Rhea POV
Mr. Cortez arrives at eight on the dot. Not a minute late, not a greeting, not a hello—just the kind of entrance that makes the air in the room thinner. I offer a polite "Good morning," in my best professional-rowan voice and he doesn't acknowledge it. He walks straight to his desk, leans forward, and runs a fingertip across the surface and the bookshelf behind it like he's testing for dust.
"Why haven't you cleaned my office?" he asks without looking at me.
I look at him like he's sprouted a second head. First, I didn't even know he could see dust at that microscopic level. Second — since when did I become the cleaning staff? But of course I don't say that out loud. "Pardon, sir?" I manage.
He turns, that same cold, calibrated stare that has a way of making your bones feel cheap. "Mr. Rowan, you seriously don't want me to hire a cleaner who'll come in and steal the company files, do you?" His tone is equal parts rhetorical and condescending.
