Sofiya clutched the folder against her chest as the elevator doors slid open on the fourteenth floor. The hallway smelled faintly of sandalwood and something richer, like leather and spice. She double-checked the apartment number her boss had texted her—1407—and knocked twice.

The door opened almost immediately. Dante stood there shirtless, his olive skin still damp from a shower, a white towel slung low around his hips. Recognition flashed between them instantly. They had met two nights earlier at the fashion launch in Bandra. He had been the mysterious Italian guest everyone whispered about; she had been the intern fetching drinks. Now he lived in her building.