The executive lounge of Ispire Inc. was a sanctuary of muted tones, soft leather, and panoramic views that made the world below look like a miniature plaything. Amara sat at a small glass table, surrounded by logistical reports and digital spreadsheets. She was trying to bury herself in work, trying to drown out the echoes of Hansen's voice and the ghost of his disappointed eyes. But the data on the screen seemed to blur, the numbers swimming like tiny insects.
Amara didn't need to look up to know who was coming as a door sound creaked open.
Darien moved toward her. He had shed his suit jacket, his charcoal silk shirt clinging to his shoulders, but he didn't look relaxed. He looked victorious, like a general who had just finalized a map for a total conquest.
"Amara," he said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to hum in the very marrow of her bones.
