14. Sasha
14
SASHA
I’m sprawled across my bed, scrolling aimlessly through my phone, still trying to process everything that happened today, when my roommate pokes her head into my room.
“You have a delivery,” she says, her voice flat, like she couldn’t care less.
I sit up, blinking. “I didn’t order anything.”
She shrugs. “Not my problem.” And with that, she turns and walks off, disappearing into her own room.
I frown, getting up and padding barefoot into the living room, where a large black box with a ribbon sits at the door.
It’s elegant. Expensive-looking.
And definitely not something I ordered.
Curious, I sign for the package, thank the delivery guy, and haul it inside, placing it on my bed.
I hesitate for a moment before finally untying the ribbon and lifting the lid.
A dress.
And not just any dress.
A gown.
Deep blood red, silky and smooth, with delicate beading along the bodice. It looks like it was made for royalty, not a girl barely surviving New York on an entry-level salary.
My heart pounds as I run my fingers over the fabric, my stomach twisting with something nervous, excited, terrified.
Who sent this?
As if on cue, my phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: Did you get the dress?
A lump lodges in my throat.
I swallow hard, quickly typing back.
Me: How do you know my address?
My screen lights up with his response almost instantly.
Unknown Number: Your employee records.
I stare at the message, my fingers tightening around my phone.
What.
The.
Hell.
Me: That’s messed up.
Unknown Number: Nothing is over the line when it comes to you.
A shiver runs down my spine.
Not from fear.
From something else, something I don’t want to name.
Because I should be outraged.
I should be calling HR, filing a complaint, demanding answers.
But instead, I’m staring at this ridiculously beautiful dress, my fingers still buried in the soft silk, my skin flushed and warm.
I exhale slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs.
What the hell am I getting myself into?
I stare at the phone screen, my heart still racing, my fingers still gripping the fabric of the gown.
Me: Why have you sent me this dress?
I barely have time to process the absurdity of the situation before my phone buzzes again.
Unknown Number: Do you like it?
I narrow my eyes, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Of course I like it.
It’s stunning.
It looks like something out of a fairy tale—except instead of a prince, I have a dangerously powerful CEO with boundary issues playing dress-up with me.
But I refuse to let him steer the conversation.
Me: First answer me.
The reply is almost instant.
Unknown Number: I’m not answerable to anyone, printsessa.
I snort.
Wow. Arrogant much?
I don’t know why I’m even surprised.
I roll my eyes so hard I almost see my own brain.
Me: Wow. That must be nice. Just walking around doing whatever the hell you want.
His response comes instantly, like he was waiting for me.
Unknown Number: It is, actually.
Oh my God.
Me: I hope one day someone tells you no just to see if you explode.
Unknown Number: Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.
I smirk despite myself, tucking my legs up under me.
I don’t know why I’m still talking to him.
Why I keep responding when I should be blocking his number, demanding to know why he’s messing with me.
Instead, my fingers are flying over my keyboard.
Me: What if I don’t want the dress?
Unknown Number: You do.
I let out a frustrated noise, tossing my phone onto my bed.
He’s so damn smug.
I glare at the dress like it personally offended me.
Of course I want it.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever touched.
And he knows it.
My phone buzzes again.
Unknown Number: Have you saved my number yet?
I purse my lips, gripping my phone again.
Me: Why would I do that?
Unknown Number: So you don’t have to keep calling me unknown number.
I smirk.
Me: I think it suits you.
His response is immediate.
Unknown Number: Cold, printsessa. Very cold.
I bite my lip, trying not to smile.
Then—
Unknown Number: Be ready by seven on Saturday.
I blink.
Me: For what?
Unknown Number: The charity ball. I’m taking you.
My heart stumbles.
My fingers tighten around my phone as I read the words again.
Me: Like…a date?
Unknown Number: If you want to call it that.
I sputter.
Oh, no.
Absolutely not.
Me: I think I’d rather call it an HR violation.
Unknown Number: Good thing I own HR then.
My jaw drops.
I stare at my phone, my pulse racing.
Because he’s not just messing with me.
He’s serious.
He’s really taking me.
This is…
This is not happening.
I should say no. I should text him back right now and shut this down before it spirals into something I can’t control.
Because let’s be real—this is insane.
This isn’t some guy I matched with on a dating app.
This isn’t some harmless flirtation at the office water cooler.
This is Damien fucking Zaitsev.
My boss.
The man who just had his hands all over me in a locked bathroom, making me moan like I belonged to him.
I let out a slow breath, pressing my fingertips against my temples.
I need to think.
I need to be rational.
But rational is hard when I’m still buzzing from his touch, from the way he looked at me in that meeting, from the way he made me feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
And the worst part?
I liked it.
I like him.
I should be disgusted with myself.
I should be running in the opposite direction.
But here I am, still staring at my phone, still running my fingers over the fabric of the dress he sent me, still considering going.
What is wrong with me?
I press the heel of my palm against my chest, like I can somehow calm the rapid thudding of my heart.
It’s attraction. That’s all this is.
A chemical reaction.
It doesn’t mean anything.
But even as I think it, I know I’m lying to myself.
He texts me like he already owns my body, my reactions, my pleasure.
And worst of all?
Some part of me wants him to.
* * *
Avoidance was the only rational choice.
Was it cowardly? Sure.
But self-preservation comes first, and after that bathroom incident, I knew walking into the office on Friday would mean walking straight into whatever trap Damien Zaitsev had set for me.
So, I did the smart thing.
I took the day off.
Sick leave.
It’s not entirely dishonest—I do feel feverish every time I think about him.
And honestly? I assume that after a day without seeing me, he’ll forget all about this ridiculous ball invitation.
I’m in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup, trying to ignore the nagging voice in my head reminding me that I’m supposed to be somewhere tonight.
