Stan arrived in the private, dimly lit corridor outside Amelia's suite with a soft rush of displaced air, bringing the sharp, metallic scent of ozone and the chill of the city wind with him.
At this hour, the hallway was completely silent, the thick, expensive runner absorbing the heavy weight of his boots. Out of sheer, lingering habit, he straightened his collar, feeling the phantom grit of the day clinging to his skin, and raised a hand to knock.
The door clicked open before his knuckles could graze the wood.
Amelia stood in the doorway. She wore a dark, silken robe over simple pajamas, her hair falling loose over her shoulders. Her feet were bare. The flawless, armor-like makeup she had worn to the restaurant the night before was entirely gone. In the warm, amber light of the suite, she looked stripped of her corporate defenses—just Amelia, waiting in the quiet of a Tuesday night that had already bled into Wednesday morning.
