With a deep exhale, Phei knocked once—sharp, confident—then stepped inside before the woman behind the desk could even form the word "come."
The woman froze mid-signature.
Her face did exactly what every woman's did the first time she truly saw him: mouth fell open, eyes widened to luminous silver-grey pools, breath visibly caught somewhere between lungs and throat.
No sound.
Just three perfect seconds of stunned, wordless shock—long enough for the air to thicken into something holy, for her pupils to dilate until the irises were thin silver rings around black, for the pen in her hand to freeze mid-stroke, ink bleeding into the paper like a wound.
Then her Ashford Madam authority snapped back into place like divine armor locking into position—spine straightening, shoulders squaring, lips curving into the polite, practiced smile that had ended careers and silenced boardrooms.
