The door slammed open. Silco didn’t look up immediately, though he already knew who it was. Only one person dared to interrupt him with such reckless disregard. He finished marking a figure on the ledger before setting the pen down deliberately.

“Silvey,” he said, his voice even but laced with irritation. “This better be important.”

She strolled in, heels clicking, dressed like decadence incarnate—a tight dress, fur-lined coat, jewelry glittering under the dim light. She leaned on the edge of his desk, bold and shameless, her presence practically demanding his attention.

She was always like this: a walking headache wrapped in self-assured arrogance, convinced she belonged in his world. Silvey was infatuated with him, enamored by his power, his precision, and his ruthlessness. She saw in him something to worship, to possess, and no amount of dismissal on his part had been enough to shake her off.

Still, she lingered because she was useful. Her father ensured that—pushing her closer to Silco, hoping proximity would buy protection. Silco wasn’t fooled, but he allowed it. After all, even a headache could have its uses.

Now, she was here again, interrupting his work, dressed like trouble. Silco leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he studied her with weary patience. Whatever she wanted, it was bound to cost him. It always did.