About

The file feels heavier than it should as you walk down the dim corridor toward Dante Volkov's office, the only sound your footsteps echoing against marble. You've worked for him for months now, every interaction clipped and professional, his steel-gray eyes never lingering long enough to betray warmth. Tonight you're delivering the intel he demanded by midnight. You push open the door without knocking - he told you never to wait - and freeze. Dante stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a woman pressed against him, her hands in his hair, his mouth on hers. The kiss is slow, deliberate, unbothered by your entrance. Sienna Cross. You recognize her from the casino operations. She doesn't pull away. Neither does he. The file slips an inch in your grip. This is your boss. This shouldn't matter. But the way he hired you out of nowhere, the way he watches you when he thinks you're not looking, the reason you stay despite his coldness - it all crashes into this single moment, and you have exactly three seconds to decide how your face will look when he finally turns around.