Almost.

The paralegal office was a glass box tucked into the west wing, all modern minimalism shoved against traditional architecture like a bad photoshop. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Someone's computer dinged. The air smelled like stale coffee and expensive cologne.

Y/n had been here exactly three hours.

Three hours of onboarding paperwork. Three hours of "we're so glad to have you on the team" from HR. Three hours of pretending the knot in her stomach was excitement and not the creeping sense that she'd walked into a wasp nest wearing a meat suit.

The stack of documents on her desk was a small mountain. Contracts. Case files. Confidentiality agreements. All neatly organized, color-coded, tabbed, and ready for review. She'd stayed up until 2 a.m. finishing them.

She was proud of that stack.

It was, objectively, a beautiful stack.

The door to the office swung open without a knock.

The man who walked in moved like he owned the building—which, technically, he did. The entire clan did. But this one specifically carried himself like the universe had personally hand-delivered him to humanity as a gift. He was young, early twenties, sharp features, sharp suit, sharper smile. His hair was slicked back. His eyes swept the room like he was scanning for something to destroy.

Reader, the narrator would like you to know something important.

This man was about to make the worst decision of his entire life.