The late-afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of Zane’s office, striping the polished desk with gold and shadow. He sat in his leather chair, sleeves rolled back, pen poised above a column of numbers.Contracts that were dry, necessary, predictable. He liked predictable.The phone on the corner of his desk buzzed, the vibration sharp against the wood. He almost ignored it, until he saw the name flashing on the screen.Roman Velez. His hand froze mid-note, pen tip bleeding a small pool of ink onto the page. He wondered why Roman would call him. Or why he had his direct line. He picked up, his tone clipped. “Roman.”“We need to meet.” Roman’s voice was calm, deliberate. The kind of calm that meant trouble.Zane leaned back slowly, weighing the sound of it. “I’m busy.”“You’ll make time.” A pause. “It’s about Alessia.”A muscle jumped in Zane’s jaw. Roman had a way of saying her name like it was still his to claim, like the divorce hadn’t happened, like the ink on the cust
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