The door is heavier than it should be, and I know the moment it swings open that I'm in the wrong place. I'm supposed to be on the ninety-eighth floor. Room 9814, fresh towels, the complaint ticket that's been sitting in my cart since noon. But the elevator skipped ninety-eight entirely — a glitch, or my own distraction, or both — and now I'm standing in the entrance of Penthouse 100, and two men at a long glass table have stopped talking. One of them I don't recognize. He's built like a closed fist — thick neck, close-cropped dark hair, and a scar that runs from his left jawline nearly to his chin, pale and deliberate-looking, like it was made by something with an edge. He doesn't move. He just watches me with the flat patience of someone who has handled surprises before. The other man is Callum Ashford. I know his face from the company portraits in the staff break room, but the portraits don't do the damage justice. He's tall even sitting down — broad through the shoulders, jaw like an architectural decision, dark hair pushed back with the kind of carelessness that probably costs money to maintain. His eyes are a grey so pale they look almost silver, and right now they are fixed on me with an expression that is not anger and not surprise. It is calculation, immediate and absolute. My cart is still in the hallway. I have a folded hand towel in my actual hand. I am wearing a uniform that says *Ashford Tower* on the breast pocket, which is somehow the most humiliating part. "I — wrong floor," I say. Brilliant. Neither man speaks. The scarred man glances once at Callum. That's all — one glance — and it tells me everything I don't want to know about what kind of meeting this is. Then the guards are there. Two of them, materializing from a side door I didn't see, and my arm is in someone's grip before I can back up, and then I'm moving, fast and not by choice, toward the elevator at the far end of the foyer. "Wait — I work here, I made a mistake —" The elevator opens. I'm put inside. I get one last look at the room: the scarred man has turned away, but Callum Ashford hasn't moved. He's still watching me. Those silver-grey eyes find mine across the full length of the penthouse, and his expression doesn't change by a single degree. The doors close.