Chapter 8
GABBY
Another late night at my desk.
The whole floor hums with that empty, after-hours sound of air conditioning and moving elevators. The overhead lights are low, blending with the soft glow of the screens of workers who have already gone home.
My desk lamp throws a small circle on the ocean of spreadsheet printouts in front of me, the papers covered in neon-colored Post-its.
The proposal is so close to being done, I can feel it. After two months, I’ve decided tonight is when I finish it. Tomorrow morning, it’ll be on Sasha’s desk before he even takes his first sip of coffee.
Alright, focus.
I take a deep breath, ready to smash through the last little bit of the draft. I allow myself a little smile. There’s nothing here for him to rip apart. Not this time.
My laptop pings with a message from Alana, Sasha’s assistant. Mr. Orlov would like to see you. Now.
Of course he does. He smells progress like a shark smells blood. I save the document, gather the binder and my notes, and stand. It’s fine. He’ll just ask for a status update. I’ll give it to him. That should get me enough breathing room to finish this thing tonight.
Alana’s packing up to go as I approach Sasha’s office. “He’s in there,” she says. “Just a word of warning—he doesn’t look happy.”
“Does he ever?”
She doesn’t smile. “No. But this seems different. Good luck.” She throws her purse over her shoulder and heads out.
I approach the glass doors to Sasha’s office, suddenly feeling a little less confident than I did before. I knock quietly.
“Come in.”
I open the door slowly. His office is dim, just like it was that night. Sasha stands at the floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyline framing his shape, the city awash in blues and golds of nighttime lights.
He turns. His jacket is off, his sleeves rolled up precisely, his tie off and draped neatly over the back of his leather desk chair. He looks delicious as hell, like always. Calm, in control, demanding.
I step further inside, closing the door behind me. He says nothing, so I start. “You wanted to see me?”
He levels those obsidian eyes at me. “Sit.”
I don’t want to. As silly as it might be, I’m not in the mood to follow his orders like a little soldier. Instead, I fold my hands together behind my back, clear my throat, and speak.
“I’m on track,” I say. “I’m nearly done with the full draft and can have it ready for you in the morning. But if you want it ASAP, I can prepare it in the next few hours, but I’d rather use the extra time to tighten the—”
“You’ve been out.”
The words aren’t ones I expected. “I… what?”
“Out of the office,” he says. “Repeatedly. During core hours.”
It’s absurd. Is he really telling me I can’t leave the office during lunch or to grab a coffee on break? “Sasha, I—”
“Mr. Orlov.”
So he’s going to be like that.
“Mr. Orlov,” I say. “I’m salaried, not an inmate. You don’t get to have that kind of control over me coming and going. And I thought that was our understanding, based on our previous conversation.”
“Where have you been going during your lunch breaks?”
I don’t like the way he’s sidestepping me, but I know Sasha well enough to have learned that when he gets on this kind of tear, there’s nothing to do but give him what he wants.
“Not that it’s any of your business what I do on my lunch breaks, but I’ve been getting coffee, going on walks, clearing my head. I’m happy to work hard, but you need to respect my autonomy. You promised me you would.”
Without a word, he opens a drawer and pulls out a manila folder. Sasha opens it, removes a sheet of paper, and places it on the desk, sliding it forward with his fingertips.
I look down. My blood runs cold when I realize what it is—a photo of me leaving the building where Dr. Marquez’ office is located.
The mortification is quickly replaced by anger.
“You have no right to have Bogdan or whoever the hell, tail me and take pictures of where I’m going! What the hell, Sasha?” I’m not in a mood to mess around with his “Mr. Orlov” bullshit.
“I told you, he’s there to protect you. You and the work you’re doing is too valuable. Nothing you had been doing was worth commenting on, nothing out of the ordinary. But this—” he taps the photo, “this is different. You broke the pattern.”
“I broke the pattern? You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re monitoring my lunches?”
“I monitor risk. And you are a walking risk right now.”
