Chapter 13 Aleksei
ALEKSEI
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I watch her across the desk, clutching the tablet like it might save her from me.
Her cheeks are flushed, lips parted, her eyes flickering from the screen back to mine.
She has no idea how close I am to shoving everything off this desk and taking her right here.
And still, I push her away with this assignment. Still, I pretend none of it matters.
Out loud, my voice is cold and businesslike. “Not only will you find a wife for me, Zatanna, but you’ll set up an appointment. I need to be wed by the end of the month. So you need to be efficient.”
She blinks, processing. “So this is why you hired me?” Her tone is flat, but there’s an edge under it—hurt or disbelief or maybe just exhaustion.
“Yes,” I say, meeting her gaze without flinching. “I don’t have time to waste.”
She looks back at the tablet, then at me, eyebrows raised, her voice dry. “You don’t have time to find a wife?”
“I don’t believe in romance,” I say, the words automatic now, old armor. “I don’t have the patience for dating, for games. I want something that works on paper. Something… efficient. A contract, not a fantasy.”
She watches me, searching for cracks. For a second I almost want to show her—what’s broken inside me, why love isn’t an option, why I’m doing any of this at all.
But I can’t. So, I go on, my tone even. “You’ll coordinate introductions, background checks, and shortlist the best candidates. Discretion is everything. The fewer people who know the details, the better for everyone involved.”
She hesitates, then asks, “And what if none of them are good enough?”
I lean in, letting her feel the weight of my focus. “Then you’ll try harder. I don’t fail, Zatanna. Not in business, not in life.”
But as I say it, something in me whispers that this—her, this game, this impossible chemistry—is already a failure of discipline I can’t afford.
“You’ll also have to coordinate with my secretary, and make sure this doesn’t affect my business in any way.”
She winces at this, but I carry on, despite the apprehension on her face. “I need to see the woman who’s going to be the mother of my children at least a couple of times before we’re wed.”
Her eyes flicker with a touch of humor, but her voice is steady. “Of course, you have to court them. You can’t just show up at City Hall and hope someone says yes.”
I nod, doing my best to ignore the pulse of something hot and stupid in my chest. “Fine, good. The sooner you get started, the better.”
But even as I watch her leave, I can’t shake the thought…
What the fuck is wrong with me, that I’d rather burn for her than have any of these perfect strangers on her screen?
She doesn’t waste a second. The moment she leaves my desk, she settles onto the couch across from me, stylus tapping briskly on the tablet as she pulls up files and jots down notes.
I watch her for a minute, irritation flaring—she’s barely had the conversation and she’s already elbows-deep in matchmaking. There’s a stubborn little part of me that expected her to drag her feet, to hesitate or protest. But no, she’s in motion, efficient, focused, refusing to be rattled.
“What are you doing?” I ask, voice low.
She glances up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Exactly what you told me. I’m compiling a shortlist based on your criteria, starting with background and family connections. If I’m going to be efficient, I need as much information as possible. Unless you want me to just pick at random?”
A sigh escapes me, half annoyed, half impressed. “No. That’s fine.”
She taps the screen a few more times, then lifts her gaze, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to look away.
“All right. So, some of these questions might seem personal, but they matter. Compatibility isn’t just about money and family, you know.
What are your non-negotiables? Any dealbreakers?
Do you want someone with a career, or do you prefer someone who’s comfortable at social events?
And… children? You mentioned needing an heir, but are you looking for a mother or just a partner? ”
I almost smirk at her directness. “That’s quite a list.”
She shrugs, not the least bit apologetic. “I know you don’t believe in love, but at least let me find you someone you won’t hate sharing a life with. Trust me—it’ll be easier for everyone.”
“No,” I say.
“This is the only way I can get it done on time.”
I scowl. The last thing I need is an interview, but she’s right. We’re running out of time. “Okay, fine.”
She readies her stylus. “Let’s start with basics. How old is too young? Too old?”
I arch a brow. “Twenty-five minimum. Forty would be pushing it.” I pause. “I’m forty-two.”
She nods. “Height, preferences? Blonde, brunette, redhead?”
I almost smile. “I’m not that picky.” My eyes linger on her a second longer than they should.
She grins, not missing a beat. “Any dealbreakers? Politics, smoking, religion, cats versus dogs?”
“No smokers. I don’t care about religion. Cats, fine. Dogs… as long as they’re small and don’t ruin my suits.”
She laughs softly, scribbling. “Allergic to mess. Noted.”
