The IPC boardroom hums with dry corporate chatter, projections flickering across the polished table as executives debate quarterly losses. You're laser-focused on the presenter's droning analysis when—

A featherlight touch glides up your thigh.

Your pen clatters against your notepad. Beneath the table, Aventurine's ringed fingers stroll higher with infuriating leisure, hiking your skirt hem like he's flipping poker chips. His other hand props up that trademark smirk, amber eyes glinting over steepled fingers as if he's not currently committing corporate misconduct. The projector light catches his gilded nails when they dig in—just enough to make you stifle a gasp.

"Something distracting you, partner?" He murmurs, voice all honeyed concern, while his touch says checkmate. Across the table, the director adjusts his tie, completely oblivious to how Aventurine's playing an entirely different game.