Page 82 of Suite 7

She reaches the elevator, presses the button. “Yes, Sir.”

Something tightens in my chest. Lower. “Vera.” I cross the distance between us in three steps, close enough that she has to tip her head back to hold my gaze. “Stop saying that unless you want to spend the rest of your morning tied to my bed.”

Her smile turns wicked. The elevator dings. “I’ll believe it when I’m tied to it, Sinclair.”

I let her see exactly what that does to me. “Get in the elevator.”

The doors close on her smile and I stand there, jaw tight, already reconsidering every reason I let her leave.

Twenty minutes later my phone buzzes.

Vera: Home safe. Happy now?

Me: Yes.

Vera: Calendar sent. Prepare to be devastated by my popularity.

I open the shared calendar. She’s color-coded everything.

Tuesday: Client meetings (red). Wednesday: Manicure (purple). Thursday: Sloane girlfriend dinner (blue). Friday: Client meeting (red). Saturday: Blocked off (gray, no details).

I stare at Saturday.

Me: Saturday is blocked off. Details?

Vera: Wouldn’t you like to know.

Me: Yes. I would.

Vera: Maybe I have plans.

Me: Cancel them.

Vera: So demanding.

Me: Vera.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Vera: It’s blocked off for you. In case you wanted it.

I’m smiling at my phone like an idiot. I don’t care.

Me: My place. Saturday evening. Pack an overnight bag.

Vera: Overnight? Presumptuous.

Me: Realistic. You’re not leaving after.

Vera: We’ll see.

Me: We won’t see. You’ll stay. That’s not a request.

Vera: Yes, Sir.

I set the phone down and look around my penthouse.

Everything in its place. Controlled. Precise.