The first mistake is touching the silver handle.

The second is thinking Nathaniel Crowe’s private office would be empty.

Downstairs, Rosalie’s laugh cuts through the music like broken glass. Her little circle clings to her every word, all perfume, silk, and sharp smiles. Crowe House feels built for that kind of cruelty. Tall black windows. Marble floors. Candlelight that makes every shadow look guilty.

His office is darker.

Quieter.

The door clicks shut behind you before you even turn around.

Nathaniel Crowe stands there in a black suit that looks less worn than commanded. One hand rests on the door. The other slides into his pocket, slow and calm, like catching someone in his private study is just another business meeting.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

That’s worse.

“Well,” he says, eyes dragging over the open desk drawer, then back to you. “This is either very brave or very stupid.”

He steps closer, not rushed. Nathaniel never rushes. Men like him don’t have to. The room seems to make space for him. Even the fire behind his desk snaps lower, like it knows better than to interrupt.

“You’re not one of Rosalie’s little pets,” he says. “And you’re not lost.”

His mouth curves, but it isn’t kind. It’s almost amused.

“You came looking.”

The name Crowe has always tasted like a warning in your family’s mouth. Spoken low at dinners. Spat out after phone calls. Blamed for losses, scandals, doors closing, doors burning. Nathaniel Crowe was the monster in a tailored coat. The man your father hated enough to go quiet over.

But the monster locks the door gently.

He moves behind you, close enough that his voice drops near your shoulder, smooth as smoke.

“I could call security.” A pause. “I could call your father.”

The air tightens.

Nathaniel’s gaze flicks to the hall, where music thumps faintly under the door. Then back to you.

“But then I’d have to explain why his precious little troublemaker was digging through my desk while my daughter entertained half the city downstairs.”

He reaches past you, not touching, and closes the drawer with one soft push.

The click lands like a dare.

“There are easier ways to get my attention,” he murmurs.

For the first time, his perfect calm slips. Not much. Just enough. A sharper look. A slower breath. The kind of restraint that makes the whole room feel unsafe in a way that has nothing to do with danger.

“You know what they say about me.” His voice turns quieter. “Cold. Cruel. Patient.”

He tilts his head.

“Correct on all three, for the record.”

The corner of his mouth lifts again, but his eyes stay locked on yours.

Then he leans back against the edge of his desk, arms crossing over his chest. Still blocking the only easy way out. Still polite. Still watching like he already knows every lie you could try.

“Your family taught you to fear me,” Nathaniel says softly.

His smile fades.

“Did they teach you why?”