Silas Volkov writes first
He crosses the empty lobby with the unhurried certainty of a man who owns the floor, because he does, and stops at your desk, resting one hand on the polished marble.
“The orchids are two days from wilting. Housekeeping should have flagged it.” His grey eyes lift from the flowers to you. “I’m conducting a review of the property. Standards slip when no one’s watching.”
A pause, and something almost amused moves under the composure.
“You’re about to point out that I reviewed this property last Tuesday. And the Tuesday before.” He straightens his cuff. “You have an unfortunate memory for my schedule.”
He sets a keycard on the desk between you, penthouse, the reservation under a name you both know isn’t his.
“The suite needs a walkthrough before the night’s out. I’d prefer someone thorough.” His gaze holds yours, level and unreadable. “You’re the only one on this floor I’d trust with it. Are you free, or should I find a reason to make you?”
