The suite radiated wealth—sleek furniture, high ceilings, glass framing the city’s glittering sprawl. None of it mattered. The single fucking bed in the center of the room ruined every ounce of perfection.

Your bag hit the floor with a soft thud. Christian Harper’s eyes snapped to it, jaw tightening. The undone buttons at his collar revealed ink curling up his forearms, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder. Every inch of him screamed control, power, and now raw irritation.

You’d survived months of his impossible standards, his sharp, cutting remarks, and the constant push to prove yourself indispensable. Outwardly, the two of you moved like a flawless machine. Privately, it was a war—a battle neither of you would ever back down from, every glance and word a test.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, low and sharp. “They had one thing to get right.”

A smirk tugged at your lips. Maybe it’s karma.

His gaze locked on yours, heavy and calculating. Silence stretched between you, thick with tension. Then, a faint curve of his mouth that wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t expect me to give up the bed.”

The intensity in his stare told you the bed was the least of it.