Chapter 3
MOLLY
The next morning begins the way most mornings do when you work for Pavel Strakov: with three phones ringing, two men arguing in Russian by my desk, a calendar that appears to be actively trying to kill me, and coffee so bad it might finish the job.
I sip it anyway and stare at the screen in front of me. “Okay,” I mutter under my breath, “we’re not doing this today.”
Igor, Andrei, and Vladimir have already walked through the office twice this morning, each time with the same tight expressions and the same quiet conversations in Russian that stop the moment I enter the room.
I’m not fluent in the language, but after three years, I’ve picked up enough to recognize tone.
This tone is not friendly. Granted, Russian isn’t exactly the friendliest-sounding language, but I know these guys, and their mood is way off.
The office itself feels different too. The air is tighter somehow, like the building knows something important is happening and forgot to tell me about it.
Normally, the captains come and go during the week, but not like this.
Today, they move through the office in quick bursts, murmuring to each other before disappearing into Pavel’s office one by one.
When I glance toward the door now, it opens just long enough for Andrei Dabrowski to step out.
Andrei is quiet even on the best days, tall and observant in a way that makes people forget he’s in the room until he speaks. This morning, he looks more serious than usual, his brow furrowed as if he’s running numbers in his head. “Morning, Molly.”
“Morning,” I reply brightly, because if I match their moods, this place will become a funeral home before noon. “Coffee?”
He shakes his head. “Already had some.”
“Suit yourself.”
He gives a short nod and heads for the elevator, leaving the office slightly quieter than before.
A moment later Vladimir Cheski steps out from the men’s room.
Vladimir is the opposite of Andrei in almost every way. Where Andrei is calm and thoughtful, Vladimir complains about everything with the enthusiasm of a man who has made whining into an art form. “You changed the meeting time,” he says immediately.
“Yes,” I reply without looking up from the calendar. “Because Pavel cannot physically be in two rooms at once.”
He sighs dramatically. “You always move things.”
“That’s the job description.”
He mutters something in Russian under his breath and walks toward the elevators.
I grin to myself.
Vladimir complains about everything, but he always shows up exactly where I tell him to. The system works. Even when everyone’s too busy to notice.
When the office finally quiets again, I lean back in my chair and glance toward Pavel’s door. Whatever storm is brewing in there, I have a feeling it’s going to make my schedule look easy by comparison. But all that said, I’m not worried when it comes to Pavel.
For someone with his reputation, Pavel Strakov is surprisingly fair. It’s one of the reasons I trust him completely, which may or may not make me a little crazy.
Actually, scratch that. I’m definitely a little crazy. Carrie Ann has been telling me that since we were fourteen years old, and I decided it would be a good idea to climb the old water tower outside our hometown of Manhattan, Kansas, just to see what the view looked like.
Carrie Ann stayed on the ground, yelling helpful advice like “You’re going to die!” while I waved down at her like the queen of poor decisions. Maybe I am.
When I told her years later that I was moving to the real Manhattan, she didn’t even pretend to be surprised. “Sweet but crazy,” she said over the phone before pausing and correcting herself. “Actually, just plain crazy.”
The memory makes me smile as I finish rearranging Pavel’s afternoon meeting. Carrie Ann always did have a gift for honesty.
A soft chime from my email pulls my attention back to the present, another request for Pavel’s time arriving from a shipping manager who clearly believes his problem is more important than the seven other people currently waiting for the same privilege.
At the end of the day, I finally shut down my computer, and the office has settled into the particular kind of quiet that only arrives late at night.
It’s well past ten, which means nearly everyone has gone home for the evening.
Working for Pavel Strakov has taught me that “nearly everyone” is usually the best you can hope for.
Pavel himself often works deep into the night when something complicated is unfolding in the organization.
Considering the tension that rolled through the office earlier today, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were still somewhere in the building finishing whatever discussions he started with the captains.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out, already thinking about the quiet subway ride home and the leftover dim sum waiting in my refrigerator.
