Chapter 4
GABBY
Iwake up the next morning wincing, sunlight stabbing through my blinds. I sit up, grabbing the blind rod and twisting it shut, beautiful darkness blanketing me.
“Ow. Ow.”
I twist, my body aching in ways it’s never ached before. Right away, I realize what it is—dull, throbbing reminders of last night.
Sasha.
Shit.
It all comes back to me like a bad dream, walking in on my boss stroking himself, moaning my name. Then, instead of bolting out of there, I let him call me closer.
“What the hell was I thinking?”
My words bounce off the walls of my bedroom. Then I remember it’s not a weekend—I need to be at work in an hour. No way that’s happening. No way am I strolling into the office and getting barked at him after what happened between us.
My mind drifts back to last night, the feeling of him pushing into me, stretching me out, driving into me again and again from behind. Then, when he flipped me over onto my back, made me beg for it…
Heat floods between my thighs. God, it’s like my own body is out to get me. Pushing the thoughts out of my head as quickly as I can, I roll off the bed and onto my feet, trudging over to the full-length mirror.
I look as much of a mess as I feel. My lips are swollen, my hair’s a mess, and I didn’t bother to clean my makeup off. You’d think I’d been up all night partying, instead of getting screwed by my boss in his office.
Yeah. Not a chance in hell I’m going to face him today.
I snatch my phone off the nightstand, pull the charger cable out, and get to typing.
Feeling under the weather. Working from home today.
Even seeing his name in the email header is enough to make my stomach roil.
I go into the bathroom, run the sink, throw a little bit of water on my face and start to scrub off my makeup while playing last night on a loop in my brain I have no control over. I turn off the water and towel off my face, refusing to look at myself in the mirror again.
“OK, it’s fine.” I speak out loud to myself, like a crazy person, as I march into the kitchen. “It’s fine. No one has to know. Sasha’s a prick, but he’s not a gossip. It’ll be fine. Just keep a low profile; forget it happened.”
It sounds reasonable. I keep my head down, work on the Dandelion offer, crank it out, and bury the other stuff. Maybe Sasha feels just as dumb and doesn’t want to talk about it either.
There. That’s the plan. Last night just didn’t happen.
I grab my coffee mug out of the cupboard and hang onto it like it’s life support. My laptop’s on the little table next to the kitchen bar, the screen still on, glaring at me with the neat little rows of my Excel spreadsheet.
My stomach drops as I stare at it. As ridiculous as last night was, I still have to deal with the rest of this proposal.
Geez, if you’re going to screw the boss, you should’ve at least gotten an extension out of it.
I set my mug under the Keurig dispenser and pop in a pod. The machine whirs to life, and I remember that last night, when I’d stormed into Sasha’s office, I had intended to quit.
It sounded so tempting last night, but in the cold light of day, I realize it’s not an option. I need this job. I need the money. And even if I were to quit, burning a bridge with AngelCorp would be beyond stupid.
The mug fills, and as if Sasha’s listening in on my thoughts and wants to say his piece, his voice cuts through my skull: This merger could save AngelCorp.
AngelCorp, the massive behemoth of a company I’ve nearly killed myself for, is suddenly on the brink. It sounds dramatic, but Sasha’s no drama queen. He doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
I ease into one of the chairs at the table, wrapping my fingers around the warm mug. Now, instead of being irritated, I’m unsettled. Because what does it mean for me if AngelCorp is on the verge? Is my job—hell, the jobs of everyone at the company—riding on my proposal?
That’s a lot of pressure.
I turn my MacBook around and stare at the screen.
The spreadsheet stares back at me. I want to quit again.
I want to march back in there and tell him this is too much for one financial assistant, wonderfully talented though I may be.
But the thought of leaving it unfinished makes my stomach twist. Not just because of my resume or the money, but because I want to do this.
I want to prove I can. And I want to prove it to him.
So I get to work. One mug of coffee goes down, then another, along with one of the fruit bars from Whole Foods that I don’t even really like but eat anyway because I never feel like making a proper breakfast.
