Chapter 17 - Kirsten
The champagne is flowing, and for the first time in weeks, I feel almost normal.
We closed a deal this afternoon that we spent the last three months negotiating and revising.
There were more late nights than I care to count.
But we did it. The whole team did it. We made Shyman & Sons ours, and now we’re celebrating at a trendy bar downtown, the kind of place with exposed brick walls and overpriced cocktails and music just loud enough to make you lean in when someone speaks.
I’m sandwiched in a booth between Derek from analytics and Priya from legal, nursing my second glass of champagne while the others trade war stories about the deal.
Dennis from sales is doing an impression of Shyman’s CFO that has everyone in stitches.
Even stoic, no-nonsense Priya is laughing so hard she has to dab at her eyes with a cocktail napkin.
“And then,” Dennis continues, puffing out his chest and adopting a nasal voice, “he says, ‘I don’t see why we need to revisit the liability clause. It’s perfectly adequate as written.’”
“Perfectly adequate!” Derek howls. “The man wanted us to assume liability for acts of God. Actual acts of God. Earthquakes, floods, locusts—”
“There were no locusts in the contract,” Priya interjects, still wiping her eyes.
“There might as well have been. The clause was insane.”
I sip my champagne and smile. It feels good. Normal. Like I’m just another employee celebrating a win with her colleagues. Like my life hasn’t turned into something out of a crime drama over the past few weeks.
Except I’m not just another employee. Not really. Not anymore.
My phone vibrates in my purse, and I excuse myself to check it.
It’s a text from the security team confirming my location.
Standard protocol now, apparently. By this point, I’ve gotten used to the bodyguards trailing me everywhere, the check-ins, and the constant awareness that someone is always watching.
What I haven’t gotten used to is Menlow.
He wasn’t in the office today. Some meeting with his cousins, he said.
Bratva business that he didn’t elaborate on, and I didn’t ask.
Ever since the night I slept in his bed, I’ve slept in his room every night.
We haven’t had sex again, and sleeping next to him, feeling his body heat on my skin all night, has been almost maddening, but that’s not what he needs right now.
Neither of us has acknowledged it. I just…
end up there. And he just… lets me stay.
I pull up his contact and type out a message.
Team celebration at The Copper Still. Might be late getting home.
I stare at the word “home” for a moment. When did his penthouse become home? When did I stop thinking of it as a prison and start thinking of it as somewhere I actually want to return to?
The response comes almost immediately. Enjoy yourself. I’ll send Trenton.
Trenton is one of the bodyguards. The quiet one with the buzz cut who always stands by the door like a very well-dressed statue. He’s been my shadow for most outings, silent and unobtrusive but always there.
You don’t have to. I’ll be fine.
Humor me.
I roll my eyes but can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. Overprotective ass.
“Everything okay?” Derek asks as I slip my phone back into my purse.
“Fine. Just checking in with a friend.”
“Hot date waiting for you at home?” He grins and waggles his eyebrows. “Is that why you’ve been so mysterious lately? Secret boyfriend?”
“No boyfriend. Just a friend checking in.” The lie comes easily now. I’ve had plenty of practice lately. “Nothing exciting.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it drop. “Well, whoever this friend is, they’re lucky to have you. You’ve been working insane hours on this deal.”
“We all have.”
“Yeah, but you caught that liability cap error. That alone saved the whole thing.” He tops off my champagne. “You deserve to celebrate.”
I accept the refill gratefully. The bubbles tickle my nose as I take a sip, and I let myself relax into the booth cushion. One night of normalcy. That’s all I’m asking for.
Twenty minutes later, I’m deep in conversation with Priya about a clause in the Shyman contract when I feel it. That prickle at the back of my neck. That awareness means someone is watching me.
I look around the bar casually, expecting to see Trenton lurking by the entrance in his standard dark suit and earpiece.
Instead, I see Menlow.
He’s at the far end of the bar, sipping on what looks like whiskey and pretending to check his phone.
He’s changed out of his usual suit into something more casual—dark jeans and a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The top two buttons are undone, revealing a sliver of his chest. He looks like any other guy out for a drink after work.
Except he’s not any other guy. He’s Menlow Karpov. And he’s here. In person. Not sending a bodyguard like he said he would.
Our eyes meet for just a second. He gives me a barely perceptible nod, then looks away, returning his attention to his phone like I’m nobody. Like we’re strangers.
What is he doing here?
“Kirsten?” Priya waves a hand in front of my face. “You still with me? I was asking about the indemnification language.”
I force myself to look away from Menlow and focus on my colleague. “Sorry. Got distracted. What were you saying?”
“The indemnification clause. Shyman’s team pushed back hard on the mutual indemnification, remember? I thought we were going to lose them over it.”
“Right. Right, yes.” I nod like I’m following, but my attention is split. I can feel Menlow’s presence across the room like a gravitational pull. “But we worked it out in the end.”
“Barely. If you hadn’t caught that discrepancy in the liability cap, we would have been sunk.”
The conversation continues, but I can’t concentrate.
Every few minutes, I steal another glance toward the bar.
Menlow is still there, keeping to himself, not drawing attention.
He orders another drink, checks his phone, and watches the baseball game playing on the TV above the bar.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was just another patron enjoying a quiet drink.
But I do know better.
He came here for me. Not to interrupt or hover or drag me home. Just to be here. To make sure I’m safe without making a scene about it.
Something warm unfurls in my chest.
“Oh my God,” breathes Tanya from marketing, who’s seated across from me. She’s leaning past Dennis to get a better view of the bar, her cocktail forgotten in her hand. “Is that Mr. Karpov?”
