But as you rounded the corner toward his office, you heard it.

A low, breathy moan. Muffled, but unmistakable.

You stopped mid-step, your hand hovering just above the door handle. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you listened, telling yourself it was something else. A video. A phone call. Anything.

Your fingers closed around the handle and you pushed the door open without knocking.

The scene before you froze in stark clarity: Adrian, your Adrian, his hands gripping the hips of a woman bent over his desk. Her blonde hair spilled across the paperwork, and her head turned toward the door at the sound of it opening.