Chapter Two
Andrei
I don’t stop walking until I’m inside my office.
The door shuts behind me with a soft, decisive click, and only then do I exhale.
I shrug out of my suit jacket and toss it over the back of a chair, then peel the ruined shirt from my skin.
The fabric sticks where the coffee soaked through, still warm, still smelling faintly bitter.
I aim for the trash can and miss. The shirt lands half in, half out, like it couldn’t even manage to fail properly.
I mutter a curse under my breath and turn toward the ensuite bathroom without fixing it.
The bathroom is clean and bathed in muted lights just like I like it.
I cross to the closet built into the wall and pull open the door.
Inside, everything is arranged with military precision…
shirts pressed, suits hanging in neat rows, shoes aligned.
Just like I like it. My staff know better than to ruin the order.
I can feel her behind me.
She hasn’t said anything since we walked in, but I know she followed. I know she’s standing there, probably twisting her hands together, replaying the last five minutes in her head and wondering how badly she’s ruined her life.
I keep my back to her. Because if I turn around right now, she’ll see the evidence of my arousal.
I can’t believe I got hard while she innocently scrambled to get coffee off my shirt.
The feeling of her hands—soft and warm against my skin…
even thinking about it now, has my blood boiling with a mad need.
I haven’t craved a woman like this in a long time. Maybe ever.
Not like this.
I strip off the rest of the ruined shirt and grab a clean one from the rack, slipping it on and buttoning it slowly. Too slowly. I focus on the mundane motion, on breathing evenly, on getting myself back under control.
This is ridiculous.
I haven’t even known her for ten minutes.
I finish buttoning the shirt, adjust my cuffs, then finally turn around.
She looks like she’s bracing for impact.
Her shoulders are tense, her spine stiff, eyes wide and glassy like she’s trying very hard not to cry. There’s a faint flush on her cheeks that wasn’t there before, and when our eyes meet, something skitters across her face—fear, embarrassment, and a hint of something softer underneath.
“Mr. Popov,” she blurts, then winces like she’s already said the wrong thing.
I step toward her, keeping my expression neutral. “You can breathe,” I say evenly. “I’m not going to bite you.”
That doesn’t seem to help.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again. “I didn’t know it was you. I mean, obviously I know now, but before—I mean—” she trails off, blushing harder.
“What’s your name?”
“Mila,” she answers quickly, nervously pushing a stray strand of her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. “Mila Voronin.”
Why does the last name sound familiar?
“Mila,” I say, testing the sound on my tongue. The name is beautiful. Suits her perfectly.
She nods once. “Y-yes sir.”
“I’m Andrei Popov,” I say. “Your boss.”
She nods again, resignation flooding her face before she speaks.
“I’m so sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” I interrupt gently. “Sit.”
She hesitates, then perches on the edge of the chair across from my desk like she’s afraid it might explode.
I’m about to speak but there’s a curt knock on the door. It pushes open and Howard Abrams strides in, face tight with what looks like concern. “Mr. Popov, I just heard about the incident. I want to apologize profusely—”
His gaze flicks to Mila, hardening instantly.
“This is unacceptable,” he says, turning fully toward her. “You were warned this is a demanding environment. Carelessness will not be tolerated. I’m afraid this isn’t going to work out.”
Her face drains of color.
“I—please,” she starts, standing abruptly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re done,” Howard cuts in sharply. “You can collect your things and—”
“No.”
The word comes out flat, final.
Howard freezes. Mila does too.
I step forward, positioning myself slightly in front of her without thinking about it. “She stays.”
Howard blinks. “Sir?”
“It was an accident,” I say. “Could have happened to anyone.”
“That’s…not typically your stance,” he says carefully.
I don’t miss the surprise in his voice. Or the way Mila is looking at me now, like she’s not sure she heard correctly.
“I’m aware of my reputation,” I reply. “This doesn’t change my decision.”
Howard clears his throat. “If you’re sure, sir.”
“I am.”
He nods stiffly, clearly recalibrating. “Very well. I’ll get back to work now.”
He casts one last, displeased look at Mila before turning and leaving, the door closing firmly behind him.
Silence settles in the office.
Mila exhales shakily. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I swear I’ll do better. I just—I get nervous and—”
“I know,” I say.
She looks up at me, startled. Her eyes are a mesmerizing shade of blue. There’s something about her—an innocence that pokes at my protective instincts.
