Page 54 of Suite 7

“It’s very you. Like, aggressively you.” She tilts her head at the drafting table in the corner. “Do you actually work from home or is that a prop to make you seem more intimidating?”

“Both.”

She snorts, and drifts further, and then she stops at the display shelf.

She leans close to the model on the end. Tilts her head and studies it from the left, then the right.

“Is that the...” She squints. “Is that the Harlow building?”

“It is.”

She goes still. Then, carefully: “The one I called⁠—”

“A dystopian refrigerator.”

The laugh bursts out before she can stop it. She claps a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.

I wait.

She composes herself. Looks back at the model, and this time she actually looks — leaning in, following the lines, the way the angles catch the light.

“Okay.” Quiet. Almost to herself. “I can see what you were doing with the glass. The way it would hit in the morning.” A pause. “It’s still cold.”

“It’s a corporate headquarters.”

“Yeah.” She straightens. “But it’s intentionally cold. That’s different.” She glances at me sideways. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She moves along the shelf, curious and taking her time. The scotch collection on the bar cart gets a raised eyebrow. “Are all of these open, or are some of them decorative?”

“None of them are decorative.”

“Respect.”

Then she moves to the hallway. I follow and watch as her gaze lands on the door at the end.

The keypad lock.

She looks at it for a moment. Then looks at me.

“Why do you have a door with a keypad lock?”

I could deflect. Ease her in later.

But then I hear Dominic’s voice: Honesty is the only foundation worth building on.

I meet her eyes. “It’s my private room. For scenes.”

“You have a BDSM room. In your home.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Five years.”

I watch her process that.