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approved the restructuring proposal brokered by Layton Moreby Associates."

Hannah stared at the screen. Tanaka secured. Her deal. Her strategy. Executed flawlessly without her. The article quoted Clare Buchanan lavishing praise on Layton Moreby's "robust client first approach" and "exceptional teamwork." Hannah's name wasn't mentioned. It was as if she'd never been part of the Tanaka deal. It was as if she'd never existed.

The fury crystallized into something cold and sharp. Clare hadn't just fired her, she'd erased her contribution. Hannah had delivered Tanaka, Keller, Vince - everything Clare needed - and been discarded like used packaging. The unfairness of it burned, a white-hot coal in her chest. She wasn't just unemployed; she was invisible.

The only positive aspect of her day was that at least she knew exactly where she stood. No more time would be spent in the twilight zone of suspension, since she now had the certainty that she was out of her job. Rather than concentrate on studying, she needed to switch her focus to seeking employment. She vowed to only fall back on her secretarial skills as an absolute last resort, but would her investment experience at Layton Moreby count for anything when they had fired her? Perhaps her career in the investment world was effectively over.

She spent some time on Saturday morning updating her CV, emphasizing her role in the Tanaka and Keller deals while omitting her termination. But who was going to hire her without references? Clare would ensure no glowing recommendations came from Layton Moreby. Hannah drafted cover letters anyway, her fingers stiff with her feelings of resentment.

On Sunday, she forced herself out for a walk. The air was crisp, but it made a change to the four walls of her apartment. She bought a newspaper and turned to the business section. "Creighton Closes In On Biotech Spin-Off." Another of her victories, paraded without her name.

She crumpled the paper, tossing it into a bin. The unfairness gnawed deeper. She'd clawed her way out of the secretarial pool, applied herself diligently, taken on challenges, sacrificed dignity, and delivered results Clare could only dream of months ago. And for what? To be erased? To be left with nothing but a tarnished name and a CV that screamed "risk"?

Monday dawned bleak. Hannah scoured job boards and made several enquiries, but all the time she feared that Clare Buchanan's disapproval would prove to be a scarlet letter. She pressed on regardless, determined to leave no stone unturned in her search for employment.

Her phone buzzed with a text. Alessandro Rossi. "Are you going to Toronto?"

Hannah stared at the screen. Toronto? Why would she want to go there? Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard before typing a reply. "Why Toronto?"

Rossi's response was immediate. "International Trade Fair, Business & Investors Summit."

She looked it up online, to find out what exactly Rossi was referring to. "This event is for those interested in networking with distinguished business leaders, international trade and development experts, and government representatives, in order to establish new business relations and learn more about trade and investment opportunities in various sectors."

Hannah stared at the description. Rossi was dangling bait. But why? She wasn't employed. She wasn't representing anyone. Attending such a summit required credentials, connections, money she didn't have. Her fingers hovered over the phone. "Why are you asking?" she typed back.

The reply came swiftly: "Because it's an important event. And it's not that far for you to travel."

Hannah frowned at the screen. Rossi's nonchalance felt deliberate, calculated. But she hadn't told him she'd been fired, that she was adrift of the investment world. It seemed that this was the time to explain what had happened. And to make the point that as she had no employment and nobody to represent, going to Toronto wouldn't be a sensible use of her time or her money.

She typed back. "Clare fired me. I have no affiliation. Attending isn't feasible."

This time Rossi's reply was slow to arrive. "When one door closes another one opens."

Hannah snorted bitterly at the cliché. She tossed her phone onto the sofa cushion, pacing the small living room. What doors? Unemployment? Blacklisting? Then she stopped abruptly. Wait a moment, she thought. Rossi didn't deal in platitudes. Everything he said was deliberate. The invitation to Toronto wasn't casual, it was something more. An opportunity perhaps? But for whom? For what?

It was evening now and well past midnight where Rossi was, so she decided that an immediate reply wasn't necessary. She'd think about this latest development overnight.

