Masked Seduction (Silver Fox Daddies #1)

Chapter 1

JENNA

Mondays can fuck right off.

Standing at my desk, I suck in two steadying breaths before stepping into my boss’s office, a place that feels about as welcoming as a shark tank at feeding time.

I clutch my tablet in one hand, a steaming mug of black coffee for him in the other, and prepare myself for whatever fresh brand of hell awaits me. A few weeks into this job and I’m already wondering if I’m going to last.

It’s not as if he’s pleasant any other day. But Mondays? They bring out an extra-special, premium-grade asshole side of him. The kind of mood that makes me wonder if he spends the weekends downing vodka shots and picking fights in alleyways just for fun, nursing hangovers come Monday morning.

Except, try as I might, I can’t imagine Abram Vasiliev being anything less than impeccably controlled. Everything about the man screams meticulous precision—from the razor-sharp tailoring of his suits to the devastating cool of his expression.

So no, Abram Vasiliev isn’t recovering from wild weekends. Being insufferable is just his default setting.

I learned on day one not to knock. His exact words: “If I don’t want you in here, Ms. Ridley, I’ll lock the door.” Delivered with those icy blue eyes boring into mine, like he was challenging me to step out of line.

Taking one final breath, I push open the heavy door without knocking.

Abram is silhouetted at the window of his 32nd floor office, overlooking one of Las Vegas’s several parks. The sun cuts around his tall frame, highlighting his broad shoulders, his powerful arms crossed casually over his chest. He oozes dominance.

I swallow hard, despising myself for the hot wave of arousal that runs through me. When am I going to get used to this man?

“Coffee,” he says without turning around, his voice clipped, cold.

Biting back a sigh, I roll my eyes safely behind his back and stride forward. “Black,” I announce, managing to thread just the barest hint of sarcasm into my tone. “Just how you like it.”

As he slowly turns, my breath stalls in my lungs because, damn him, Abram Vasiliev is devastatingly handsome. Even after weeks of working for the man, the sight of him still strikes me like a physical blow.

The office lights highlight his chiseled, commanding features beneath a perfectly tailored, dark gray suit. His head is shaved, a carefully groomed salt-and-pepper beard sharpening his jawline and emphasizing those infuriatingly kissable lips.

His eyes—piercing and icy blue beneath dark, arched brows—can pin you where you stand, stripping away every defense. Just like they're doing now. His gaze slides over me, one brow rising, mastering that silent, infuriating expression somewhere between intimidating and amused.

Like a predator toying with its prey.

My pussy clenches, heat pooling low and traitorous despite my irritation. It’s crazy how much my body responds to him, how every glance seems to pull at something raw and needy inside me.

I force my chin up defiantly, silently daring him to give me a reprimand, even as my pulse pounds in my throat.

He holds my stare a beat too long before his deep, velvet-smooth voice finally breaks the charged silence. “Congratulations. You finally got it right.”

His words are carried on a Russian accent that somehow makes him even sexier despite what a colossal dick he can be.

My teeth grind so hard I’m surprised they don’t crumble as I clamp down on the retort simmering at the tip of my tongue.

I spin sharply on my heel and cross to the sleek chair opposite his desk, slipping into it and tapping open his calendar on my tablet.

I focus hard, keeping my voice calm and steady, refusing to let him see how deeply he irritates and arouses me all at once.

“Conference call with Zurich at ten, lunch with investors downtown at twelve-thirty. Your lawyer is scheduled for three, and tonight’s dinner reservation—”

He interrupts, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Why am I meeting with my lawyer?”

“I’m not privy to that information, Mr. Vasiliev,” I reply evenly.

“You scheduled the appointment,” he responds, his tone sharp.

“Because you told me to. You didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t think it was my place to pry.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches, betraying his irritation. “A competent assistant knows every detail of every meeting. Otherwise, she’s useless.”

Fury boils within, swift and scorching. The insult lands like a slap, heat flaring through me until my cheeks burn.

For a dangerous moment, my mouth opens, a fierce “fuck you” poised and ready.

But I bite down hard, tasting copper. I need this job too badly—enough to swallow insults—at least for now.