After an hour or so of work, I slam the laptop shut, still irritated. A knock interrupts my internal rant. I freeze, mid-sip, the fresh coffee burning my tongue. Before I can think or do anything else, my phone buzzes next to my laptop. It’s a message from Sasha.
It’s me. Open up.
Of course, it’s him. Sasha Orlov doesn’t do work from home. And he doesn’t do boundaries.
For a wild second, I consider pretending I’m not home. But then I picture him out there, waiting. He doesn’t wait. He’d break the damn door down before walking away.
“Shit.” I hiss the word under my breath, then set the mug down with shaking hands.
I heave myself out of the chair and pad over to the front door on bare feet. It feels like I’m headed to my execution. Every step makes my pulse spike. When I’m at the door, I hesitate for a moment, then crack it open.
And there he is, Sasha Orlov, in the flesh—flawless suit, polished shoes, those coal-black eyes, dark and unreadable. His eyes lock on mine through the crack, his gaze sweeping over me. It’s my apartment, but even standing out in the hall, it feels like he owns the place.
Like he owns me.
My throat goes dry.
“Good morning, Gabriella.”
I pull the door open a bit more, then open my mouth to speak.
Before I do, something occurs to me. A quick glance down reveals that I’m wearing nothing but a pair of very short sleeping shorts and a too-tight T-shirt with no bra on underneath.
My nipples are visible through the fabric.
Sure, he’s seen what’s underneath already, but this isn’t the vibe I want to send right now.
“Morning.” I cross my arms over my chest. My heart’s racing. “Listen, if you’re here for a repeat performance of last night, forget about it.”
One of Sasha’s dark eyebrows lifts. His gaze is slow, sliding down from my messy hair to my bare legs like he wants me to see he’s looking at me like that.
He lets out a snort of a laugh. “That’s why you think I’m here?” His tone is low, amused.
“With you, who the hell knows. Not like you’ve got a reputation for restraint.”
A smirk ghosts across his mouth. “Funny how angry you are about it now. You didn’t seem to mind last night when you were begging and screaming my name.”
I flush hot, both embarrassed for getting clocked like that and for how he sees right through me.
“Oh my God, you are unbelievable.” I pull the door open the rest of the way, leaving it like that as I stride back into the kitchen. “Fine. Come in. You want to talk, come in and do it before my neighbors start asking questions.”
He steps inside with a long stride, shutting the door quietly behind him. It clicks shut, and right away the apartment feels smaller. Sasha’s always had this way of filling whatever room he was in, and not just because he’s nearly six-and-a-half feet tall.
I grab my mug and take a quick sip, not ready to turn and face him just yet.
“You’ve had enough,” he says.
I cock my head to the side, like I didn’t hear him right. I turn and ask, “What?”
He stands straight and still, not taking his coat off. “Three years, three years of impossible hours, late nights, of me pushing you to the brink.” His jaw tightens, and I can tell he’s having a hard time being so open. But his voice is calm and steady. “Last night, you’d reached your limit.”
I let out a sharp, stabbing laugh. “You actually noticed?”
He ignores the jab, closing the distance between us, until he’s close enough to make my skin prickle.
“I’ll ease up on the last-minute requests.
” His tone is clinical and cold, like he’s in a boardroom laying out a contract for a client, instead of talking about my sanity.
“You’ll stay with the company. You’ll finish the Morozov proposal.
And, in return, I’ll give you space to breathe.
Maybe even put some more consideration toward your…
how do you say? Work-life balance.” He says the term like it’s the most ridiculous thing he can think of. But he’s taking me seriously.
My mouth drops open. “You’re negotiating with me?”
He shrugs. “You’re a valuable employee. It would be foolish of me to let you leave so easily. And naturally, if this merger works out, you’ll profit nicely from it. A raise, some stock options, maybe even a little sabbatical to clear your mind after all your hard work.”
It sounds good. But something occurs to me—he’s sidestepping the other issue. Is this all some way to butter me up so I forget about last night?
“So that’s it? No apology? No ‘sorry for screwing you on the desk, like some animal in heat, Gabriella? Maybe I overstepped my bounds a little?’”
