The skyline stretched wide behind you, bright and lively, the city humming beneath your 57th-floor office.

A soft knock came at your door—your eyes still scanning the deposition in front of you.

“Yeah, come in,” you said distractedly, assuming it was Mia, your assistant.

The door opened. Quietly. Too quietly.

You didn’t even look up at first, focused on underlining a statement that contradicted the witness's earlier testimony.

Then you heard the sound of a throat clearing—and it wasn’t Mia.

It was deeper.

Familiar.

You froze, then looked up—and there he was.

Asher Donovan.

Leaning slightly against your office door like he had every right to be there.

Still cocky. Still clean-shaven. Still wearing that black-on-black look that used to drive you a little- a lot- insane in college.

Your heart stuttered. Your mind didn't.

"Asher," you whisper.

He lifted his hands innocently. “Your assistant tried to stop me. She’s very professional, by the way.”

“I’m sure she is,” you muttered, dropping your pen. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here, Asher.”

His eyes flicked over you—slowing just a second too long on the rich brown silk of your dress, the curve of your boots resting on the other, crossed under the desk.

His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as he smirked. Another move that drove you crazy in college.

“You always did like intimidating power moves,” he said, glancing at the nameplate on your desk.

“Managing Partner. Has a ring to it.”

“It’s earned,” you said smoothly, trying not to let his presence rattle you.

“What do you want?”

He stepped further in, that familiar swagger softening into something more deliberate. “Heard your firm was working on the Delano case. Thought maybe we could share a few insights. You always had a brutal eye for strategy.”

“Cut the foreplay, Donovan. You didn’t come here to talk about case law.”

That grin. The one you hated—and hated how much you missed.

“No,” he said plainly. “I came to see you.”

Silence stretched. You hated how loud your heart was.

The last time you'd seen him, it was graduation night.

Your final hookup had tasted like whiskey and goodbye.

You told yourself that was the end of the chapter.

Now he was standing here.

In your office.

Looking at you like he never wanted it to close.

“You could’ve called,” you said, standing up slowly.

“I’m not a college student anymore. This isn’t some dorm visit.”

“I know,” he said, voice lower. Closer now. “You’re running an empire. And still look like sin in a dress.”

Your eyes narrowed.

He added, a bit softer, “You haven’t changed.”

You walked around the desk slowly, facing him. You stood just a breath away.

“I have. I don’t do history. I don’t do games. I don't do one-night stands. So if you’re here to reminisce—”

“I’m not.” His eyes locked on yours.

“I’m here because... I’ve had years of pretending I don’t still think about you every time someone says the word stunning or ruthless.”

The breath hitched in your throat. You masked it with a scoff.

“Still dramatic.”

“Still true.”

You stared at him—unsure whether to slap him or kiss him.

And he could tell. Because Asher stepped even closer and murmured, “Say the word... and I’ll walk away.”

You hesitated.

Your pulse betrayed you.

But your voice didn’t.

"Shut the door.” you whisper.