Chapter 6
BELLA
"You were right last night about Vanessa being a problem," Slava tells me as soon as I enter his office the next morning. "Her father Clayton Ashford is already busy using her death as a way to pull the heat away from his own securities fraud charges."
He’s staring out of the floor-to-ceiling window of his Manhattan office, but his eyes are locked on mine through the ghostly reflection in the window as he talks.
But most frustratingly, he’s all business.
Nothing at all about my necklace, like his curiosity last night was nothing more than a badly-remembered dream.
"If we aren’t careful, then he’ll find a way to lay the blame on my head. I can’t have that happen, Ms. Creminelli."
My heartbeats crash into each other at the way my name rolls off his tongue.
There’s a terrifyingly intimate knowingness in his voice that wasn’t there before last night, like he’s tasting the syllables for how false they really are.
A hot shiver runs down my spine, and I can't tell if it’s from excitement or dread.
"No," I agree. “You can’t.”
“So how do you intend on handling this?”
My mind is already spinning through angles, looking for the thread that will unravel this mess in our favor.
Our favor. God, listen to me—our favor, like I'm actually on his team instead of embedded here to destroy him.
He turns around to face me, and my heart skids again in my chest. It’s almost unfair how good and perfect he looks this morning. Not a single hair is out of place. His suit fits him like a second skin.
You almost can’t tell that he took a bullet in the shoulder last night. My eyes drift towards the single undone button of his perfectly pressed shirt, recalling the rumble of his voice under my fingertips.
Focus, I tell myself.
"We make sure no one listens to him."
Slava crosses his arms and the movement pulls his shirt taut across his arms, and I swear I can feel his heat on my skin again, furnace-hot.
Stop it.
"Go on," he says.
I take a breath. Armor up, Bella. Be the good little PR agent that he thinks you are. This is the version of myself I can control.
"We let him flounder and look for a way out," I say. "But we feed the gossip rags what they want and turn him into the villain of the story."
The words tumble from my lips, fast and sharp.
"We play up his angle as the neglectful father, too consumed with his own legal troubles to notice his daughter spiraling. We present Vanessa as a young woman seeking refuge in the arts because she couldn't find warmth at home."
Slava's expression doesn't change, but his posture shifts subtly as he listens.
"We don’t defend you," I continue. "We don’t even mention you. As far as the story for you is concerned, you were at the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like her. If you want, I can have the first pre-emptive attack piece written by lunch, the talking points before four, and the social media message out to influencers by the time people start heading home from work.”
A wry smirk ghosts his face and he moves toward his desk.
The motion shouldn't matter. He's just walking across his own office. But I feel it like a change in the seasons, and the spacious office suddenly feels like it’s not big enough for us.
"And if he accuses us of libel?"
“Then we respond with a PR agent’s three best friends.
” I meet his eyes and my voice manages to remain even and steady.
"Hearsay, speculation, and anonymous sources close to the family. Make it a tragedy about how Clayton Ashford was so focused on his legal defense that he couldn’t even see his daughter spiraling.
Play up the heartbreaking angle of Vanessa turning to the art world in search of meaning that she could never find at home, and dying because of it. "
A new shadow flickers across Slava's face.
His jaw clenches almost imperceptibly, and for a moment—just a moment—he looks like he's somewhere else entirely. Somewhere painful. His gray eyes go distant, and I could swear I see old grief surfacing like a body from deep water.
I blink, and the shadow disappears. Slava’s expression is unreadable again, but I know I saw the change no matter how quickly it came.
Not long enough to understand what I glimpsed, but long enough to know that I just saw a man behind the monster.
And that risks complicating everything.
A monster is easy to destroy. You don't hesitate. You don't second-guess. You plant your knife and you twist and you walk away clean. Even while you have the most inappropriate fantasies about him.
But a man?
I can't afford to see him as human. I can't afford to wonder who he was thinking about when my words carved that shadow into his face. I can’t allow myself to think of him as someone with feelings.
As someone who might care.
"And what if people start to dig into our neat little story?" He leans forward on both hands.
