Page 87 of The Owner's Temptation

Sienna—she’s fighting not to glare at me, but her curiosity is winning out.

I press the remote and the screen flares to life.

“This exercise,” I begin, voice even and clipped, “is about reading what isn’t being said.”

The remote clicks, revealing a picture of a man—mid-forties, expensive suit, thin smile, tired eyes.

“Your job is to match this face to the right client profile in your Ledgers. You’ll each receive the same set of possibilities. You have one minute to decide.”

A few girls shift in their seats, murmuring softly.

“Your entire profession,” I continue, “relies on your ability to understand people before they open their mouths. Before they tell you what they want. Sometimes they don’t even know what they want.”

Another click. Another photo. A younger man this time. Arrogant smirk. Slightly askew tie. Restless energy in his posture.

“Your contract may arrive in a good mood and leave dangerous. Or they may arrive calm and stable—but are carrying a ticking time bomb in their chest.”

I let that hang there, sweeping my gaze across them.

“Profiling matters. Recognizing tension in a jaw. A twitch in the hand. A dullness in the eyes. All of it tells you something. And if you’re good—if you’rereallygood—it could mean the difference between a satisfying night and a dangerous one.”

I glance toward Sienna.

Her lips are pursed, her posture tight. But she’s listening.

She always listens when it counts, even if she’s looking at me like she wants to bust my balls.

“Let’s begin.”

An hour into the exercise I click to the next image: a woman this time. Mid-thirties, elegant but closed-off, with sharp eyes and a perfectly neutral expression.

“Take sixty seconds,” I instruct. “Then tell me which of the four profiles you believe fits. And why.”

The room settles into thoughtful hum of low conversation as girls tap their manicured fingers against tablet screens and whisper to each other. I scan them all, but I’m watching Sienna the closest.

She looked at her screen about ten seconds and is not sitting, tapping her pen against her lower lip—absently, like she has somewhere better to be. Then, as if feeling my eyes on her, she flicks her gaze up to meet mine.

And smirks.

Not subtle. Not sweet.

Smug.

“Got something to share, Miss Knight?” I ask coolly.

She blinks innocently. “No, sir. Just waiting for my turn to be right. Again.”

A soft giggle escapes one of the other girls—Gia, a petite redhead with a sharp tongue. “She’s not wrong. She’s nailed, like, every single one.”

“Don’t inflate her ego,” mutters Nika, flipping her long braid over her shoulder. “It’s already spilling into my personal space.”

Sienna just beams at them like she’s being serenaded.

I arch a brow. “Confidence is encouraged. Smugness gets you nowhere.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not aiming for nowhere,” she shoots back sweetly, crossing one leg over the other in a slow, deliberate motion like she wants to drag my attention straight to her thighs.

She knows I’m going to fucking take that bait.

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