Chapter 7
LYRA
It’s only my first day, and I’m already being called to the CEO’s office.
That can’t be a good thing. Even though Damien said it calmly, I can’t help feeling like I’m already in trouble.
I’ve barely been here long enough to mess anything up, though.
I was still working on my onboarding forms when those shady guys strolled in.
I can’t stop replaying it, even as I try to focus on setting up all my programs before I head to Damien’s office. It’s impossible. I keep wondering if it’s even worth learning any of this if he’s about to fire me in a few minutes anyway.
When I finally can’t sit still anymore, I stand and head for the hallway that leads to the private elevator. Halfway there, I hear footsteps behind me.
“Hey, new girl.”
I force myself not to flinch.
Rick. Again.
I plaster on a polite smile and turn to face him. “Hey,” I say, noncommittal.
His grin turns wolfish. His posture is too relaxed, too close.
“Are you heading somewhere important?” he asks, gesturing at the private elevator.
“I have a meeting,” I say.
“With who?”
I shouldn’t answer. I know that. But something in me wants to shut him down cleanly, so he never tries this again.
“Mr. Morozov.”
That does it. His eyebrows twitch upward, but then he recovers with a smirk.
“Big promotion already?”
“It’s a routine check-in,” I say, keeping my voice flat.
He steps closer. “Well, if he ever starts riding you too hard, you know where to find me.”
I blink at him, offended. “Excuse me?”
“You’re hot. He’s not blind,” Rick says with a shrug. “He probably hired you for more than your resumé. That kind of shit happens all the time.”
I take a breath, steady and slow. “You’re being inappropriate.”
He doesn’t back down.
“Relax. I’m just saying, if you ever want a guy who’s closer to your age and doesn’t treat you like property—”
I cut him off quickly. “I’m not interested.”
The smile drops. “You don’t have to be rude.”
“I’m not,” I say, holding his gaze. “I’m being clear.”
For a second, he just stares at me. Then he snorts like I’ve amused him and turns away without another word.
I watch him walk back to his desk before I turn and continue to the elevator. My hands shake a little as I type in the code the receptionist gave me. The doors slide open, smooth and silent, and I step inside.
As the elevator climbs, I try to shake off the encounter. Guys like Rick always show up eventually, especially in the tech space. Their small-minded brains can’t handle that a woman could be as smart, if not smarter, than they are. Still, it’s grating and ridiculous. It makes my skin crawl.
Worst of all, though, I can’t help but wonder if he’s right. Did Damien only hire me because he wants to sleep with me? The interview was so short, and I’m sure I didn’t imagine the flirtation between us at the restaurant.
As horrible as it may sound, I wouldn’t turn him down if he propositioned me. I don’t think I could. My body already reacts so strongly to him. Just the thought of being alone with him in his office makes my heart flutter and my face flush.
The elevator opens directly into a quiet foyer. His assistant, Andrea, is seated behind a sleek desk just outside Damien’s office. Her hands fly over her keyboard, but she looks up when I approach.
“He’s ready for you,” she says, standing to open the door for me.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
I step into his office, and the door clicks shut behind me.
He’s at his desk, impossibly composed. The city sprawls behind him through massive windows, and I can’t help but stare. His eyes are on me, though, sharp and assessing.
“Ms. Taylor.”
“Mr. Morozov.”
He gestures to the seat across from him, and I sit, smoothing my skirt even though it doesn’t need adjusting.
For a few seconds, he just watches me.
I can feel my pulse in my throat.
“Is everything all right?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say quickly. Then I hesitate. “Actually…”
His expression shifts almost imperceptibly. A flicker of interest. Maybe concern.
I square my shoulders. I might as well just get it out there and be honest.
“One of the developers, Rick, said something inappropriate on my way up here.”
His jaw tightens, but his tone doesn’t change. “Inappropriate how?”
“He implied I was hired for my looks,” I say carefully. “And when I said I had a meeting with you, he made a few lewd suggestions.”
Damien’s hands are still folded neatly on the desk, but I see the tension in the way his fingers press together. His voice stays calm when he speaks again, only slightly colder.
“What’s his last name?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I didn’t want to make it a thing.”
“It’s already a thing,” he says.
“I handled it,” I say quickly.
“I’m sure you did,” he replies. “But it’s my job to make sure you don’t have to.”
There’s something final in the way he says it, like there’s no room for argument.
“How has the first day been otherwise?” he asks after typing something into his computer.
I exhale slowly. “As you may know, it’s been pretty eventful.”
That earns a ghost of a smile that changes the atmosphere instantly.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he says. “It was a personnel issue that should have been handled before it reached your floor.”
I nod, even though we both know that wasn’t a personnel issue. I don’t say it. I don’t ask the question that’s been burning in my throat all day.
“Apart from that, how are you finding it here?” he asks.
I swallow. “The work is good. The team’s sharp. The systems are clean.”