“I can see that you mean well,” I continue. “That matters.”
Her eyes shine. “It does?”
“It does to me.”
The truth of it surprises us both.
She nods, swallowing hard. “I won’t let you down.”
I watch her for a long moment, something unfamiliar stirring in my chest. Curiosity. Interest. A sense of…responsibility?
“I don’t know why,” I say finally, more to myself than to her, “but something tells me you won’t.”
She offers a small, hopeful smile and I can’t help but notice the soft creases on her lips, the fine delicate curves of her face and the little birthmark on the upper left side of her mouth.
Cut it out, Andrei. She’s only eighteen. I checked her file. She’s just graduated high school and wasn’t sure what she wanted to do long-term, my team thought she would be a good fit—knowing how quickly I go through assistants.
“Get to work,” I say, my voice coming our rather curtly.
She thanks me quietly again then backs out of my office like she’s afraid of disturbing the air. I watch her retreat to her desk through the glass wall, shoulders still tense, movements careful. She sits, smooths her skirt, and stares at her computer like it holds the secrets of the universe.
I don’t linger on it. I can’t afford to. I have a pile of files to attend to. I sit behind my desk and open the folder that the head of accounting dropped off earlier, thick with quarterly reports and neatly tabbed sections, trying to shake my young, beautiful assistant from my mind.
You’re eight years older than her, for fucks sake. Get it together.
Numbers calm me. They don’t lie. They don’t fidget or apologize or look at me like I’ve just handed them a second chance they don’t deserve.
At least, they’re not supposed to…
I scan revenue first. Then expenses. Margins look healthy…too healthy. I slow down, narrowing my eyes as I cross-reference line items. A familiar itch starts between my shoulder blades.
Something isn’t right.
I scan the shipping manifests next. I pull up the digital logs on my screen, flipping between documents, comparing dates, vessel names, container counts. That’s when I see it… Three containers listed on the ship manifest. Same vessel. Same route. Same week.
They’re not on the financials.
I sit back slightly, my jaw locking up.
Containers don’t move for free. They’re paid for, insured, logged, tracked down to the last seal number.
Unless someone doesn’t want them to be.
I dig deeper, pulling the shipping logs. Container contents are usually summarized by codes, weights, origin points.
Those three containers aren’t there.
Not misfiled. Not mislabeled.
They’re missing.
A cold chill settles in my spine.
I pick up the phone and dial the dockyard directly.
“It’s Popov,” I say when the line connects.
“Yes, sir,” Kevin Herd, the yard manager replies immediately. “Everything alright?”
“Walk me through the last shipment on the Volkov Star,” I say. “Specifically the three containers loaded at Pier Seven.”
There’s a pause. Papers rustle on his end.
“Those?” Kevin says, confused. “I assumed you knew.”
My fingers curl against the desk. “Why would I know?”
“You instructed it,” he says slowly. “Said they were sensitive. Told us to load them, unload them at the destination port, but keep them off the log. Explicit orders not to open them.”
My pulse thuds once. Hard.
“When did I give those instructions?” I ask.
“Two weeks ago,” he answers, evidently surprised. “You called from your private line.”
I close my eyes for half a second.
“I didn’t,” I say quietly.
Silence.
“You’re sure it was me?” I ask carefully after a while.
“I’d swear to it,” he says. “The voice…the way of speaking. You even used the phrase you always do— ‘no deviations.’ I thought it was odd, but you’re the boss.”
I hang up after a few more clipped questions, promising to call back when I have more information.
I don’t move for a long moment.
The yard manager is solid. I vetted him myself. Background checks, credit checks, loyalty. He’s clean. Which means this wasn’t an internal slip or incompetence.
Someone impersonated me.
Someone close enough to know my habits. My speech patterns. My private line.
And they used my ships.
I push back from the desk and stand, pacing once, twice, heat crawling up my spine. I’ve spent years scrubbing my father’s filth off this company, cutting ties, firing people he brought in, legitimizing every inch of this operation.
And someone thought they could drag us—me—back into the mud.
My gaze flicks to the outer office.
Mila is typing now, focused, unaware that my world just tilted on its axis. Innocent chaos in a space that suddenly feels compromised.
I exhale slowly, forcing the anger down into something colder. Sharper.
This wasn’t random. And whoever did it is going to regret choosing my ships.