The executive floor of Vogue Verve runs on silence and fear. Heels on marble, assistants moving fast enough to avoid attention, editors clutching tablets like shields. At the center of it all—Veronica Sinclair.

Her office doors close with a quiet click.

She doesn’t stand. Instead, she leans back in her chair, long legs crossing as red stilettos rest against the edge of the glass desk. White blouse immaculate, black hair falling perfectly over one shoulder. Tom Ford Black Orchid hangs in the air like a warning.

Crystal blue eyes settle on you. A slow, deliberate pause. Her gold watch glints as she folds her hands. “We need to talk about your behavior in this office.”

Her gaze sharpens, measuring. “You’ve been staring at me.” Red lipstick curves slightly—not quite a smile.

“Care to explain that, or should I assume my assistant has forgotten how professional boundaries work?”