I wince and follow her gaze. She’s staring right at Menlow.
“Where?” Priya cranes her neck.
“At the bar. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up.” Tanya fans herself dramatically. “God, he looks even better out of a suit. I didn’t think that was possible.”
My stomach drops. I take a long sip of champagne and say nothing.
Tanya smooths down her hair as she asks, “Do you think he’s here alone? Maybe I should go say hello. Thank him for support on the Shyman deal or something.”
“He’s our boss,” Priya points out. “Maybe don’t throw yourself at him in a bar?”
“I’m not throwing myself at him. I’m making myself available for conversation.” Tanya takes a long sip of her martini, her eyes never leaving Menlow. “I would climb that man like a tree. Look at those arms. And that jawline. European men are just built differently, I swear.”
“Maybe we should—”
“I bet he’s amazing in bed,” she interrupts, completely oblivious to my discomfort. “Men who look like that always are. It’s like a natural law or something. The hotter they are, the better they are in the bedroom.”
“Tanya, he’s literally our CEO—”
“So? I’m not saying I’d do anything about it. I’m just appreciating the view.” She laughs, and the sound is high and giddy from too many martinis. “God, what I wouldn’t give for one night with someone like that. Just one night. I’d let him do absolutely anything he wanted. Anything.”
My champagne glass hits the table harder than I intended as I set it down. “Can we not?”
Tanya blinks at me. “What?”
“Can we not objectify him? It’s weird.”
“I’m just saying he’s hot. It’s not like he can hear me.”
I can feel the others at the table turning to look at me, but I can’t stop myself. “It doesn’t matter if he can hear you or not. He’s not just a piece of meat for you to drool over.”
“Whoa. Calm down.”
“I am calm.” I’m not calm. My cheeks are burning hot, my heart is pounding, and I have no idea why I’m reacting this way. Except I do know. I know exactly why. “I just think it’s disrespectful to sit here talking about what you’d do to him when he’s done nothing but treat this company well.”
“It’s just girl talk, Kirsten. Harmless fun. Lighten up.”
“It’s not just girl talk. You’re talking about a real person.
A real human being with thoughts and feelings and a life that has nothing to do with how he looks in a fitted shirt.
He’s someone who built an empire and still treats his employees with respect and actually cares about their well-being.
Someone who takes care of his family and protects the people he loves and—”
“Someone who what?” Derek asks, looking between Tanya and me with obvious confusion.
I stop myself. God, what am I doing? I sound like a crazy person defending our boss’s honor. My voice has risen loud enough that people at the next table are glancing over.
“I just don’t like it,” I finish lamely. “The whole… objectification thing. It’s not right. Especially not about someone we work for.”
Tanya holds up her hands in surrender. “Fine. Message received. I’ll keep my thirsty thoughts to myself. Jesus.”
An awkward silence falls over the table. Derek clears his throat. Dennis mumbles something about getting another round and practically bolts for the bar. Priya suddenly finds the ice in her glass fascinating. Even the music seems to fade into the background.
Great. I just made everything weird.
“Well,” says a familiar voice from behind me, “this looks like a party.”
I turn around to find Menlow standing at the edge of our booth with his hands in his pockets and an easy smile on his face, like he just wandered over on a whim.
Like he hasn’t been watching me from across the bar for the past hour, and I didn’t just give an impassioned speech about his character to a table full of stunned colleagues.
“Mr. Karpov!” Derek scrambles to his feet, nearly knocking over his drink in the process. “We didn’t know you were here.”
Menlow’s gaze sweeps the table, lingering on each face before landing on me. “I was in the neighborhood. Heard there was a celebration happening. The Shyman deal, right?”
“Yes, sir. We just closed this afternoon.”
“I know. Congratulations to everyone. It was a team effort, and you should all be proud. Shyman was a difficult client, and you handled them beautifully.”
A chorus of thank-yous ripples around the table. Even Tanya manages to recover enough to voice her appreciation, though her cheeks are noticeably pink. She’s probably imagining in graphic detail what she’d do to her boss in bed.
“I hate to break up the party,” Menlow continues, “but I’m afraid I need to steal someone away.”
“Of course,” Derek says. “Whatever you need.”
Menlow extends his hand toward me. “Shall we?”
Every eye at the table swivels to me. I can feel the questions forming. The curiosity. The confusion.
“Me?” I manage.
“My wife and I have dinner reservations,” Menlow says it casually, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just drop a bomb in the middle of our celebration. “I hope you don’t mind me cutting the evening short.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Your wife?” Tanya squeaks. Her face has gone from pink to bright red. “Kirsten is your wife?”
He smiles warmly at the group. “We got married recently. We’ve been keeping it quiet for obvious reasons. Office politics and all that. But I suppose the cat’s out of the bag now.”
I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet. His palm is warm against mine. Familiar now, after everything we’ve been through.
“I… Congratulations,” Derek manages. He looks like someone just hit him over the head with a frying pan. “To both of you.”
“Thank you. And again, excellent work on the Shyman deal. Drinks are on me tonight.” He pulls out a black card and hands it to Derek. “Consider it a bonus for a job well done. Just get that back to me on Monday.”
More stammered thank-yous. More wide-eyed stares. I grab my purse and let Menlow guide me away from the booth as his hand rests possessively on the small of my back.
Once we’re in the car, Menlow pulls away from the curb.
Through the tinted window, I can see the bar receding into the distance.
Inside, my colleagues are probably still gossiping about what just happened.
By Monday, the whole office will know. The whispers will start.
The speculation. The questions about how, when and why.
Jesus Christ. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen.