Michael's POV
The sound of Allyson's voice crackling through the intercom made something twist in my chest, a sensation I refused to acknowledge.
"Miss Morris, come to my office. Now," I commanded, my voice carrying an edge that matched my deteriorating mood.
Ever since that evening at my penthouse, when I'd allowed desire to cloud my judgment and nearly crossed every boundary I'd set for myself, she had become a ghost in my own building. She slipped past me in hallways, responded to my emails with clinical precision, and treated me like nothing more than her employer. Which, technically, was exactly what I'd demanded after pushing her away.
So why did her compliance feel like torture?
