DRAWING A STEADYING BREATH, she pulled the door open.
And there he was.
Grayson Ashford stood framed in the doorway, the sinking light of the manor's corridor gilding him in gold and shadow.
He was dressed in a black suit tailored so precisely it seemed conjured to his frame, the crisp lines softened only by the faint gleam of cufflinks at his wrists.
His eyes—those impossibly blue-gray eyes—swept over her, slow and deliberate, and for the first time Mailah saw something falter in his composure.
It wasn't much. A fractional pause. A flicker. But it was there.
Her stomach swooped, heat flooding her veins.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence between them stretched, thick as smoke, charged with something she couldn't name but felt everywhere—her skin prickling, her pulse wild, her breath shallow.
It was Etta who broke the spell, slipping quietly past them with her canvas bag and kit, offering Grayson a polite nod. "She's ready, Mr. Ashford."