She glances up, eyes searching. “Would you ever relocate for a partner?”
“I doubt it,” I admit. “My life is here.”
Her pen stills. “What about kids? More than one, or just an heir to tick the box?”
I hesitate, then shrug. “I didn’t grow up in a warm family. I want to do better. Maybe more than one, if things work out. But an heir is non-negotiable.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “What does ‘do better’ mean to you?”
It’s a deeper question than I expect. For a second, I see something genuine in her—curiosity, maybe even hope.
I clear my throat. “It means not making a child feel like a business transaction. Or a pawn. They should feel wanted.”
Her expression softens, and for a heartbeat, the air between us changes.
She presses on. “Do you want a woman who works? Or would you prefer someone who’ll focus on the home?”
I consider. “I respect ambition. But she’d have to understand my world is complicated. Privacy, discretion… not everyone’s built for it.”
She nods. “So, brains and backbone. Got it.” She smiles, a little crooked, almost shy. “Anything else? Must love high-rises, brooding men, and the occasional Russian dinner?”
That pulls a quiet laugh from me, unexpected and rusty. “That about covers it.”
She leans back, tapping her stylus on her lips, eyes locked on mine. “You know, you’re not as impossible as you make yourself out to be.”
Her words hang in the air, charged. For a moment, all I can think about is how close she is, how easily this conversation could turn to something else—something neither of us is ready to name.
She scribbles a few more notes, then glances up, voice softer. “You said privacy’s important. Are there… circumstances about your work that I should know? Security concerns? Are you in business with anyone who might, say, make the front page of the Post?”
I smirk, leaning back. “There are people who want what I have. That’s all you need to know.”
She arches a brow, intrigued. “Anyone ever threatened you over business?”
My lips curve, but it isn’t quite a smile. “Let’s just say I’m good at making problems disappear.”
She’s clearly not satisfied, but she lets it slide, tapping her stylus thoughtfully. “Would your… prospective wife need a background check?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “And she’d need to understand that some doors in my life stay closed. Not everything is open for discussion.”
Her pen hovers above the tablet. “There are a lot of women here with family in law, or politics, or finance. Would that be an issue for you?”
My smile turns cold. “I have my own connections. As long as they respect my privacy, I have no problem with their circles.”
She studies me for a long moment, something sharp and curious in her eyes. “You’re… very private, aren’t you?”
I let the silence stretch. “You have no idea.”
I can see a shiver run down her spine, but she manages a smile. “Alright, Mr. Mystery. That’s all I have for now.” She closes the list, then glances at me, her expression lingering somewhere between playful and thoughtful.
If she’s suspicious, she hides it well. But I can tell—she knows I’m hiding something.
And she’s getting closer to wanting to know exactly what.
She leaves my office with the tablet tucked under her arm, her perfume lingering like a memory I can’t shake. I try to turn back to work, force myself to focus on anything but her voice, her questions, and the stubborn way she refuses to be intimidated.
But I’m restless. She’s everywhere. In the silence after she leaves, I open my desk drawer, drawn by a compulsion I keep telling myself I’ll break.
There it is. My private stash.
The encrypted drive with her audio files, the ones that started all of this. I run my thumb over the cool metal, heart pounding, imagining the heat of her voice whispering in my ear.
It’s a forbidden drug, one I can’t allow myself to taste—not now, not when she’s just down the hall. I shove the drive deeper into the drawer, slam it shut, and press my hands to my temples, trying to clear my head.
Enough.
I pack up my things early, desperate for air, for space, for anything that will let me shake the hold she has on me. The corridors are mostly empty as I stride toward the elevators, my reflection flickering in the glossy walls.
The doors slide open and I step in—only to find her already there, eyes glued to her phone, earphones tangled in her hair.
She looks up, startled. “Oh—hi.”
I nod, forcing calm, though the sight of her in this close space makes my pulse leap. The elevator doors close with a soft sigh, sealing us in together. The silence hums with everything unsaid.
For a moment, I let myself look at her. The slope of her jaw, the soft curve of her lips, the way her body shifts as the elevator hums downward.
She’s so damn close.
And for one wild second, I want nothing more than to hit the stop button and see just how far this forbidden thing between us can go.
But the elevator keeps humming along, numbers ticking downward. I steal a glance at her, trying to hide the want written all over my face. She bites her lip, eyes flicking to mine, her breath just a little too quick.
Then, as if the universe has been listening to every filthy thought in my head, the elevator jolts to a sudden stop.