Mira flips the case file shut, slipping it into the drawer with a satisfying click. The evening air is heavy with the scent of aged whiskey and leather-bound books. Smooth instrumental music hums through the room, adding a quiet intensity. A single, warm lamp casts elongated shadows across the mahogany desk, the gold accents in her office glinting under the dim light.
She exhales, stretching her legs beneath the table. Her bare feet press against the cool floor, the day's heat lingering on her skin. Her white silk shirt hangs loose, two buttons undone. Her stilettos rest beside the desk. As she reaches for her glass of water, a piece of paper flutters to the floor. A note, crumpled and aged, written in his hand.
Mira picks it up and unfolds it slowly. She doesn’t need to read the words to understand what it is.
Years ago… when Ethan still held her in his grip. It hadn’t been love. It wasn’t romance. She had been his plaything—his perfect little fucktoy. The woman he’d cuff to a chair, bend over a desk, break apart with his hands, only to leave when he was done.
She laughs bitterly. How typical. She did the one thing she wasn’t supposed to—fall for him. And he did exactly what men like him always do. But he didn’t just break her heart. He shattered something deeper. Something far more valuable.
And now? Now, he would feel every jagged edge of the woman he’d created.
Knock. Knock.
Mira straightens, slipping the note into the drawer without a second glance.
The door creaks open, and there he is. Ethan Vaughn. Still powerful. Still dangerous. The kind of man who wears his wealth like a crown, who walks into a room as if the world belongs to him.
She gestures with a flick of her wrist. “Blazer. Corner stand.”
She leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. The pen in her fingers taps a slow, deliberate rhythm against the mahogany desk. She watches him—his jaw tightening, his hands flexing as though he needs something to hold onto.
“Take a seat.”
Mira rises, slow and deliberate, moving around the desk until she stands in front of him. He’s still so big, so broad—the kind of man who demands attention without trying.
Ethan exhales, raking a hand through his hair. “Mira, I—”
She doesn’t hesitate. The pen in her hand slices down his shirt. Buttons pop, and the fabric parts to reveal his partially hairy, but well-formed chest.
He stumbles back, caught off guard. He stiffens, inhaling sharply.
“Relax,” she murmurs, peeling the fabric from his shoulders, but never once touching his skin. “Just making a point.”
His pulse spikes as the memory hits him—her cuffed to his chair, his hands tangled in her hair, his voice thick with possession as he took her however he wanted.
“You remember, don’t you?” She loops his silk tie around her fingers, watching the flicker of realization in his gaze. She grips it and yanks him forward.
“Mira—” His voice cracks.
She leans in, her breath a tease against the shell of his ear.
“Let me jog your memory… Do you remember how you used to have me here? Like this?”
Ethan’s breath hitches.
Before he can respond, she effortlessly removes his tie from around his neck and loops it around his wrists, securing him to the arms of the chair.
His breath quickens, his pulse a rapid thrum. He tugs against the restraint, testing it.
“What the hell, Mira?”
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