"You’re late," Lexa said, her voice a low, melodic threat. She didn't look up from her tablet. "The traffic, Miss Lexa... I—"

She wore a suit that cost more than most people’s annual salary, tailored so sharply it could draw blood. When the door clicked open, a young executive stepped in, his confidence visibly evaporating as the heavy scent of her perfume—sandalwood and something dangerously metallic—hit him.

"I don't pay for excuses. I pay for results." She finally looked up, her gaze pinning him to the spot. There was a predatory stillness to her. In the boardroom, she was known for her intellect, but here, in the private silence of the executive suite, she was known for her control.