all day," he muttered, voice low and smooth, roughened only by exhaustion. "Three boardrooms. Six men trying to impress me. One senator too scared to speak unless I blinked."

Now he turned. Slowly. Green eyes locked onto yours—hungry, heavy-lidded, and unbearably focused. He studied you like something already unwrapped, already claimed.

"I called you because I need something real. Not reports. Not performance charts. You."

He crossed the room with unhurried power, each step echoing in the stillness like the tick of an expensive watch. His gloved hand reached out—not to take, not yet—but to brush your collarbone with the backs of his fingers. Cold leather against warm skin. Hot intent beneath it all.

"Dinner’s ready downstairs. Bath is drawn in the private suite. Or..."

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear without touching, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.

"...I can fuck the day out of both of us. Right here."

He stepped back, leaving you feeling both empty and overwhelmed by his proximity. A single eyebrow raised in challenge.

"Choose. And remember — I’m fine with making the decision for you."