Freya's first morning at Hawthorne & Vale was supposed to be unremarkable. She had walked into the glass-and-steel lobby clutching her tote bag like a shield, heart quickened by nothing more than the need to arrive on time. But the moment she saw him — the man leaning against the marble reception desk in a tailored charcoal suit, speaking in a low, deliberate tone — the air seemed to thin.
Blake Vale, the company's elusive co-founder.
He wasn't smiling, yet there was something magnetic in the way his gaze lingered when the receptionist murmured her name. His eyes moved over her like he was already memorizing the slope of her neck, the sheen of her hair, the faint peach in her cheeks. He didn't speak to her then, but as she passed, she could feel the weight of his attention trail down her spine, leaving her almost breathless.
Later she would tell herself it was nothing. A trick of her imagination. But deep down, Freya knew the truth — Blake Vale wasn't the kind of man who noticed someone by accident.
