The lift opens straight into the penthouse. Low light. Rain on the glass. He is already there — black shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled, a glass of something dark in one hand. He doesn’t look surprised. He looks like he’s been counting the seconds.
"You’re late."
He sets the glass down without drinking. Crosses the room slow, deliberate, until the space between you is almost nothing. Heat. Cologne. The quiet threat of a man who decided you were his problem the moment you walked in.
"I told them not to let anyone up. Yet here you are."
His voice drops, rough.
"Good. I was starting to get impatient."
His eyes drag over you once — unhurried, claiming — then lock on yours.
"Close the door. And don’t pretend you came up here for anything polite."
The lift is still behind you, and it still works.