"They’ll find Vanessa's own history documented on her Instagram profile." My mouth is on autopilot now as the professional part of my brain moves while the rest of me short-circuits. "Let the public connect the dots. We just hand them the pen."
He stares at me, and in a desperate attempt to fill the silence, I add,
“Let me do my job, and I guarantee you that all of New York will be spitting on Clayton Ashford’s name before you’re balls deep in another trust fund princess."
And as soon as those words leave my mouth, that damn fantasy returns. Him walking around the desk. Me falling on my hands and knees. Me looking up at him as he unzips his pants.
Professional competence wars with sexual submission on parallel tracks. Both are aimed at the same man. And I want to tear the contradiction out of my own skin before it eats me alive.
"Acceptable," he says, voice dropping to a familiar low register. "Good job."
I shiver again.
Two simple little words. But they’re not the two I want to hear.
The gap between what he said and what I want him to say is a chasm I'm falling into. One is professional, appropriate, and safe.
The other is wildly inappropriate, reckless, and disrespectful in all the best possible ways.
And right now, the last thing I want is safe.
Maybe that’s what happens when you’ve opened death’s door the night before, and the only thing dragging you back from walking in is standing in front of you.
"That's what you're paying me for," I manage.
His lip curls up and the gesture makes something warm unfurl in my chest. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of my ribcage.
"That will be all,” he says. “Ms. Creminelli."
And once again, he said my name with that terrifyingly intimate knowingness in his voice.
I spend the rest of the morning doing what I do best: being professionally ruthless.
The first press release and the talking points practically write themselves. My threats last night to Vanessa worked.
Small victories, I guess.
By lunchtime, the first draft of the attack piece has been written. It's brutal, effective, and the exact kind of work that made Slava hire me in the first place.
And as I finish typing it up, I do my best to not let myself think about the fact that I'm still protecting the man I came here to destroy. Or about the shadow that crossed his face earlier. Or how badly I want him to ruin me.
“Jesus, Bella, maybe Lydia is right about you…” I mutter to no one in particular as I go over the first draft one more time, and then print it out so I can drop it on his desk for review.
Slava is behind his desk, reviewing something on his phone when I enter his office for a second time.
He doesn't look up as I approach him, and I hate—hate—how my eyes immediately go to trace the line of his jaw. The bobbing motion of his Adam’s apple.
The light scruff that’s starting to decorate his face.
And the way his long fingers drum absently against the desk in the same rhythm every time like he’s playing a song only he knows.
But I know exactly what he’s playing.
Tchaikovsky. Swan Lake.
I noticed that on my first week of working for him, and I've been noticing it ever since. I can't stop cataloging these details about him like they matter even if you pressed a gun to my head and told me to stop.
Stop staring at his hands.
"The press release and talking points." I hold out the folder, keeping my voice professional. Steady. Normal. "Just need your approval, Mr. Romanov."
Finally, he looks up at me, and my stomach loops the moment his winter-gray eyes turn to me. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll smile or say something. But he does neither.
Just reaches out and takes the folder from my hand.
And in the process, our fingers brush.
Heat surges up my arm like an electric shock. It burrows its way straight towards my heart before wrapping around it and giving it a squeeze that drives the breath out of my throat. I almost gasp from the intensity of the contact.
No!
I yank my hand back too fast. The folder transfers, but my clumsy retreat is obvious. Neither of us could’ve missed the movement of a woman who just got caught thinking something she shouldn't.
Slava's head tilts ever so slightly. A curious eyebrow rises a fraction of an inch. But instead of commenting about what just happened, he opens the folder and starts to read.
I cast my eyes down and fight to keep my breathing steady even as my mind wonders just what the hell just happened.
And that’s when my gaze catches sight of something on his desk. A sticky note half-hidden beneath a stack of papers. But there’s something about it that calls me towards it.
I sneak a glance at Slava to make sure he’s not looking, and then lean forward surreptitiously to read the sticky note.
That’s when I see it.
A seven-pointed star exactly like the pendant on the necklace that Luca gave me. And there’s a few words written in Slava’s sharp, angular script:
Call De Savoie.