Then the doorbell rings.
I barely register it. Probably another one of Melanie’s packages—the girl has a serious online shopping addiction.
I hear her shuffle to the door and pull it open.
Then, a long pause.
“Oh,” she says, her voice unusually high-pitched. “Uh…hi?”
My brow furrows. That’s weird. Melanie isn’t usually awkward.
Then, a deep voice—one I’d know anywhere.
“Where is she?”
I drop the ladle into the pot. It sinks with a sad little plop, soup splattering onto the stove.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
Before I can react, before I can run, hide, or escape through a conveniently placed window, Damien Zaitsev walks into my tiny apartment like he owns the place.
Melanie stands frozen by the door, her wide eyes darting between us.
Meanwhile, I am barefoot in the kitchen, wearing duck-patterned pajamas, holding a dripping spoon like it’s going to protect me.
No one speaks.
We all just…stare at each other.
Then—Melanie, still processing, blurts out, “Oh my God. Are you here to kill her?”
Damien lifts an unimpressed brow.
Melanie whispers under her breath, “Jesus.”
I snap out of my shock. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Damien’s eyes drag over me slowly, taking in my extremely unsexy pajamas, before landing back on my face.
A slow smirk tugs at his lips.
He is enjoying this.
I hate him.
“I don’t recall excusing you from our plans,” he says, calm as ever, like showing up uninvited is a totally reasonable thing to do.
“I never agreed to it.” I can’t believe words are coming out of my mouth.
“Put the dress on, Sasha.”
I blink. “The—” I gesture at myself. “The duck pajamas aren’t doing it for you?”
His lips twitch. He’s trying not to laugh.
Instead, he takes another step closer, lowering his voice. “If you’re not ready in ten minutes, I’ll dress you myself.”
Melanie chokes.
I throw my hands up. “You can’t say things like that in front of my roommate!”
Damien does not look remotely sorry.
Melanie, on the other hand, looks at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.
I storm toward my bedroom, fully prepared to slam the door shut and pretend this entire moment never happened.
But Melanie isn’t done with me.
The second I grab the dress box and move past her, she steps in front of me, arms crossed, blocking my escape.
Her eyes flick toward the kitchen, where Damien is now casually leaning against the counter like he owns the place. Then she turns back to me, her voice low and urgent. “Who. The hell. Is he?”
I press my lips together, refusing to answer.
Because honestly? I don’t know how to explain this.
I could tell her the partial truth—that he’s my boss, that this is all some ridiculous, miscalculated office power move.
Or I could tell her the real truth.
That Damien Zaitsev has been in my head for weeks.
That I’ve sexted him without knowing who he was.
That he showed up at my apartment, completely uninvited, after sending me an obscenely expensive dress.
That I should be terrified of him, but instead I feel reckless and unhinged and hopelessly drawn to him.
I inhale deeply, shaking my head.
“I—” I rub my temple, my voice not nearly as convincing as I want it to be. “It’s not?—”
Melanie’s eyes narrow further.
I sigh, my shoulders slumping.
There’s no way out of this.
“He’s my boss,” I finally say.
Her jaw drops. “Excuse me?” she hisses.
I glance toward Damien, who is definitely listening, his smirk just barely hidden behind his neutral expression.
“You’re screwing your boss?!”
I choke on air.
Damien, the asshole, lets out a low, amused chuckle.
“I—NO,” I hiss, smacking her arm. “Jesus, lower your voice!”
Melanie, completely ignoring me, stares at Damien again, her expression a mix of awe and horror. “You’re her boss?” she asks him directly, like I’m no longer in the room.
Damien lifts a brow. “I sign her paychecks, yes.”
Melanie turns back to me, slowly. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
I groan, pressing the dress box to my face like it might suffocate me.
“Look, it’s complicated, okay?” I mumble through the fabric.
“And you’re actually thinking of going with him?” she whispers, staring at me like she doesn’t know who I am anymore.
She’s not wrong. I barely know who I am right now.
Before I can say something to salvage what’s left of my dignity, Damien speaks first.
“She has to,” he says smoothly, looking far too entertained by this whole thing. “It’s part of her company-mandated training.”
Melanie narrows her eyes. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
I clench my jaw, because if I open my mouth, I’m going to say something I regret—like how I want to strangle Melanie for making this situation ten times worse. I know what I have to do to end this conversation before she calls Homeland Security on my boss.
I take a slow breath, grab the dress box, and march into my room.
I don’t give Damien the satisfaction of slamming the door, but I really want to.
* * *
I stare at myself in the mirror, arms crossed, lips pressed together.
I look…okay. Actually, more than okay. And it’s all the dress.
The dress fits me perfectly, like it was tailored to my body, the deep red silk hugging my curves, the intricate beading catching the dim light of my bedroom.
It makes me look expensive. Like someone who belongs at a charity ball.
Which is exactly what I don’t want.
So I do the only thing that makes sense—I skip the makeup, throw my hair into a messy ponytail, and put on my sneakers.
It’s petty, childish, and not at all a real protest—but it’s something.
If Damien Zaitsev thinks he can make me feel like I belong in his world, he’s got another thing coming.
With that thought, I straighten my shoulders and walk out.
The second I step back into the living room, Melanie’s mouth drops open.
Damien?
He just smirks.
His eyes trail over me slowly, from the way the dress clings to my body all the way down to my feet.
Then—he holds out his arm.
Like it’s not up for debate.
Like he never even considered me saying no.
I hesitate.
For exactly three seconds.
His muscles flex slightly under my fingers, and just that simple touch sends a shiver up my spine.
As we walk toward the door, I sigh. “I look hideous.”
Damien chuckles, low and deep. “You look like an angel.”