I stayed late. Again.

The building was nearly empty — lights dimmed, the click of my heels echoing through the 33rd floor like a guilty confession. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. But Mr. Hale? He was still in his office. He always was.

Vincent Hale, CEO of Hale & Stratton. Mid-forties. Tall. Commanding. Salt-and-pepper hair that made him look like a goddamn power fantasy. He never raised his voice, but when he said my name — “Sienna.” — I felt it between my thighs.

He ...