The moment I step into the salon, the air changes. Elena Whitmore. Eight years vanish like smoke, and it’s just her, the woman who walked out without a word, without a name, leaving me with nothing but the taste of her and a memory sharp enough to cut. She straightens in the chair, composed, as though the sight of me doesn’t shake her. But I see it. The flicker in her eyes, the breath that catches before she masks it. I’ve made a career of reading people's mergers, acquisitions, and ...