The next morning, Hannah woke with Toronto still on her mind. Rossi's cryptic message was starting to feel less like an invitation and more like a command. She checked her phone - no further texts. The silence was deliberate, she reckoned. He now knew she'd been fired, so he knew she was desperate. This summit was a test of some kind. Or a trap.

She brewed coffee, the bitterness matching her mood. Attending the summit meant expenses she could hardly afford - flights, hotels, delegate fees. Yet Rossi's words echoed: "When one door closes..." She knew he wasn't someone to waste time on empty consolation. Toronto mattered. But why? Was he offering her a role? A chance? Or just dangling hope to see how far she'd crawl?

She opened her laptop to read more about the summit, thinking it might offer some clue to Rossi's intentions, when she noticed an email arrive in her inbox. It was confirmation of a flight booking to Toronto, departing in a week's time. It thanked her for her payment.

Hannah stared at the screen. Payment? She hadn't paid for anything. She checked her bank account and credit card online. As she expected, no such transaction had been made. Then the penny dropped - Rossi. It had to be him. He'd bought her ticket. The presumption was staggering, yet utterly characteristic. He was no longer asking, he was acting. This wasn't an invitation anymore. It was a summons.

She noticed another email arrive. Event ticket confirmation. Hannah paced her apartment. Toronto meant opportunity - Rossi wouldn't go to this much trouble without expecting a significant yield. But opportunity for whom? For her? Or for him?

She called Rossi directly. His voice was smooth, unsurprised. "You received the flight details?"

"You paid for it," Hannah stated flatly. "Why?"

"I expected your employer to pay," Rossi replied, his tone unreadable. "But as you don't have an employer..."

Hannah gripped the phone tighter. "What do you want from me in Toronto?"

"Finding the answer to that question is worth the journey."

His cryptic reply hung in the air as Hannah ended the call. She stared at the flight confirmation on her screen - Toronto Pearson Airport, departure in eight days. The gesture screamed investment, not charity. Rossi expected a return.

Although she had the flight booking and the event ticket, he hadn't arranged any accomodation for her, so Hannah took the plunge and booked herself a cheap room near the convention center. Before leaving, she called Maria and explained that she wasn't with Layton Moreby anymore, but hoped to continue their friendship. Maria had noticed that her recent emails had been answered by someone else, but had just assumed that Hannah had been busy with other projects.

"Clare fired you?" Maria sounded incredulous. "But Tanaka was your deal. Keller was your proposal. That's insane."

"Clare knew I used outside help. She couldn't prove it, but she didn't need to." Silence stretched between them.

Maria sighed. "What now?"

"Toronto investors summit," Hannah said. "Rossi booked me a ticket. I'm traveling today."

Maria whistled low. "Be careful. That man doesn't do favors. What's the price?"

"Unknown," Hannah admitted, the word tasting metallic. "But I'm out of work..." She ended the call, promising to contact Maria again on her return.

The flight to Toronto was uneventful, the hum of engines a dull counterpoint to Hannah's churning thoughts. Rossi had been silent since booking the ticket and it felt deliberate, a tightening of invisible strings. She landed in a grey drizzle, the city skyline blurred beyond the taxi window. Her budget hotel room was functional - a narrow bed, a laminate desk, a view of a brick wall.

That afternoon Hannah navigated the crowded subway to the convention center. Inside, the trade fair was buzzing, the air thrumming with conversations at the exhibitor booths, where the logos of banks and fintech firms were prominently displayed. She moved through the throng, noting from their badges how many of the visitors were from Asia and Africa, and feeling acutely unanchored at not having any affiliation declared on her own badge. She didn't see Rossi anywhere, and his absence was a palpable weight. "Why bring me here?* The question gnawed at her.

