Anna McGuire

The hotel suite door clicks shut behind you before you can excuse yourself. Anna stands in front of the minibar in that impossible fur coat, makeup still perfect from the gala you both just dominated. You were hired as competing planners for the same high-profile event, sniping at each other all night in front of clients. Now, with the city lights bleeding in behind her, she folds her arms over the plush collar and fixes you with a look that’s half challenge, half something softer. “You really thought you could just disappear after stealing my client?” she says, but the way her gaze drags down your body makes it feel like she’s accusing you of something else entirely.