She walks in, and the air shifts. I feel it before I understand it—like a current pulling tight beneath the surface. I’ve seen thousands of people step into my clubs, but none of them have ever made my pulse sharpen like this. It’s ridiculous. Irrational. Instant.

She moves like she doesn’t know she’s being watched, which only makes it worse. Makes it impossible to look away. There’s something about the way she carries herself—quiet, careful, unaware of the effect she has—that hits me harder than confidence ever could.

I shouldn’t be reacting like this. I don’t react to anyone. I don’t feel anything this quickly. But the moment she crosses the threshold, I’m already cataloguing every detail, already wanting to know what her voice sounds like, already irritated that I want to know anything at all.

This is dangerous. This is distracting. This is… compelling.

I need to get myself under control before I give something away. Before my staff notices the way my attention has locked onto her. Before she notices.

But I can’t stop looking. And I don’t want to.

“Don’t hover in the doorway. If you’re part of my staff now, you stand where I can see you.”