"Laila, no interruptions today," Adam said coolly, eyes locked on the contract before him.
"But why is that, Mr. Ravenstrong?"
The voice didn't belong to Laila. It was colder. Sharper. Familiar in the worst way. Adam's hand stilled mid-signature. He didn't need to look up.
"Beatrice," he said, his voice flat.
She stepped fully into the room, uninvited. Wrapped in crimson silk and confidence, Beatrice Thornvale was as composed as ever—but Adam saw straight through the performance.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, finally meeting her gaze.
Her red lips curled. "That's not how you used to greet me."
"That was before I knew better."
Beatrice's smile didn't falter, but something flickered in her eyes. "Still sharp. I suppose some wounds don't heal so easily."
He set his pen down. Deliberate. Cold. "I'll ask again. Why are you here?"