“Why, because I like to go for a walk along the river now and then?”
He leans forward on both hands. “No. Because this quarter ends in a few days, and I can’t afford to have my most valuable employee sneaking around drinking during her lunch break.”
I feel the floor tilt. He’s off-base, of course. I barely drank before, and I haven’t had so much of a drop since the news about the baby. But I’m stuck. I either let him think I’m drinking on the job, or I tell him the truth. Both are very, very bad options.
“I don’t owe you an explanation.” It’s weak but worth a shot.
“You owe me delivery,” he says. “And predictability.”
My jaw tightens. Time for a good, old-fashioned lie. “Alright, yes. I go to that bar. I go there for lunch, and I haven’t had a drop of alcohol while I’m there. But I do happen to know that you like the occasional double whiskey over client lunches.”
He says nothing.
I go on. “Delivery is what I’m giving you. Tomorrow morning, if you stop wasting my time scolding me for spending my goddamn lunch hour however I see fit.”
He keeps his eyes on me for a few more long moments. “Tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, if you stop monitoring my steps like you’re a damn FitBit or something. I’m not your prisoner.”
He raises a finger. “Don’t mistake my protection for imprisonment. There’s a difference—one you’ll appreciate when someone decides you’re the easiest way to reach me.”
“So that’s it. I’m a liability. An asset on legs.”
He shakes his head. “No. You’re indispensable.”
My laugh is a short, ugly thing. “You’re right. I am.”
He slowly eases into his chair, the leather creaking slightly. “I expect what I believe my people to be capable of. Therefore, I have high expectations for you.”
“I’m on track. If you trusted me at all, you’d listen.”
“I trust results, not promises.”
The last little bit of pride I carried into the office breaks. “Stop treating me like a flight risk.”
“You’re my employee. When you’re on the clock, you’re mine.”
Mine. The way he said it that night comes to mind, the way he said it, as if he were claiming me. It sends a shiver through me, one that feels almost good.
“I told you why I was out. And I could’ve told you, too, if you’d asked instead of spying.”
“Spying.” He spits out the word like it’s totally ridiculous. “You’re an asset.”
“An asset,” I repeat. “I wish you could hear yourself.”
He leans forward just a bit. “Don’t play dumb, Gabriella. You know what you are to me.”
What does that mean? What I am to him?
I clear my throat, eager to end the conversation. “If there’s one thing I want you to know after this, it’s that you don’t own me. You give me a paycheck; I give you good work. And if you think it’s anything more than this, I’ll walk as soon as this proposal is in.”
“Easy for you to say when you don’t own the risk like I do.”
Another laugh shoots out of me. “You don’t get to run my life.”
Those obsidian slits return. I can sense I’m really testing his patience.
“If your life affects mine and my company, then yes—I get to run your life.”
Something in me snaps. All of the exhaustion, the fear, the humiliation of being shadowed and ordered around—everything boils up at once.
“You don’t get to treat me like this!” I fire back, my voice shaking. “I’m a grown woman, a professional, a mother…”
Shit.
The words rip free before I can stop them, and they came out way louder than I’d intended. There’s no taking them back.
Silence detonates between us. The city outside seems to hush.
Sasha’s expression doesn’t change right away, as if what I said is taking a second to land.
And then it does. He looks at me like the floor’s about to drop out from underneath him.
No sound, no movement. Just that black, unblinking stare.
My own pulse won’t slow. I’m trembling, more scared than I’ve ever been in my life.
All this work I’ve done to keep the secret, and now it’s out, just like that.
Something flickers in his eyes, and he slowly stands. The chair rolls back. He comes around the desk, and he takes three long steps, closing the distance between us and looming over me in that way I hate and love at the same time.
“Say it again.” His voice is deeper, calmer.
I take a deep breath, then raise my eyes to him. “I’m pregnant,” I say. “I’ve been going to the clinic. Not a bar.”
Silence.
“A… baby.”
