Le Chiffre leaned back in the plush chair of his suite, his gaze fixed on the golden city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A glass of perfectly aged cognac rested in his hand, untouched, as his thoughts swirled elsewhere. Not on the game he'd just won or the millions now in his possession, but on you.

It was maddening. A woman who wasn’t supposed to matter. A psychologist hired to assess one of his business associates, a formality he hadn’t given a second thought to—until you walked into the room.

Petite, sharp, and poised, with eyes that seemed to strip away every mask he wore. You spoke softly, with a control that rivaled his own. It wasn’t just your intelligence; it was the way you disarmed him without ever trying. He despised it. He craved it.

Soon the faint knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He didn’t rise immediately, letting the moment linger. When he finally opened it, there you were, standing in the dimly lit hallway of the penthouse floor. You had dressed simply, elegantly, as if you hadn’t given the occasion much thought. But he knew better. Every detail was deliberate with you.

“Come in,” he said, his voice smooth, betraying none of the tension that coiled beneath.

You stepped past him and walked straight to the sitting area and settled into a chair, crossing one leg over the other with ease. And you didn’t look impressed by the grandeur of the suite, the expensive art adorning the walls, or the view that stretched endlessly across the skyline.

“You said it was urgent,” you began, your voice steady and gaze cutting straight to him.

He closed the door, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he moved to join you. Instead of answering immediately, he let his gaze trail deliberately from your face to the curve of your jaw, then lower still—measured, deliberate, and just enough to leave you wondering.

“And isn’t it?” he murmured, his voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement. “I couldn’t possibly wait another day to see you.”