“Did you expect a mess?” He tilts his head, curious.
“I expected a challenge,” I admit. “This place moves fast.”
He nods. “It has to.”
His eyes stay on mine a beat too long.
Something shifts between us. The silence deepens, becoming charged. I try to look away, but I can’t.
“You seem comfortable here already,” he says nonchalantly.
Now it’s my turn to tilt my head. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” he says. “It’s just rare. Most new hires look like they’re going to shit themselves for at least their first week. I’ve never seen someone look like they belong so quickly.”
I force a small laugh, even though my throat’s gone dry. “I’m not sure I’d say I feel like I belong.”
“You carry yourself like you do.”
That surprises me.
“That’s probably just the suit. It really projects false confidence.”
His gaze flicks down my body and back up. “It’s a good suit.”
The words hang in the air between us, and there’s almost a proposition in the way he says it.
I’m not imagining it. I know I’m not. There’s something in the way he’s looking at me too, steady and intense.
I’d swear he’s thinking about undoing the buttons of this jacket he just complimented.
And I can’t pretend I’m not thinking about the same thing.
“You’ve surprised me,” he says after a moment.
“How so?”
“You’re younger than I expected,” he says. “Most of the candidates for this role were in their thirties. You’re what, in your early twenties?”
“Twenty-one,” I tell him.
He nods. “And you’re already so capable.”
“And that surprises you?” I ask, confused. Why shouldn’t I be so capable already? I worked very hard to get here.
“A little,” he admits. “But more than anything, you’ve impressed me.”
My pulse trips.
There’s nothing casual in the way he says it. He’s very direct, and it’s clear he isn’t just impressed by my coding skills.
He stands and steps toward me, then perches on the edge of his desk, gazing down at me.
“And you’re very good under pressure,” he adds. “Not everyone would’ve kept their cool the way you did earlier. You gave a master class in calming a crowd.”
“Someone had to,” I say softly.
He’s so close to me, I can almost feel his body heat. He doesn’t touch me, but he doesn’t need to. His presence alone is enough to fill every inch of space between us. I feel his gaze like a physical weight on me, and it makes my heart stutter.
“Your generation doesn’t get enough credit,” he says.
“For what?” I ask, taken aback.
“For knowing what you want,” he says, the words weighted.
I try to laugh it off, but the sound catches in my throat.
“You think I know what I want?” I ask, incredulous.
“I do.” His voice is firm and sure.
I should leave. I know I should. I should take a step back and draw a line and remind us both that this is inappropriate, that I work for him, that this is dangerous in ways I can’t even begin to unravel yet.
But I don’t.
Because he’s looking at me like I’m something rare. Something interesting. Something worth pausing for.
And the worst part is, I like it. I want him to keep looking at me that way. I want him to. To lean in closer. To close the distance between us.
“I don’t normally do this,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Speak with my employees on their first day. Invite them into my office. Alone. Waste time chatting with them when we’re both busy.”
I hesitate.
“I don’t think this is wasting time.”
He smiles faintly. “Then maybe it’s not.”
He takes another step forward, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to. I don’t. My breath hitches. My palms are damp. Every inch of my body is on high alert, waiting, bracing for something I shouldn’t want.
His eyes drop to my mouth. He doesn’t move closer, but I swear I feel the heat of him all the same.
“I’m not going to touch you,” he says.
My voice is barely a whisper. “Why not?”
“Because I wouldn’t stop.”
I freeze. I believe him. Completely.
“And you work for me,” he adds, his voice barely audible now. “Which complicates things.”
I nod slowly. “It does.”
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
I look up at him, stunned by how honest that admission feels coming from a man like him.
“It also doesn’t mean I won’t eventually,” he adds.
I’m not breathing. Not properly. Not with the way he’s looking at me, like he’s already imagined what I’d look like spread out across this desk.
I can’t do this. He’s my boss. He’s way too old for me. He’s dangerous somehow, in ways I can’t even comprehend.
Even so, I can’t help the way my body leans in. The way my eyes fall to his mouth and stay there.
I want to feel him against me at least once.
And he must agree, because he finally says, “Have dinner with me.”
My heart stutters in my chest, surprised by his request. “What?”
“This weekend,” he says, putting some space between us. “I’ll send a car.”
“You don’t think that’s a little risky?”
His eyes don’t waver. “What’s life without a little risk, Ms. Taylor?”
I should say no. I should laugh or say something witty so I can walk away with dignity and control. But there’s a part of me that’s already melting, already imagining what dinner with this man would look like. I already know it won’t end with a handshake at the door.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Dinner.”
His smile returns, slow and dangerous.
“Saturday night,” he says. “Seven.”
I nod.
He reaches for the door, opens it, and stands back.
I walk past him, feeling the weight of his gaze on me the entire time. I don’t turn around.
Not even when I want to.