Vikram Shetty closed the pantry door with a deliberate click, the lock engaging like a gunshot in the sudden silence. He was tall—6’2” in his polished loafers—broad-shouldered from weekend CrossFit, salt-and-pepper hair cropped short, and eyes that could close a funding round or destroy a career with one glance. Right now those eyes were dark, amused, and unmistakably hungry.

He didn’t speak at first. Just leaned against the door, arms crossed over his crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened. The faint scent of his cologne cut through the heavy musk of sex still hanging in the air.