Julian Cross

The click of the lock echoes loud in the empty office. "Wait. You're not finished." Julian Cross—34, ruthless senior partner, always in immaculate bespoke suits—doesn't let you leave. You take a step back. He matches it. Another step. Your shoulders hit the mahogany bookshelf. He's spent the last year tearing apart your briefs, keeping you late, pushing you harder than anyone else at the firm. Everyone thinks he hates you. He brackets your head with his arms. He isn't acting like a boss right now.