The entire day carried an uneasy energy that never quite resolved itself, and the sooner I escape the building, the better.
Halfway down the hallway, however, a small detail nudges the back of my memory and makes me stop mid-step.
Vladimir’s dock contract is still sitting on Pavel’s desk, and the supporting files I pulled from the cabinet are still sitting on mine. Fixing it now will save me a headache later. With a quiet sigh, I turn around and head back toward the outer office.
The overhead lights have been dimmed, leaving the space shadowed and calm compared to the controlled chaos of the workday.
My heels click softly across the marble floor as I gather the forgotten files from my desk and make my way toward Pavel’s office door.
The light inside is still on, which means Pavel is probably still working.
That realization makes me hesitate for a moment before knocking. It would be rude to interrupt him if he’s on an important call, but dropping the files on his desk will only take a second. I crack the door, and just before I speak to announce myself, I hear something odd.
At first, I assume it’s the quiet creak of a chair or the rustle of papers shifting across his desk. But no. Now that I’m concentrating, I hear it.
Pavel’s voice.
Not the calm, firm tone he always speaks in. The words are lower and rougher, as if they’re being pulled out of him. Closer to a grunt.
“… Molly, da, like that.”
Huh?
The voice comes again, and this time there is no possibility that I misunderstood what I heard. “… take it like a good girl.”
Curiosity has always been my greatest weakness.
Before I can convince myself to walk away, I ease the door open just enough to look inside. For several seconds, my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing.
Pavel is standing near the edge of his desk, the office lights casting long shadows across the floor behind him, and there is absolutely no one else in the room.
That fact alone is confusing enough that it takes a moment for the rest of the scene to register.
His head is tilted slightly forward, his broad shoulders straining against his shirt. Quick movements with his right hand.
The sound of his voice breaks the stillness again, my name, low and strained in a way that feels nothing like the calm authority he carries during the workday. It’s animal, this new tone. Hearing my own name spoken that way sends a jolt of shocked awareness through me.
My first instinct is to retreat immediately.
Whatever is happening—he’s jerking off right here, right now, what the absolute fuck—in that room is clearly not something I was meant to witness.
The polite thing to do would be to close the door and pretend the moment never occurred.
I begin easing the door shut as carefully as I can, hoping I can slip away without making any noise.
The files I’m holding feel strangely heavy in my hands as I step backward into the hallway.
Unfortunately, Pavel turns his head at exactly the wrong moment.
Our eyes meet through the narrow opening in the door before I can finish closing it.
The shock on his face lasts only a fraction of a second, but it’s long enough to make my pulse spike in my ears.
I freeze where I stand, caught halfway between entering the room and fleeing down the hallway.
Mortification washes over me in a hot wave as I realize just how spectacularly awkward this situation has become.
“Oh my god,” I whisper under my breath, the words escaping before I can stop them. I reach for the door again, intending to close it fully this time, but Pavel speaks before I can move.
“Molly.”
The sound of my name in that firm, familiar tone stops me instantly. My body reacts before my brain has time to argue with the command, and I turn back toward the doorway even though every sensible instinct tells me to keep walking.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out before I can organize them properly. “I forgot these files earlier, and I thought you’d want them tonight instead of tomorrow, and I didn’t realize you were—”
I stop talking because finishing that sentence would require me to acknowledge exactly what I just walked in on.
The silence that follows is enormous. Ominous.
Pavel is watching me from across the room, his expression carefully controlled again, even though the tension in his posture hasn’t entirely disappeared.
Sweat glistens on his thick brow. The distance between us suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago, as if the room itself has shifted around the awkwardness hanging in the air.
“I can leave,” I add quickly, lifting the folder slightly as if it might explain everything. “I just needed to drop these off.” My voice sounds a little breathless to my own ears, which only makes the situation feel more ridiculous.