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Alora's Pov

The plan is already in motion by dawn.

I get lost twice trying to find Lucien's office. It wasn't the directions. In fact, Leyla is whispering them into my ear with saint-level patience. It's the building itself. The glass corridors feel like a maze designed to unsettle you, reflections folding into one another until I didn't know which way was out.

“Left now,” Leyla's voice crackles in my ear. “The small door beside the massive one.”

“I’ve got it,” I lie, wiping my damp palms on my dress.

“You still there?” she asks.

“Unfortunately.”

“Lora, if you want us to stop...”

“I don’t.”

The elevator opens onto the top floor. It’s actually quieter up here.

“There’s no one at the reception,” I murmur. “Just a corridor and one door at the end.”

“That’s his office,” Leyla says. Her voice tightens now. “Wait for his secretary before you go in. Don’t just walk...”

I end the call.

A small waiting area sits off to the side. Two leather sofas, a glass table, and one magazine that looks like no one's touched for a while now. I sit, my spine stiff, trying to look like a woman who belonged in a place this expensive.

Footsteps echos. A woman steps into view. Mid-twenties, dark-skinned and sharp-eyed. Her dress is all clean lines and neutral tones, the kind of elegance that doesn’t need to announce itself.

I watch her without meaning to. This is the kind of job I always pictured for myself. High floors. Quiet authority. Power that doesn’t need to explain itself.

God! She’s practically a better version of me.

She spots me, and her expression instantly hardens into judgment.

“You’re early today,” she says, eyes narrowing slightly. “Another appointment?”

“I was asked to come today.”

She looks at me up and down, checking for cracks.

“I wonder what business you have with Mr. Vale,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Then, louder, “Weren’t you here just yesterday?”

“Oh.” I force a smile. “You’re probably mistaking me for someone else.”

Her brow lifts. “Aren’t you Leyla? Leyla Blackwood?”

My heart skips. Idiot. You’re supposed to be Leyla.

“Bad memory,” I say smoothly, forcing a smile. “Yes. Is he ready for me?”

Sit,” she snaps, already turning her back. “He’ll see you when he’s ready.”

If this is how his staff treats Leyla…

God help me.

*****

Time blurs. I must have drifted off because when I jerk awake, my mouth is dry, and the clock shows nearly two hours had passed. Heat crawls up my neck. I straighten my dress, trying to look composed.

“Excuse me,” I call out. “Is he even in?”

The secretary doesn't look up from her screen. “Yes.”

I wait. She doesn’t look up or say anything again.

“I’ve been sitting here for two hours.”

She finally leans back, a faint, mocking smile on her lips. “Mr. Vale’s time is selective. And appointments aren’t promises, especially for people who work... after hours.”

The insult hit home. She really thinks I'm the "stripper sister." My jaw tightens, a familiar spark of temper flaring in my chest, but I force myself to swallow it.

“I’ll wait,” I say through gritted teeth.

The words had barely left my mouth when the office door swung open.

The air in the room seems to vanish. Lucien Vale steps out, his presence pinning me to the chair. His gaze lands on me instantly.

“You slept for an hour and twenty-nine minutes,” he says calmly.

My breath seizes. My entire body wants to bolt, but the memory of George’s face holds me captive.

“You still lean to your left when you’re tired,” he continues, his tone almost conversational. “And you’re gripping that bag like you’re planning an escape.”

“I was told to wait,” I manage to say.

“I know.”

He doesn’t need to raise his voice. One look from him and the secretary practically triples her typing speed. Lucien steps past me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him.

“Come in,” he commands. “I don’t have all day.”

I follow him into the office and shut the door. The click of the lock sounds like a final judgment. He walks to his desk and slides a folder across the polished wood. I look down.

In bold letters, the tab read: ALORA BLACKWOOD.

The weight of my own name feels like a physical blow. Lucien leans back, watching my face, waiting for me to break.

“Tell me, Alora," he asks softly, the name a casual threat. "Did you really think a different dress and your bad acting would fool me?”