Then he does something I’m not expecting at all. He drops to his knees.
It’s not graceful. It’s the sight of a man brought down by something bigger than he knows how to carry. One of his hands lifts like it takes great effort. Then his palm settles, lightly, on my belly through my blouse.
His eyes close.
I’ve never seen him like this before. I don’t know how to feel. Sasha, this man, this titan, on his knees in front of me, his hand on the child growing inside my belly. Calling it surreal would be the understatement of the goddamn century.
The silence becomes too much.
“Sasha, say something.”
When he speaks, his voice isn’t smooth. It’s rough with some emotion I don’t understand. “You’re both mine. Forever.”
Relief rushes up hot, because hiding this secret has been a hell of a weight to carry, and now it’s over. And he’s happy. Then fear comes in next, sharp, tinged with worry for the future.
And finally, anger.
Mine, like we’re property.
Then there’s this terrible aching tenderness I don’t have a name for.
I step back. His hand falls away.
“Don’t.” My voice trembles again. “Don’t say it like that. We’re not yours.”
He rises slowly. He looms over me in a way he never has before. But he doesn’t say a word.
“I’ll finish the proposal tonight,” I say. “Then I’m going home.”
Sasha shakes his head. “You’re not going home to that apartment.”
“What? Are you kidding me?”
“You’re moving into my place. Tonight.”
I laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. “No. No way. Absolutely not.”
“If this deal goes sideways, Peter Morozov will come for you to get to me. My home is secure.”
“What do you mean ‘Peter Morozov will come for me?’ What’s going on?”
“Just… I’ll explain later.”
“No, you’ll explain now.”
He purses his lips. “Peter Morozov, Johan’s father, is connected to some shady people. And he doesn’t know about the plans with Dandelion. If he finds out I’m working with his son behind his back, he might not be so cordial and businesslike about it.”
“Shady people? What kind of shady people?”
“Bratva.”
And there it is. The Bratva life Sasha is rumored to live is a rumor no longer. There’s not just business at play here; there are criminal empires moving around me. I’ve heard rumors about Peter Morozov and what he’s capable of.
“You don’t get to make those kinds of choices for me.”
“I do get to keep my family safe.”
The word family hits me hard. I feel it all the way down to my toes. I hate that it affects me the way it does. Is that what we are now?
He steps closer, just a little bit, and he takes my hand with surprising gentleness, lifting it to his lips and kissing it softly. I hate that the gesture makes me feel so good, but it does.
“Go home. Pack. Be ready. A car will be there in an hour.”
“You can’t—”
“I can. And I will.”
“No. I’ll finish the proposal, then I’ll go home. To my place.”
“Gabriella,” he starts, sounding impatient.
“I will move in with you, but on my terms. You can send a car in the morning.”
His mouth forms into a hard line, and for a long moment, I wonder if he’ll refuse and turn into the tyrant I’ve always feared he might be.
“Fine. The morning.”
I nod. “Fine.”
“When you’re ready, Bogdan will drive you home. And he’ll be there in the morning to help you pack.”
There’s nothing else to say. I take one more look at Sasha, then I turn and walk out. I go to my office and finish the proposal. I send Sasha an email, and he replies that Bogdan will meet me downstairs.
The elevator takes what feels like years to arrive. When the doors finally open, the mirrored walls inside reflect a woman I barely recognize. My eyes are too bright. My mouth is pressed thin. My hair looks wild.
I press the lobby button and the doors slide shut. The car begins to hum. I finally breathe. I said it. It’s out. It’s in the real world now. The relief is so huge, I could wrap my arms around it. But there’s fear and anger and shame and worry and everything else.
The elevator doors open, and Bogdan is waiting for me in the lobby. I’m soon in the back of his car as he pulls out onto the road.
“Jesus,” I whisper to myself. “What am I doing?”
I think of the baby. A small, flickering life. I put my hand over my stomach the way he did and close my eyes.
This is all that matters.