He doesn’t react at all. “You didn’t stop me.”
My pulse stutters. “That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”
He leans in, his shadow falling over me. His eyes are hypnotic this close up, those little pools of oil. “We both had our fun. Let’s not pretend we didn’t. But now, we’re talking business.”
My breath catches. For a long second, I can’t think, or move, or do anything else. I’m totally pinned by his heat and gaze and nearness.
“Not to mention,” he says. “I know you want this.”
“What do you mean?”
He stands up straight, the tension mercifully easing just enough to allow me to catch my breath. “This proposal.”
Oh.
“It’d be the challenge of your professional life to this point. You can be a pill. But you’re a hard worker and you have flashes of brilliance. You pull this proposal off, give me something I can use, it’d be one of the greatest professional achievements of your career.”
He’s right. But I don’t admit it. Part of me hates how he can size me up with such ease.
“I should quit.”
He lets out a dark ha. It was a mini-bluff, and he called it.
“Then quit. But you won’t.” He’s pushing me with his tone, daring me.
Goddammit. The man has me right where he wants me.
I go back to last night. I think about the speech I’d rehearsed. It’s not too late. I could stand up, straighten my spine, and let him have it. Hell, he’s in my territory. I imagine ripping into him, making Sasha Orlov himself leave with his tail between his legs.
But it’s total bullshit. It wouldn’t go like that at all. I’d get two sentences into my grand speech, and he’d quirk his lips or make some comment, then bam, we’re in my bedroom with him buried to the hilt in me, making me beg for it again.
Not going to risk it. Plus, he’s right. I do want the challenge.
“You’re impossible.” It comes out limp, with all the power of a deflated balloon.
His mouth curves. “I think you’ve said such things about me before.”
I find a little courage, raising my finger at him. “I’m serious, though. No more late-night work ambushes, no more ruining my weekends with email edits or whatever at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night.” My voice wavers, but I’m not done. The next part is even more important. “And last night…”
He raises his eyebrows slightly. “Yes? What about last night?”
Heat rushes through me. He’s toying with me again. “You want me to work for you, we pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Pretend being the operative word here.”
He knows it’s a ridiculous thing to demand, but I’m sticking to my guns anyway.
“You can make fun all you want,” I say. “But these are the terms. You need me for this merger. And if you want me to continue working for you, you have to give me something.”
Silence stretches between us. For a moment, I find myself wondering if he’s going to say no and leave.
Then his eyes narrow slightly, studying me. Finally, he inclines his head.
“Done.” His tone is smooth. Too smooth, almost.
“Good. Then we understand each other.”
“Perfectly.”
The word rolls off his tongue as smooth as silk. But it’s obvious that while his voice is saying one thing, his eyes are saying another.
I realize that he doesn’t believe my BS about putting it behind us, not for a second. My pose is rigid, shoulders square, arms crossed. “Then we’re done.”
Another ghost of a smirk, the kind of expression that says we’ve only just begun, the kind of smirk that makes me want to kiss him and claw his eyes out in equal measure.
He takes a step back, clears his throat, sets his jaw, and just like that, is back in business mode. “Very good. I’ll expect the outline for the preliminary proposal by the end of the d--” He catches himself, glancing aside. “At your earliest convenience, but the sooner the better, naturally.”
His tone is low, measured, as if this had all been nothing more than a regular business check-in.
I almost laugh at him. His words are so absurdly polite, so unlike him, that it almost feels like a joke.
I catch the flicker in his eyes, command disguised as courtesy, a little pull of the leash, even as he pretends to let me run free.
Still, for Sasha Orlov, this is progress.
My mouth opens a bit as I try to find the right comeback, but nothing passes my lips.
Not to mention that he’s already halfway to the door, his movements calm and measured, as always, like he knows he’s accomplished exactly what he’d set out to do.
I’m unsettled, off-balance, and still burning for him—I’m sure that was all part of his plan, too.
“I’ll see you at the office tomorrow, bright and early.”
I listen to his heavy footsteps as he makes his way down the hall.
Then he’s gone, and there’s silence.