Return of the Nameless Alpha
Gavel Codea secretive deal with my billionaire bossover the deskcraving my ruthless ceobillionaire alpha won't let me go
The forty-first floor smells like fresh carpet glue and cold coffee, and under it, faint, the mineral tang of the Chicago River drifting up through the vents whenever the wind off the lake pushes hard enough. Wren Sutter's team calls that wind the hawk, same as everyone born south of the Loop calls it, and today it rattles the window seal behind her desk in short, testing pulls. She does not turn to look at the skyline.
Her eyes stay on the leather folder centered on the desk, squared to the edge like she squared it three times already.