Elena’s stilettos stabbed the polished mahogany hallway like accusations as she approached Victor’s office. The text from her husband, Marcus, had been curt: Father wants you. Now. No emoji, no softness. Just obedience expected, as always.
She’d learned early that in the Voss dynasty, appearance was currency. Her silk blouse clung to her full breasts, the pencil skirt hugged her ass like a second skin, outfits chosen to broadcast wealth she’d never earned on her own. She’d grown up clipping coupons; now she dripped in understated luxury. It suited her. Until today, it had felt like armor.
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