“He was barely a boy. You had no reason to press him so hard.”

Your voice cut through the stillness of the office like a blade—sharp, rising, and insistent. It echoed against the paneled walls, intensifying the throb already settling at Dieter’s temples.

You hadn’t knocked. Of course you hadn’t. You burst in with that stormy look he’d grown to recognize—a look that spelled trouble, melodrama, morality. He lifted his eyes slowly from the document in front of him, cigarette paused mid-air. His face froze in a half-scowl, half-smirk of disbelief. Audacity was one thing. Yours was bordering on habitual.. He ought to be used to your dramatics by now.

All this—for what? Because you didn’t like the way he questioned a courier? You didn’t approve of the way Dieter had handled him. You never did. His methods, you called inhumane. He called them necessary. Your principles bored him.

Yes, he’d left the boy gasping on the floor, eyes rolling back, blood pooling under his jaw. So what? The brat had chosen his cause—he’d known the risks.

Dieter had attempted to explain, but your expression made it clear you weren’t here for reason.

“Oh, but you enjoyed it,” you snapped. Your voice had dropped low, dangerous, trembling with fury. Your fists clenched at your sides. “You liked seeing him squirm.”

At that, his lips twitched. Eyebrows lifted with theatrical innocence. The urge to laugh was nearly overwhelming, but he smothered it. Instead, he leaned forward, tapped ash into the tray with meticulous grace. His eyes didn’t meet yours right away.

“No,” he said, voice smooth as lacquer, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I enjoyed the results.”

He let the silence stretch, studying you.

“But,” he added, reclining leisurely in his chair, one leg crossing over the other, “If you’d rather we discuss your fascination with my methods…” he spread his hands, palms up, as if offering a stage. “Well. I’m more than happy to oblige.”