Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
LARA
U ggh… that man needs a punch to his smug face. Why does he have to be so damn hateful?
I don’t know what I thought, but after what happened last night, I certainly did not expect him to be so cold and impatient, as if he couldn’t wait to get rid of me. As if I was an irritating nuisance interrupting his busy day. He makes me feel so stupid and foolish, even when I’m discussing serious matters. We have a crazy arrangement between us so obviously I’m going to want to make sure I’m not signing anything that would cause me regrets for the rest of my life. Throwing the phone onto the bed, I take a deep breath and let go of my annoyance.
Main thing is, I made my stance clear.
Let him get on with running his great empire, I need food. I’m starving. I think back to the meal we were planning in the kitchen before we both lost our heads. I go over to the strawberries and bite into one of them. I can honestly say, I have never had a sweeter, juicier fruit in my life.
I move over to the window. Marveling at the amazing skyline and the city spread out under me, I eat a couple more, then take a shower. Under the heated cascade, it’s hard not to think of his touch on my body. After the way he spoke to me, it seems like I must have dreamed it. But in this enclosed space, with my eyes closed, I can still feel his hands on every inch of me so intensely that it becomes nearly impossible to breathe.
He was exactly as rough as I wanted him to be, and then he was soft and sensual when it mattered. It felt like he understood and knew my body better than any man I’ve ever been with, hell, better than even I do. At one point during my climax the sensations that gripped me were so intense and overpowering I thought I was dying. I might even have blacked out for a bit. That has never happened to me before. Ever.
And yet, we haven’t even had a proper conversation. Other than mutually wanting to tear each other apart we don’t even have anything in common. And yet here I am wanting his body inside me. Shaking my head at the almost surreal situation I find myself in, I step out of the shower. This constant emotional rollercoaster is driving me crazy, but at this point, I’m more than willing to blame my weakness and frustration on hunger, so I focus entirely on getting on with the day.
On the vanity, there’s an assortment of expensive-looking lotions and creams gathered neatly on the spotless glass surface. I pick up a jar of moisturizer, unscrew the lid and bring it to my nose. It even smells costly. As I lather the sumptuous cream onto my skin, I have to admit, I’m really surprised by the detail and care put into my stay here. Obviously, he’s not the one who personally picked any of these out, so I wonder who did. Was it Muriel?
Heading into the closet to find something to wear, I have to decide that it’s absolutely not her because the style of the clothes doesn’t match what a woman of her age would care for. I wouldn’t call them slutty, because they are clearly exclusive, beautiful and opulent, but they’re all deliberately sexy. Clothes designed to turn a man on. But as I move through the rails I have to admit there are also a multitude of formal and perfectly decent options available. I suppose I should thank whoever had gone shopping for me because never in a million years would I have been able to afford such luxurious and costly outfits.
I choose a black camisole and a classy pair of cream linen trousers. Both are comfortable and when I pair them with a striped pale green linen dress shirt, I feel quite happy with the result.
Grabbing my phone, I head out of the room and make my way down the stairs. In the bright light of day, I can admire the magnificent apartment even more. The sunlight filters through the ceiling-to-floor windows, bringing the place to life like magic.
I also have more time to study the paintings. His collection is exquisite. Each piece is special. From what I can see he is not into modern art. It seems to be mostly impressionist. I almost get carried away inspecting the pieces and trying to identify them. I’m pretty sure the combined value of them could easily buy the house itself.
The air smells like cherries and something else—something warm and inviting. I can’t stop taking deep breaths, savoring the scent for no reason other than that it feels so refreshing. It’s easy to forget that I’m right in the middle of busy New York. This place feels like an escape, a still sanctuary far removed from the city.
As I finally reach the bottom of the stairs, I notice a few maids in uniform cleaning places and items that are already clean. They smile at me politely and nod obsequiously, but don’t utter a word. Not even when I wish them a good morning.
Eventually, I arrive at the kitchen, and everything from the previous night flashes back to me. The wild moments, the slow ones, the ones so sweet I can almost still hear my moans and cries in my own ears.
I’m forced to pause as a particular memory of grinding against him, feeling every ridge of his rock-hard cock, comes rushing back. My entire core tightens. I try to catch my breath as Muriel walks in, carrying a covered dish that looks like a casserole. All I can do is stare at her, unable to meet her eyes, given the filthy images flooding my mind. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to face Ivan himself when he returns.
"Good morning, Miss Fitzpatrick," she greets with a warm smile. “Did you sleep well?”