She forced herself to focus. Since she was here she would make the most of it. She attended sessions on emerging markets and private equity trends, taking meticulous notes. During a coffee break, she approached a group discussing African infrastructure investments. "Excuse me," she began, projecting confidence she didn't feel. "I've been analyzing the debt-to-GDP ratios in Kenya versus Ghana..." Her insights, sharpened by weeks of intensive study, drew nods. One delegate handed her a card. "Impressive perspective. Are you with a fund?"

"Independent consultant," Hannah lied smoothly, the title tasting strange yet empowering. She pocketed the card, a tiny spark igniting in her chest. Perhaps this was why Rossi had brought her here - not to find him, but to find herself outside of Clare's shadow. She moved to another booth showcasing Southeast Asian tech startups, engaging a founder in rapid-fire questions about burn rates and user acquisition costs. Her Layton Moreby experience, stripped of Clare's name, felt like hers.

A hand landed lightly on her shoulder. Hannah turned to face Alessandro Rossi. He wore a charcoal suit, impeccable as always, his expression unreadable. "You look busy," he remarked.

"Yes," Hannah replied. "I'm networking."

Rossi's gaze swept the bustling hall. "Good. That's precisely why you're here." He steered her toward a quieter corridor lined with private meeting rooms. "Tanaka's restructuring is progressing smoothly. Keller's spin-off launches next month. Both deals required... unconventional methods." He paused before an unmarked door. "Methods Layton Moreby's old guard couldn't stomach. But others value results over protocol."

Hannah's pulse quickened. "Others?"

Rossi opened the door and motioned for her to sit down. "Yes, others. Let's start with the scarab. He regards Layton Moreby letting you go as a major miscalculation on their part. They tend to be very rigid and predictable in their ways, so he saw someone like you as an asset to them, someone who plays the game... differently."

Hannah sat stiffly. "And what game is that?"

"The real one," Rossi said, taking the seat opposite her. "Where influence isn't measured in compliance reports but in leverage. Where information flows through channels Clare Buchanan wouldn't recognize." He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "The scarab has interests beyond Tanaka. Interests that require someone... unattached. Someone erased."

Hannah felt a chill despite the room's warmth. "Someone disposable?"

"Someone deniable," Rossi corrected smoothly. "With proven talent for navigating complex situations. The scarab requires a liaison - discreet, resourceful, unburdened by corporate oversight - to facilitate certain transactions in emerging markets. Transactions Layton Moreby would deem... unethical."

Hannah absorbed this. The scarab's world was one of shadowed boardrooms and unspoken rules, where Shirley had thrived before vanishing. "What kind of transactions?"

"High-risk, high-reward ventures," Rossi explained. "Private equity in regions with unstable governance. Resource extraction where permits are... flexible. The kind of deals Clare would call reckless, but which yield extraordinary returns for those with the stomach for them. The scarab believes you possess Shirley's pragmatism but lack her recklessness. He wants you to evaluate these opportunities. Find the diamonds in the rough."

Hannah's mind raced. Emerging markets were volatile, often ethically murky. Yet her Tanaka and Keller successes proved she could navigate complexity. "Why me? I'm untested in this arena."

Rossi's smile was thin. "Your Tanaka salvage was a masterclass in high-stakes maneuvering. You extracted value from potential ruin while exposing threats. The scarab values that instinct."

Hannah leaned back, the cheap plastic chair creaking. "And my compensation? I don't work for free anymore."

"Nobody expects you to work for free," Rossi stated without hesitation. "The fees on offer will be fair compensation."

Hannah raised an eyebrow. "Fair?"

"More than fair," Rossi clarified. "And the scarab isn't the only player at the table. There are other opportunities. Enough to build your own consultancy."

Hannah studied Rossi's face, searching for the trap. "And your role? Broker? Benefactor?"

"Facilitator," Rossi corrected. "I connect talent with opportunity. The scarab trusts my judgment. As do others." He slid a card across the table. "Take some time to think about this. We'll talk again over dinner tonight."

