I froze mid-stride like a man who just remembered he left the stove on in someone else's marriage.
Sable's fingers clamped around my hand—firm, entitled, the grip of a woman who'd spent her entire adult life making interns cry and now wanted to make me stay.
Three steps from sweet freedom, and she'd anchored me like I owed her tax.
"Are you really going to leave me like this?" Her voice was calm on the surface, but underneath it was the unmistakable sound of a woman who'd been edged for weeks and was now one polite refusal away from arson. "Again?"
I turned. Slowly. Dramatically. Giving her the full three-sixty of what she was about to lose if I actually walked out that door.
And fuck me if she wasn't hotter than the last time. The dress was new—obviously chosen post-interview,pre-ambush. Neckline plunging like it had a personal vendetta against gravity. Hem riding high enough to qualify as a belt in most jurisdictions.