My heart starts hammering in my chest, and two things become immediately clear: one, he’s definitely still thinking about my necklace. Two, there’s something else going on that I can’t tell for certain.
I look back up quickly and see that Slava is still reading the documents. But there’s a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Did he see me looking at the note? Does he know I read it?
Was this a trap I accidentally walked into?
I sit back and press my hands flat against my skirt, doing my best to breathe as evenly as possible and ignore just how sweaty my palms are turning.
Then, Slava lifts his eyes back at me, and the smirk widens.
"This is good work," he says.
"That's what you pay me for." The same repeated statement comes out like I spend my days practicing it in front of a mirror.
"So you keep reminding me.”
But I can practically hear his voice rumbling in my head: I know what you’re doing, Bella. And I can see everything you're trying to hide.
He hands the folder back to me and I accept it with a trembling hand. His expression changes subtly again, eyes narrowing at my reaction.
I clench my jaw tightly to steady myself, and swallow.
C’mon Bella, it’s time to leave. Just get up, turn around, and walk out of this office.
Slowly, I manage to get up from my seat, and that’s when he mirrors my motion.
"One more thing."
Uh oh.
He rounds the desk, blocking the way out, and approaches me. Distance slowly closes, and I step back instinctively in a desperate attempt to keep a semblance of professional distance between us.
Each step he takes is another step I retreat. And we keep at this dance until the edge of the desk hits the back of my butt and there's nowhere else to go.
He finally stops. And although he’s not exactly touching me, the proximity is suffocating.
Heat rolls off his body in waves, seeping into my blouse.
The heady scent of his cologne mixed with that familiar clean and soapy smell fills my nostrils.
It travels deeper into me with every trembling breath until the deepest part of my lungs, where I know I’ll never be able to dig them out.
Little bits of Slava forever embedding themselves inside of me.
My nipples tighten against the fabric of my bra and a smear of heat burns its way up from my belly to my face.
I pray he doesn't notice.
"I need the final plans for the Milerovo fundraiser gala," he says.
His voice has dropped—not all the way to that delicious low register my ear craves, but enough that I can still feel him rumbling in my chest.
“Already on it.”
Does my voice always sound this breathy?
Fuck, I’m a mess.
I hate myself for it. The breathy voice might as well be a giant “fuck me” sign that I’ve plastered to my head at this point. Why? Why are my voice and my body so goddamn intent on betraying me?
“Good. This thing with Vanessa was an unexpected distraction, and it’s finished as far as I’m concerned.”
He reaches past me and I hold my breath as my entire body tenses with anticipation. But to my surprise, all he does is toss the folder onto the desk behind me.
But instead of pulling back, his hands come down on the desk on both sides of my hips, palms flat against the wood, and cages me in front of him. His eyes are setting me on fire as he looks, and I can’t help but feel like he’s staring directly into my soul.
“I can’t risk you being distracted. Is that understood, Ms. Creminelli?”
And just like before, he says my name with that intimate knowingness, like he's peeling back my clothes to expose my lies and my skin.
His mouth is inches from mine. Our lips can touch if I just step forward onto my toes. I wonder how he’d react if I were to close that distance.
Will he kiss me back? Will he match my intensity? Will he lift me up in his powerful arms before pushing me against his desk like in my fantasies, push my skirt up past my waist, and spread my legs? And what would I do in response? Will his hand reach up to wrap around my throat as he fucks me?
Will I stop him?
Will I even want to?
"I asked you a question, Ms. Creminelli."
His voice hardens and snaps me out of my spiraling fantasy. It gives me just enough reprieve to gather myself and reply.
"I understand," I whisper.
"Good."
Then, he steps back to let me go. The cage of heat dissolves around me, and I can breathe again—except I don’t. I refuse to take another breath as I walk past him. I don’t need more of him inside of my lungs than there already is.
When I move past him, my step falters, and my ponytail accidentally bounces against his face. I turn just in time to see him raise his hand up, and run his thumb across his lower lip.
And the only fucking thing I can do is wonder how it might feel for him to run it against mine.