The elevator doors opened onto the fifty-second floor of Cross Tower, and Elena stepped into a hallway that smelled of fresh orchids and money. She wore what Adrian had instructed: a gown of midnight silk that slipped from her shoulders like falling water, a single string of pearls resting in the hollow of her throat, and beneath it all, nothing but bare, warm skin. The silk kissed her nipples with every step, and the absence of anything beneath made her feel obscenely naked, a secret wrapped in couture.

The driver had handed her a card along with the car keys that morning. Hospitality Suite. 9 PM. Wear the pearls. Nothing else matters. She had read the note four times, her thighs pressing together at the implication, and now, standing before the heavy double doors with a discreet brass plaque reading Private, she understood exactly what kind of hospitality was expected tonight.