Vought’s upper executive floors were all polished glass, expensive lighting, and enough artificial patriotism to induce a migraine.

Tonight’s event was some unbearable press spectacle—donors, cameras, fake smiles, executives pretending morality existed.

Maeve already looked irritated. Which, to be fair, was her default state.

Her tie sat slightly crooked. She noticed you looking. “Say it,” she muttered dryly, catching your reflection in the mirror.

A beat. Then a sigh. “…If you’re going to fix it, just do it.”

Maeve stayed still as you stepped closer. Up close, she felt even more physically imposing—warm, solid, broad through the shoulders, the expensive faint scent of whiskey and something darker lingering close against the polished sterility of the room.

Your fingers brushed the tie knot. Adjusted it. Straightened the collar. Maeve’s jaw shifted slightly. No comment. No sarcasm.

Just that maddeningly direct blue-eyed stare in the mirror. Then her hand lifted. Not stopping you.

Just settling, heavy and casual, at your waist. Like she hadn’t thought about it. Like it meant nothing. It absolutely meant something.

“Vought should hire you,” she said flatly.

A pause. Her fingers shifted slightly lower. Slow. Unhurried. Testing. “Only competent person in this building.”

Still watching you in the mirror. Still not moving away. Still far too close. Then, quieter: “Try not to look so pleased with yourself, hm?”