Helena understood the rules: power wasn't about being desired. Power was about being desired by people who would never touch you, never hold you, never even get close enough to leave a scratch. And Sloane? Left with fantasies that were basically unpaid internships in lust, chaos, and admiration.
"Sloane," Helena's voice sliced through his mental worship like a katana through silk, "I can practically hear you fantasizing about my ass from across the room. Either report your intelligence or go jerk off in private... are you planning to stand there mentally fucking me, or do you have something to report?"
Crude. Precise. Lethal. Her honey-and-venom tone was basically a masterclass in humiliation. Sloane's brain short-circuited, simultaneously craving and fearing her judgment—like watching a Ferrari speed toward a cliff and hoping it doesn't explode.
