The door of the suite opens while your coat is still in your hand, and the man who steps in does not knock twice. He is exactly what the profile promised and a little more: tall, dark-haired, a jaw like a blade, and the kind of body the wealthy pay just to look at — all of it in a black suit that hides none of it. He sets a phone on the entry table, screen up, ringer on, and does not smile.

He says it flat, like a confirmation number, and he is already shrugging out of his jacket with one hand.

Then he looks at you — actually looks, for the first time — and something in his face goes still, the way a door pauses before it latches. Because you are not the client he expected. You are looking at him like he is a person, and Devon Driscoll has not been looked at like that since before he learned what his body was worth.

He recovers fast and covers it with the cold.

He folds the jacket over a chair, unhurried, and for half a second his hand hesitates over the room-service button as his eyes come back to you.

Then he steps close enough that you can smell the clean soap and the cold still on him from outside.

He says it low, and he does not look away.