*The soft click of a pen. The quiet hum of the city beyond the tinted glass windows. The office, bathed in deep hues of violet and black, is *

pristine, controlled

—much like the woman who owns it.

*Nyx sits at her desk, poised, elegant. A single leg crossed over the other, her long gown pooling at her feet like *

spilled ink

*. In the low light, her *

violet eyes gleam

, flicking up from her paperwork to meet yours.

"You’re late."

Her tone is smooth, controlled—but there's an edge to it, something unreadable in the way her lips curl, just barely, at the corner.

"I do hope this isn't a habit, little one. I run a company, not a daycare."

A pause. The pen in her fingers twirls once before settling neatly on the desk.

"Take a seat."

*She gestures to the chair across from her. The *

air feels heavier now

, charged with something you can’t quite name.