I rise abruptly, the chair scraping loudly behind me, and stalk toward the door. I nearly slam it on my way out, managing to restrain myself at the last second. I close it firmly, the sound echoing like a small, satisfying rebellion.

Outside, I press my back to the wall, drawing a shaky breath. My heart is pounding, adrenaline surging through my veins. I’m stronger than this. Abram Vasiliev might be a powerful, intimidating, sexy-as-hell, insufferable prick, but he won’t break me.

No one ever has.

With determination steeling my spine, I push away from the wall and stride down the hall toward the legal department. The heels of my shoes click against the polished marble floors, punctuating each step with stubborn defiance.

I find Mark Henley, Abram’s personal lawyer, seated in his expansive, overly lavish office, fingers tapping on his laptop. When he sees me, he gives an amused smirk.

“Ms. Ridley. Did the boss send you?”

“Who else?” I say, forcing a polite smile. “He needs details about your meeting at three. Apparently, I should already know.”

Henley chuckles softly. “Well, we can’t have Abram disappointed, can we?”

“No,” I deadpan. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He rifles through a file, quickly scanning its contents. “Ah, yes. It’s regarding the acquisition of the club downtown.”

“What kind of club?” I ask, careful to keep my voice neutral even as something sharp and electric stirs under my skin. Abram owns plenty of properties—some legitimate, some not—but the way Henley’s eyes gleam puts me immediately on alert.

“It’s, well, a sex club,” he says, voice laced with dry amusement. “Though not officially. High-end. Exclusive clientele.”

A flush rises beneath my skin. My brain stalls for a second, catching on the phrase like a fishhook. A sex club? That’s not what I was expecting to hear. Still, I summon my training, keeping my expression calm, voice cool.

“Of course it is,” I say smoothly, arching a brow. “And I’m guessing that’s not exactly above board?”

Henley chuckles, but it’s the kind of chuckle lawyers give right before they start dancing along the edge of legal definitions.

“That depends on what you mean by ‘above board,’ Ms. Ridley. Is it a licensed nightclub? Yes. Does it serve alcohol legally? Also yes. Are there private areas where consenting adults can spend time together away from prying eyes? Sure. But that doesn’t make it a brothel, which would be illegal under Nevada law—at least in Clark County. ”

I tilt my head. “So it’s legal because it’s not charging for sex?”

“Exactly,” he says, pleased that I understand.

“There’s no transactional exchange of money for sexual services.

No solicitation. No in-house staff providing those kinds of amenities.

What the club does provide is an environment.

Mood lighting. Private rooms. Security. Discretion.

If consenting adults choose to engage in certain activities while on the premises, that’s their business. ”

“And if law enforcement shows up?”

Henley shrugs. “They don’t. The place is careful.

Membership-only, vetted guests. Surveillance, but no recordings.

The current owners aren’t foolish. They don’t market it publicly.

No flyers, no ads. Just a space that facilitates fantasy.

If anything, it’s protected more by the strength of its obscurity than by any legal shield. ”

I nod slowly, absorbing everything he just said. It’s not just shady—it’s calculated. Clever.

Very Abram.

I manage a slight smirk, though beneath the surface, my mind races.

My boss is buying a sex club.

Armed with the details Abram demanded, I thank Henley and step into the hallway, heart thudding just a little harder than I’d like to admit.

A sex club? I knew Abram had ties to things most people wouldn’t understand—shady business dealings, hush-hush partnerships, maybe even some money laundering. But this? This is different. Intimate. Personal.

My mind spins as I make my way back to Abram’s office. Did he buy the place just to profit from it? Or does he actually partake? I try not to imagine him in a private room—voice low and commanding while someone is pinned beneath him, trembling and begging.

But the image won’t leave. Instead, it spreads like wildfire, heat licking up my neck, curling between my thighs.

Damn it.

I take a breath. Rein it in.

By the time I get back to Abram’s office, my jaw is tight, my face composed, and I’ve rehearsed my update enough times to sound coolly professional, even if my pulse hasn’t quite recovered.

