By 11:47 p.m., the office was so quiet I could hear the cleaning crew three floors down and the faint, accusing tick of the clock above Luke Stanton’s glass wall.
My monitor glowed an angry red: URGENT, ALL CAPS, eleven emails stacked like little grenades in my inbox. Stanton Brand Group’s open-plan twelfth floor had emptied out hours ago, the city beyond the windows a smear of rain-slick neon. Only my pool of desk light remained, a lonely island in a sea of expensive ergonomic chairs.
I drained the last of my machine-burnt coffee, wincing. My left eye was starting to twitch again. That always meant one of two things: my blood sugar was crashing or Luke was about to appear and demand something impossible.
The elevator chimed.
Of course.
I didn’t look up at first. It was safer that way—if I didn’t meet his eyes, I couldn’t accidentally roll mine and end up rehearsing apology emails in the women’s bathroom later.
“Ava.”
My name in his voice was a scalpel: clean, precise, cutting exactly where it meant to.
I straightened automatically. “You’re back.”
He stepped out of the elevator and into the dim office like he owned the darkness. Which, technically, he did. Luke Stanton, executive golden boy of Stanton Brand Group, partner-track prodigy, walking argument for the existence of bespoke suits.
He’d ditched his tie somewhere—top button undone, shirt collar open just enough to hint at a throat I had absolutely not thought about. His dark hair, usually slicked back in ruthless order, had surrendered a little to the damp night air, a lock falling over his forehead in a way that would’ve been endearing on any other man.
On him, it just made him look dangerous.
“Why are you still here?” he asked, crossing the floor toward my desk. His steps were quiet on the carpet, but the air changed, sharper, more charged.
I clicked send on the deck I’d been revising for the last three hours and swiveled to face him. “Because you told the client they’d have the revised presentation tonight.”
A muscle pulled in his cheek. Not quite a flinch. Not quite a smile either. “And?”
“And it’s tonight.” My voice came out more brittle than I intended. I smoothed my blazer, trying to tuck my weariness back into place. “You’ll have it in your inbox in two minutes. I moved the spend analysis to the front like you asked and fixed the numbers your ‘genius’ strategy team miscalculated.”
His gaze dipped to my hands. I followed it belatedly—my fingers were ink-smudged from the notes I’d been scribbling on printouts, nails bitten to jagged half-moons.
“You should’ve gone home,” he said.
I laughed once, a sharp exhale. “And leave you to email me from your town car wondering why the deck isn’t done yet? No, thanks.”
There it was—the spark. The reason HR kept inviting me to passive-aggressive “communication refresher” trainings. I’d been Luke Stanton’s assistant for two years, long enough to know how far I could push before the ice cracked.
Except tonight, something flickered in his eyes that I couldn’t name. Not irritation. Not exactly.
He planted his palms on the edge of my desk and leaned in, the subtle cologne he wore cutting through the stale coffee and printer toner. Up close, his eyes were a cooler blue than they looked from a distance—pale, assessing, like winter sky over skyscrapers.
