Penthouse- Tropical Spice Instant

The front door clicked. He wasn’t supposed to be back for two more weeks.

It was a dream. And the first week was exactly that.

Mia’s blood ran cold. She looked at her own tea cup—the one Leo had insisted she drink from every evening. The ginger. The black cardamom. The something deeper . Penthouse- Tropical Spice

“Your ad said ‘curator wanted,’” Mia managed, clutching her portfolio. “I’m a botanist. But this… this is impossible.”

“April 3: Subject F. Given tea with double-strength long pepper and mace. Became intensely amorous toward a reflection. Woke confused, with scratches on her arms. Fascinating.” The front door clicked

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, releasing a wave of humid, fragrant air that was utterly at odds with the steel-and-glass skyscraper behind Mia. She stepped out into the private vestibule of the penthouse, her sensible flats silent on the cooled limestone floor. The key, warm from her pocket, turned in the lock.

She shoved the ledger back into its hiding place, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. Through the crack in the shed door, she watched him walk past the mangosteen tree, his shadow stretching long and predatory across the spice-laden air. And the first week was exactly that

She sipped. The heat spread through her chest, clean and sharp. For the first time in months, her chronic anxiety loosened its grip.

Mia spun. A man stood by an open-plan kitchen that looked like a laboratory for alchemists. Bottles of amber tinctures and jars of dried chili hung over a stove. He was older, with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes the color of star anise. Leo. The owner.