“Good morning. Yes, thank you,” I reply awkwardly.
She nods. "Good. Where would you like to have breakfast? In the sunroom or in the formal dining room?"
“Uh… Sunroom sounds good.”
She nods again. “I thought you might. I didn’t know what you usually have, so I took the liberty of setting up the buffet table. If you‘d like to follow me…”
"Okay, thanks," I reply, giving her a wide smile. Breakfast is usually a couple of slices of buttered toast or cereal for me, but I follow her willingly as I am ravenous and also very curious as to what kind of food rich people eat.
I gasp as I take in the spread. It looks like one of those heaped tables you see on cruise liners. Every single thing looks delicious. As I walk along the long table, some items are familiar. Finger sandwiches and sliced meats, but others are more exotic. There are the pastries with fruit oozing out of them, itty bitty cupcakes, sausages, bacon, caviar, little eggs, a tureen of porridge, chocolate with churros, congee, a selection of dim sum, and at the end of the table a huge tray of fruit that look so perfect they could be straight out of one of the paintings I’ve just been admiring. My eyes are caught by a bunch of dark purple elongated fruit.
"Are those grapes?" I ask, pointing at them.
She nods. “Yes, they are organic moondrop grapes. Sometimes called witches’ fingers. They were flown in from Spain yesterday."
I instantly reach out to pluck one, hesitating briefly as I wonder if it’s rude, but she nods encouragingly.
"It’s okay. Please, feel free," she invites kindly.
She watches me as I bite into the fruit.
“Mmmm. Freaking good."
She smiles. “Help yourself to coffee, tea, or orange juice. If you want anything different please ring.”
“No, this is more than fine, Muriel.” Impulsively, I reach out and lightly touch her arm. "It all looks amazing—thank you so much."
There’s a glint of surprise in her eyes as she straightens her spine. Her voice is formal. “Well, then. I’ll leave you to enjoy your breakfast in peace."
“Thank you for everything,” I say again.
She nods and retreats quietly and I contemplate the array of options laid out before me. With no audience to witness my gluttony, I pick up a plate and begin piling on a little of everything. The fragrant smells coming from the plate make my mouth water and, even though there is no more space on my plate, I heap on top the heirloom tomatoes stuffed with truffle-infused cheese.
Relishing my solitude in the stunning high-ceilinged room I then sit and eat like a Queen. Once my plate is polished clean I lean back and find myself unable to tear my eyes away from a curved staircase. From where I am sitting, I can see lush plants, leafy palms that should be growing in a tropical environment. There must be a conservatory up there.
I take the stairs up and come to a space on the roof of the entire building: a room made entirely of glass. The floors are made of weathered yellow flagstones and there are charming rugs with intricate patterns on it. An antique chandelier hangs from the arched roof and there is a wrought iron table, a gorgeous curved cream sofa and chairs next to a pond, where red and yellow koi swim serenely. The air is filled with the sound of running water from a little stone fountain.
Sunlight filters in through the leaves, making the space look like a magical forest.
Over my years as an estate agent, I always notice these architectural features that make a space special. This apartment feels like an absolute treasure. I have never seen anything like this in my life. I find myself falling in love with the secret forest despite myself because my preference is the shabby chic, but this is beyond beautiful. Its beauty feels timeless and unique.
I can’t help but wonder who maintains this garden. It feels too personal to be contracted out to a gardening company.
Pulling out my phone from my pocket, I’m about to send some messages to the office when I hear Muriel’s voice calling. Feeling almost guilty to be up here, I quickly go down the stairs.
There is a classically beautiful blonde in a fitting black suit standing next to her. Something about her… Instantly, my guard goes up.
“That will be all, thank you, Muriel,” she says coldly, and Muriel walks away, her face expressionless.
"Miss Fitzpatrick," the woman says, her gaze locking onto mine with a hint of disdain. “Mr. Ivanovich sent me. I’ve brought your amended contract.” I notice she has a foreign accent and that she doesn’t give me her name. I refuse to play her game. Whoever she is, I genuinely don’t care. I say nothing.
“Are you his secretary or something?” I ask rudely, mirroring her condescending tone.
Her eyebrows shoot up and I can see the fury in her icy blue eyes. “I’m his PA.”
“I see. You can leave the contract on the table. I’ll go through it when I’m ready.”
Her frown deepens, and it hits me. She’s the one who purchased all the clothes in my closet. It makes sense; the style matches her own—forced to be proper but undeniably sultry.