Hannah pocketed the card without looking at it. "And if I decline?"

Rossi stood, adjusting his cufflinks. "Then you return to your hotel, fly home, and continue your life without us. But ask yourself this - how many firms value what you actually bring to the table?" He left without waiting for an answer, the door clicking shut behind him.

Hannah sat frozen, the convention center's distant hum fading. "Deniable asset". The term echoed Shirley's ghostly absence. Was this her path now? Trading Clare's rigid oversight for the scarab's shadow empire? She pulled out the card Rossi had given her - it had the details of a restaurant with a handwritten "8 pm" added.

She spent the rest of the day wandering the summit's periphery, observing. In a session on African mineral rights, she noted a delegate from a cobalt-rich region slip a flash drive to a European financier. Later, near the blockchain pavilion, she overheard fragmented whispers about "off-grid settlements" and "regulatory arbitrage." Rossi's words crystallized: high-risk, high-reward. The scarab's world wasn't just finance - it was frontier capitalism, where rules bent like jungle vines.

At seven forty-five that evening, Hannah stood outside the restaurant - an opulent, dimly lit place with velvet booths and hushed conversations. She wore the only power suit she'd packed, feeling both weaponized and exposed. A hostess led her to a secluded corner booth, where Rossi greeted her. At first he said nothing about their earlier conversation, focusing instead on understanding exactly what had happened at Layton Moreby that had lead to her departure.

Hannah recounted Clare's suspension, the termination letter, the erasure of her contributions. Rossi listened impassively, swirling his scotch. "Clare sees the world in black and white," he finally said. "But finance exists in shades of grey. The scarab and others operate where those shades darken." He leaned forward. "Your work on Tanaka required navigating those shadows. Clare punished you for it. Others reward it."

A waiter delivered seared scallops. Rossi waited until they were alone again. "Don't see leaving Layton Moreby as a setback. See it as a change, a redirection, a course correction. What Clare thinks doesn't matter anymore. You're free to make your own decisions now."

Hannah picked up her fork, the silver cool against her fingers. "Free to become what Shirley was?"

Rossi's gaze sharpened. "If you start your own consultancy, you'll be on a different level to where Shirley ever was."

Hannah sliced into a scallop, its delicate flesh yielding. "Shirley vanished."

Rossi didn't flinch. "That was her own choice." He paused as their main courses arrived - filet mignon for him, Arctic char for her. "Shirley decided what she wanted to do next. Now it's time for you to decide what you want to do next."

"You want me to evaluate these deals. Be your... scout in the shadows."

Rossi nodded, cutting into his steak with precise movements. "Initial assessments only. Identify viability, flag pitfalls. You'd operate independently, no corporate leash. Just your judgment." He paused, meeting her eyes. "And your discretion."

"And the ethics..."

"Are yours to define," Rossi countered. "The scarab and others seek opportunity, not atrocity. Your Tanaka work saved jobs. Your Keller pivot preserved groundbreaking science. Apply that discernment elsewhere."

Hannah recalled the cobalt delegate's furtive exchange, the blockchain whispers. These weren't abstract concepts - they were nations, communities, environments. "And if I uncover something... unsalvageable?"

"Then you walk away," Rossi stated. "The scarab values accuracy, not blind allegiance. A bad deal exposed is worth more than a disaster embraced." He dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin. "But understand this - saying no carries weight too. It signals where lines are drawn. Useful intelligence in itself."

Hannah's mind raced. This wasn't just deal analysis, it was mapping the boundaries of power. "Compensation structure?"

"Per-project fee," Rossi said. "Plus a success bonus tied to investor returns. Scale negotiable based on complexity. You'd retain autonomy over workload."

Hannah watched the candlelight flicker across his impassive face. "No retainers? No exclusivity?"

"None," Rossi confirmed. "You build your own client list. My introductions are merely... door openers. The scarab is your first potential client, not your master." He signaled for the check. "I'm not pushing you into anything. I'll leave you alone to think about it." He slid a card across the table. "If you're considering it," he said, "come by."

