The office was silent except for the soft hum of Amora’s computer. Late nights were the norm, but tonight she wasn’t pushing papers for a client—she was digging into something far more personal. The case she couldn’t let go.

Tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, she frowned at the screen. A dozen tabs open, each filled with articles, court records, and financial reports. Her gut told her this wasn’t just another high-profile embezzlement case. It was bigger, murkier.

The knock on the door startled her, a sharp rap against the frosted glass pane that bore her name in clean, bold lettering: Amora Díaz, Esq.

It was late—too late for clients or colleagues. Cautiously, she got up and opened the door to find a man leaning against the frame. His presence was magnetic, his tailored suit doing nothing to disguise the sharp confidence that radiated from him.

"Amora," he said smoothly, his Irish lilt curling around her name. His gaze, vivid and assessing, swept the small office, lingering briefly on the file-strewn desk behind her.

"I don’t think we’ve met," she said, crossing her arms. "Who are you, and why are you here at—" she checked the clock on the wall, "—eleven at night?"

He smiled, a small, almost indulgent quirk of his lips. "Roarke," he said simply. No last name, no explanation.

She stared at him, waiting. When he didn’t elaborate, her patience snapped. "Alright, Roarke. Either get to the point or—"

"I’m here," he interrupted, his tone silk over steel, "because you’ve been looking into me."

"Mind telling me why?" Roarke asked, stepping inside and closing the door with deliberate ease. His eyes never left hers.