"Please sit down," she says coldly. “There are things I need to explain to you. It’s important. Mr. Ivanovich expects certain things.”
Lifting my chin, I walk towards one of the chairs at the table and sit down. She follows suit.
"Mr. Ivanovich has a packed week ahead, and you’ll need to accompany him to many of his events," she begins immediately, her tone all business, as she pushes an envelope towards me. "I’ve already filled your closet with everything you’ll need. I tried my best to gauge your size, but if there’s anything that doesn’t fit or needs taking in, I’ll give the seamstress’s contact information to Muriel, and you can arrange it yourself. Please ensure that you’re presentable at all times. Mr. Ivanovich has a very respectful image to uphold, and it mustn’t be tarnished for any reason."
Her words are sharp, almost demeaning, almost proprietorial, as if Ivan belongs to her, but I cock my head and raise an eyebrow. I want to say something sharp in return, but I restrain myself. After all, my fight isn’t with her—it’s with no one, really. The deal I’ve entered into is my choice, and I’ve decided that it’s worth what I’m being offered in exchange. So why should I feel ashamed of that? Especially after the way Ivan had nearly rendered me incapable of walking last night.
"Don’t worry," I tell her, my tone quiet but pointed. "I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s such a short period of time, and he’s paying an obscene amount for it, so why would I cause any trouble? I’m making more money in a month than most women ever will in a lifetime, and all I have to do is fuck the most fuckable man I’ve ever met in my life."
The color drains from her face, and I take a moment to relish it. I don’t give her a chance to respond before I turn my attention to the contract that I pull out of the envelope. Calmly, I start reading the contract, cross-checking that no major changes have been made to the version I originally read.
"I need to get back to work," she says abruptly. "Some of us have real jobs to attend to. If everything is in order, just sign here."
I glare at her and I’m about to tell her to fuck off when she jumps to her feet, startling me in the process. It takes a moment for me to realize why she’s reacted so suddenly.
"Mr. Ivanovich," she says. Her voice has lost all its disdain. She sounds positively flustered.
My heart jumps into my throat, and I nearly rise as well, but as usual with him, my legs freeze. My entire body turns heavy, as though the weight of his presence alone is pinning me to my chair. It’s an unbelievable feeling, like the air itself is thickening around me, and when I finally manage to turn my head, I take in the sight of him. He is not wearing a jacket. His tailored pants are cut perfectly to his physique and his soft blue-striped shirt makes him look impossibly refined. The way his sleeves are rolled up despite his polished look is so disarming that I find myself grasping for control over my body, particularly my breathing.
It’s easy to understand why I’ve been so captivated. He’s everything. Intensely powerful and magnetic. I stop judging myself for my reaction and realize that he is worth it. He’s worth every bit of this overwhelming attraction, every moment of self-hate.
I turn my face away, trying desperately to ignore him. After all, I’m not required to acknowledge him like his secretary does—I don’t work for him.
"Oh, you’re here?" his PA exclaims, clearly thrown off by his unexpected arrival. "You have a meeting in Manhattan.”
"Something urgent came up so I called and canceled," he replies with a careless shrug. The sound of his voice is so rich, so deep, that my entire being seems to vibrate in response.
"You cancelled it yourself—" she repeats, confusion evident in her voice.
"Yes, I knew you were busy with the contract. You can reschedule the meeting for next week," he says calmly.
She frowns. "Something urgent came up? What’s more urgent than the meeting you had?" she presses in an amazed, almost disbelieving voice.
"Something of a personal nature.” His words send a wave of satisfaction through me, though I try to suppress the smile creeping onto my lips. I can feel his gaze on me, even though he’s addressing her.
Her reaction is telling—her posture stiffens, and I can tell that my earlier suspicion about her feelings toward him was correct. She clearly desires him, and now she’s faced with the reality that his attention has been captured by someone she considers a two-bit slut.
I meet his eyes again and it’s like the world stops spinning. Everything and everybody just falls away. There is only him and me. His gaze is intense, unwavering, and I feel it on me like a physical touch. I want to hold his gaze, to show that I’m not intimidated by the sheer intensity of the emotions swirling inside me, but after a few moments, it becomes too much. I break eye contact, looking away quickly as though I’ve been burned. How does this man have such a strange ability to make me feel completely out of control? Almost as if my body reacts without my permission.
Suddenly desperate to do something with my hands, I grab my cup of green tea, though it must be cold by now, only to realize it’s empty. Needing to escape I stand.
“I’ll be in the conservatory if you need me,” I mutter and almost run up the winding stairs.