He signed the bill and was gone. Hannah stared at the card: a luxury hotel with a handwritten "804" at the bottom.

Back in her own hotel room, she paced. Deniable asset. Shirley's ghost whispered warnings, but Tanaka's salvage proved she could swim in these waters. The scarab's offer wasn't employment, it was a partnership. A chance to build her own consultancy from the shadows Clare feared. She thought of Vince's ultimatum, Clare's betrayal. Here, her results wouldn't be erased, they'd be rewarded.

At eleven that night she knocked on the door of suite 804. Rossi was wearing a silk robe and didn't seem surprised to see her. He motioned for her to sit down. "What are your thoughts?" he asked, without preamble. "You must be serious about my proposal, otherwise you wouldn't be here."

Hannah sat on the edge of the leather armchair. "I'll do it," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "But on my terms. I retain full control over which projects I accept. I set my own fees. And I report the findings directly to the client - with no intermediaries."

Rossi poured two fingers of bourbon into a crystal tumbler, the liquid catching the dim light. "Reasonable," he conceded, sliding the glass toward her. "My contacts expect autonomy. But understand the stakes. These aren't always Tanaka boardrooms with paper trails. In some cases you'll be assessing mines where armed factions control territory. Factories that don't appear on maps. The due diligence happens on the ground."

Hannah took the glass but didn't drink. "I'm aware. That's why my fee structure will include hazard premiums. And I choose my own security. No blind drops into war zones."

Rossi inclined his head. "Agreed. Then it looks like we can move forward. Can I assume that you're ready to start immediately?"

Hannah met his gaze. "I am."

"In that case, I'll have something for you before you leave Toronto." His eyes moved over her now, relaxed in the knowledge that his business proposition had been secured.

Hannah felt the shift in the room's energy, the air thickening as Rossi's gaze lingered. "This isn't part of the arrangement," she stated, her voice cutting through the silence. She remained seated, posture rigid, refusing the unspoken invitation in his posture.

Rossi's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Everything has a price, Hannah. Even partnerships." He took a slow sip of bourbon, watching her over the rim of the glass. "I'm already working hard on your behalf and I value your commitment in return. This is how trust is sealed in our world."

Hannah was conflicted. If she was going to found her own consultancy, it was important to be seen as a professional, not some sort of bargaining chip. On the other hand, she still had limited experience in the investment world and needed Rossi, not only for his introductions but for the guidance and assistance he could give her.

She stood, smoothing her skirt. "My commitment was sealed when I agreed to your terms. If that's insufficient..." She turned toward the door, heart hammering against her ribs. This was a gamble - rejecting Rossi might close doors before they opened.

"Wait." Rossi's voice halted her. He set down his glass, the ice clinking softly. "Sit. Please." When she remained standing, he sighed. "You misunderstand. This isn't transactional. It's... insurance. Mutual vulnerability builds trust faster than contracts."

Hannah turned slowly. "Vulnerability goes both ways. What are - you - offering?"

Rossi studied her for a long moment. "I'm operating through informal networks - the sort that thrive on silence and discretion. By backing you, I'm staking credibility on you. If you misstep, you don't just embarrass me - you expose my reach. Your failure could make me look reckless."

Hannah could see his point. He did have vulnerability. By backing her he was risking his reputation on someone who'd just been fired from her job. She returned to the chair, but didn't sit, still feeling conflicted. She now realized that by going ahead with his proposal, she wasn't just gambling with her own future, but with his standing in a world built on trust and whispers.

Rossi leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Think strategically. And then make your move."

Hannah remained standing, the leather armchair's cold frame pressing against her thigh. She weighed the variables. Rossi's network was her lifeline, but the danger was that yielding now would define every future interaction between them. That's what she needed to avoid.

