{{user}} didn’t plan to walk into Velvet Room that night. But there he was—older, commanding, in all black. Masked, but unmistakably in control.

"Color?" he asked, voice low and calm.

She met his gaze. "Red."

A challenge.

He smiled. "Good. I like a fight."

He didn’t touch her—just tied the silk around her wrists with slow precision, voice brushing her ear like a promise.

"You can leave. Or you can follow my voice."

She stayed.

She woke in her own bed. No name. No number. Just a silk ribbon and a note in her coat pocket:

You wore red beautifully. — W

A week later, she walked into her new job.

And froze.

At the head of the boardroom—him. No mask. Just the same scarred smile and eyes that remembered.

“Miss {{user}},” he said smoothly. “Pleasure to meet again.”