When I enter his office again, Abram is seated behind his desk, brow furrowed in concentration over his laptop. His attention snaps to me as I approach.

“Well?” he prompts impatiently.

I meet his gaze evenly, folding my arms over my chest. “Your meeting with Henley is about acquiring another club. It’s exclusive, high-end, and skirting the boundaries of legality.”

His eyebrows lift, surprise briefly flickering across his carefully controlled features only to be replaced quickly by narrowed suspicion. “Did he say anything else?”

My lips twist slightly. “He mentioned it’s a sex club.”

His eyes darken and something flickers in them—a sharp, brief heat that makes my pulse quicken despite myself.

“Did he now?” he murmurs, almost thoughtful. I can tell he already knew.

I tilt my head, studying him. “Would you have demanded these details if I were a man?”

His expression cools instantly, eyes sharpening. “Absolutely. My assistant should have complete knowledge of my affairs, regardless of their nature.”

I let a soft, skeptical hum escape my lips, then straighten. “I’ve already ordered your lunch. It’ll arrive promptly at noon. Anything else?”

He stares at me, unreadable, then shakes his head once. “That’s all. Close the door behind you.”

I turn without a word, shutting the door just a little too firmly. Back in my office at my desk, I sink into my chair, the anger and indignation slowly ebbing, replaced by reluctant curiosity.

Abram Vasiliev, Bratva kingpin and billionaire asshole extraordinaire, is about to own a sex club. The thought isn’t exactly shocking—he’s no stranger to power or danger—but something about it catches me off guard.

I imagine him there, dark eyes watching, that powerful, commanding presence dominating every room. Heat flushes my cheeks, and I angrily shove the thought away.

No. Absolutely not.

My desk phone buzzes loudly, pulling me sharply back to reality.

Abram’s lunch is here. With a weary sigh, I push aside all fantasies and head downstairs to collect the perfectly prepared meal from Abram’s favorite upscale bistro.

My lunch consists of a sad, and limp salad from the convenience store next door.

When I return, Abram has vanished from his office. Typical. I settle behind my desk, staring at his untouched meal, suddenly feeling foolishly hopeful he’ll at least acknowledge the effort I put into making his days easier.

My phone rings incessantly, a nonstop stream of irate investors and demanding clients, all of whom expect Abram’s immediate response. I soothe egos, make promises, and swallow frustration along with bites of wilted lettuce.

Abram reappears an hour later, striding through the office like a thunderstorm. He stops sharply at my desk.

“The paperwork?” he demands, voice edged with impatience.

My eyes dart toward the semi-finished stack. “Nearly done. Your clients have been calling nonstop, and I’m trying to keep them calm.”

His eyes narrow to icy slits. “Ten minutes.” I open my mouth to argue, but his glare silences me immediately. He leans in, voice low and dangerous. “I hired you because I believed you could handle the pressure, Jenna. Don’t make me regret it.”

He straightens and stalks away, leaving me trembling with suppressed rage. I channel it all into my fingers, typing furiously until the paperwork is finished.

Storming into his office, I slap the finished documents onto his desk, harder than necessary. Pages scatter. Abram glances up sharply, gaze darkening.

“That’s everything,” I say through clenched teeth. “If there’s nothing else, I’m leaving for the day.”

He regards me silently, eyes unreadable. Silence stretches between us, heavy and tense, and just when I think I might scream, he nods once. “You’re free to go.”

I leave quickly, grabbing my purse and laptop, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop everything twice. Outside, the air hits my heated skin, cooling some of my temper. I’m certain I’ll be fired by tomorrow, but right now, I honestly don’t give a fuck.

My mind races as I walk away, replaying his unreadable expression. Was it indifference or something else? I grit my teeth, forcing myself to dismiss the thought. Abram Vasiliev’s moods and motives aren’t my problem.

Except they are because I need this job.

Still, there’s only so much I can tolerate. I won’t be his verbal punching bag forever. No matter how irresistible or powerful he is.

Determined, I quicken my steps toward home, promising myself tomorrow will be different.

Tomorrow, I’ll hold my own.

Tomorrow, I’ll prove Abram Vasiliev can’t break me.