"How do I know you won't keep on making the same argument?" she countered. "It's hardly a practical business relationship if you're free to ask these kind of favors whenever it suits you."

Rossi's expression remained impassive. "Then name your terms."

"This ends tonight," Hannah stated, her voice gaining steel. No future expectations. Ever."

Rossi raised an eyebrow. "That's a significant concession."

"It's non-negotiable," Hannah said, locking eyes with him. "I'm building a consultancy, not trading favors. Tonight is the line. Cross it, and we have no further business."

Rossi swirled his bourbon, the ice cubes clinking like dice. "You drive a hard bargain for someone with no clients." But there was a flicker of respect in his gaze. "Agreed. Tonight only. No future obligations implied or expected."

Hannah hesitated just for a moment, scanning him for any sign of deception. Then she stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Her fingers found the knot of his silk robe, loosening it until the fabric parted, revealing the lean muscle beneath. She pushed the robe off his shoulders, and he stood up, letting it pool at his feet. His skin was warm under her palms as she traced the line of his collarbone, then down his chest. He remained still, watching her, the air thick with the scent of expensive liquor and the unspoken power shift.

She withdrew her hands to remove her blouse, her unhurried hands slipping the buttons free. She pulled it loose and the silk whispered against her skin as it fell away. Then her skirt slipped down her legs and she stepped out of it, leaving it crumpled on the floor beside his robe. They stood facing each other, stripped of pretense and professional armor. Rossi's gaze swept over her, appreciative but detached, like an appraiser assessing an asset. Hannah met his scrutiny without flinching. This wasn't submission - it was a transaction, clear and contained.

He reached for her, eager to claim her, but she caught his wrist. "No," she said softly. "Tonight, I lead." Her voice held no challenge, only certainty. Rossi's eyes narrowed fractionally, then he inclined his head, a silent acquiescence. Hannah guided him backward, right across the room, until the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed. She pressed down on his shoulders until he yielded and sat. Then she got down and knelt before him, not in supplication, but in command.

Her hands moved deliberately, exploring the hard planes of his abdomen, the tension coiled in his thighs. She mapped him, learning the contours of his vulnerability as he had previously learned hers. When she took him into her mouth, it was with calculated precision, a controlled demonstration of power. Rossi's sharp intake of breath was her reward. She established a sure and steady rhythm, relentless and unhurried. Control was hers, absolute and undeniable.

She maintained the rhythm for as long as it suited her and then she stopped. She got up and stood in front of him for a moment, holding his gaze. Then she reached for the clasp of her bra and unhooked it, letting the bra fall to the floor. She watched his reaction and saw how his eyes gleamed at the sight of her bare breasts.

She waited another moment and then pushed her panties down her legs and stepped out of them. She stood naked before him, her posture open, her breathing steady. She saw his gaze travel over her, lingering on her breasts, the curve of her waist and her hips, the closely and neatly trimmed hair between her thighs.

His jaw tightened. Hannah saw the hunger in his eyes, the raw want that contradicted his detached expression. She moved closer and her fingers traced the line of his jaw, then slid down his neck, over his collarbone. She broke her movement, lowering her hands, and he responded by raising his own, finding her breasts.

He cupped them gently at first, testing their weight, his thumbs brushing over her nipples until they hardened. Hannah inhaled sharply, the sensation sending sparks through her. She leaned into his touch as his hands grew more possessive, kneading, exploring the soft curves. He watched as her nipples became stiff and tight peaks.

She stepped back abruptly, breaking contact. Rossi's hands froze mid-air, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. Hannah didn't smile. She climbed onto the bed, moving past him, and lay down on her back, legs slightly parted. Her eyes locked onto his. "Come here," she commanded, her voice low and unwavering.

Rossi obeyed, shifting his weight onto the mattress beside her. His gaze traveled down her body, the flush rising on her chest, the rapid pulse visible at her throat, the deliberate openness of her thighs. He placed a hand on her stomach, fingers splayed possessively over the soft plane below her navel. Hannah felt the heat of his palm seep into her skin, a contrast to the cool air-conditioned room.

She guided his hand lower, pressing it firmly against the closely trimmed hair. "Touch me," she murmured, the command soft but absolute. His fingers slid downward, slowly exploring her folds, then finding her sweet spot. She arched into his touch, her breath catching as his thumb circled her clit with deliberate pressure.

Rossi watched her face intently, his gaze analytical yet hungry. He slid a finger inside her, then another, curling them upward. Hannah gasped, her hips lifting off the bed. "Harder," she demanded, her voice thick with need. He obeyed, increasing the rhythm, his thumb relentless on her clit. Her thighs trembled, her breath coming in ragged gasps as pleasure coiled tight in her belly.

She reached for him, her hand sliding down his abdomen, fingers tracing the line of muscle and then wrapping around his hardness. He groaned, his rhythm faltering for a second. Hannah tightened her grip, stroking him slowly, deliberately. Then she emphasized her control by suddenly stopping and letting go.

She guided his hand away from her, replacing it with her own fingers. She circled her clit, maintaining eye contact as she brought herself closer to the edge. Rossi watched, transfixed, his jaw clenched. When her breathing hitched and her thighs tensed, she stopped abruptly, leaving herself trembling on the precipice.

She pushed him onto his back and straddled his hips, positioning herself above him. She lowered herself slowly, taking him inch by awkward inch, her body stretching to accommodate him and her weight settling upon him. A sharp gasp escaped her as she seated herself fully, the sensation of being filled almost overwhelming.

Rossi's hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into her. Hannah leaned forward, placing her palms flat against his chest for balance. She began to move, rocking her hips in a deliberate, grinding rhythm designed to maximize friction against her clit with each downward stroke. Her breath hitched with every movement, the pleasure building steadily, intensely. She kept her gaze on his face, watching the controlled facade crack as his eyes darkened with arousal.

She increased the pace, her thighs tightening around him. The air filled with the slick sounds of their bodies moving together, the sharp scent of sex mingling with Rossi's expensive cologne. Hannah's focus narrowed to the physical sensations she was feeling, the fullness inside her, the drag of his skin against hers, the insistent pressure where she needed it most. She arched her back, throwing her head back too, as a low moan escaped her lips.

Rossi's hands slid from her hips up her torso, thumbs brushing her nipples, sending jolts of pleasure down her spine. His control frayed, his hips lifting to meet her downward thrusts, deepening the connection. Hannah felt the shift, the surrender in his movements. It fueled her own building climax. She leaned forward again, bracing her hands on his chest, her hair falling around his face like a dark curtain. Her rhythm became frantic, desperate. She was close, so close.

A shudder ran through her - sharp, electric - as her orgasm hit. She cried out, her body tightening around him, muscles clenching in waves. Rossi groaned beneath her, his own release triggered by her contractions. His grip tightened on her waist, pulling her down hard against him as he pulsed inside her, his body jerking against hers.

For a moment, they remained locked together, breathing ragged in the sudden stillness. Sweat cooled on Hannah's skin. Rossi's hand slid up her spine, fingers tangling in her damp hair. He pulled her head down, kissing her deeply, possessively. Hannah allowed it, tasting bourbon and salt, her mind already shifting gears and starting to plan ahead.

She broke the kiss first, pushing herself up. His hands lingered on her hips as she dismounted, the separation abrupt. She walked to the bathroom without looking back, closing the door behind her.

As she showered, she replayed the sexual encounter in her mind, satisfied that she'd given him what he wanted but exercised power at the same time. She'd proven she could dominate the dynamic.

Now it was time to think about the future. The idea of running her own consultancy was thrilling, but it came with considerable risks and unknowns. She reached for a towel, her mind poised between excitement and unease. She had made her decision and now she had to be ready for whatever came next.

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