Chapter 1
GABBY
"You seem distracted, Miss Reese."
Sasha Orlov doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to.
When a man like him speaks, the world goes silent.
Of course I’m distracted. I'm running on three hours of sleep, stale coffee, and the kind of sleep deprivation that makes you wonder if you're hallucinating. My brain feels like it's been replaced with soggy cereal.
And it's all his fault.
Mr. Perfect over there probably sleeps like a baby on Egyptian cotton and the crushed dreams of his employees. Meanwhile, I'm one minor inconvenience away from having a breakdown in the supply closet.
Across the polished mahogany table, he flips through my report with maddening calm. Those hands move like they know exactly how much pressure it takes to make something break.
Everything about Sasha Orlov screams power wrapped in Tom Ford.
He's tall, dark, and devastating. Silver threaded through dark hair in a way that makes him look distinguished instead of old. Sharp jawline. Storm-gray eyes that have seen too much and miss nothing.
“Do I have your undivided attention?”
"Completely, Mr. Orlov," I say, channeling every ounce of fake enthusiasm I can muster.
It’s barely six in the morning. Pale winter light bleeds across the office. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Chicago stretches awake.
Meanwhile, I’m trapped in what feels like a Russian billionaire’s interrogation chamber.
To be fair, I wasn’t paying attention.
I was daydreaming about "accidentally" dumping his precious black coffee down that crisp white shirt, watching it stain his billionaire perfection in payback for every sleepless night and ruined weekend he’s demanded.
“Good. I have concerns about this report, Miss Reese. I don’t pay you to hallucinate numbers.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I spent the last three nights building that model, eyes burning holes in spreadsheets. Fourteen hours of my life condensed into a twelve-page document he's been holding for exactly forty seconds.
“You’ll have to be more specific, Mr. Orlov.”
His obsidian eyes flick to mine. They do not blink. "The integration projection."
"That narrows it down to approximately twelve pages."
The words slip out before my sleep-deprived brain can stop them.
Shit. That was out loud, wasn't it?
He studies me for one measured beat. As if I am not just his strategist, but an investment he is deciding whether to liquidate.
"It's aggressive." His finger taps the page once. "You've made assumptions."
"Calculated assumptions based on the parameters you provided," I counter. "You told me to push the upside. The numbers are defensible."
His jaw tightens.
Just once.
A flicker. A fracture in marble.
Then it’s gone.
But I saw it.
And God help me, I'd give anything to crack that perfect control wide open.
His gaze drifts back to the report. Not dismissive. Not impressed. Evaluating.
“That confidence,” he says, voice lower now, measured, “is either your greatest strength or your most expensive mistake.”
The words settle between us.
Three years I’ve worked for the devil himself. Three years of midnight revisions, canceled dates, and missing the season finale of The Bachelor because spreadsheets don’t watch themselves.
Three years of proving I belong in rooms built for men who inherited their last names instead of earning them.
Men who were handed power. I built mine from scratch.
And I'll be damned if I let some silver-fox Russian billionaire make me doubt myself now.
Silence builds. He shifts, the expensive fabric pulling taut across muscle that has no business existing on a CEO.
The scent of cedar and gunmetal drifts toward me.
It's obscene, really.
No man should look that good while simultaneously ruining my life.
It should be illegal.
There should be laws.
Meanwhile, my navy trousers are waging war against hips that refuse to apologize for existing.
Off the rack and on clearance. Optimistically labeled "modern fit," which is corporate speak for designed by someone who has never encountered an actual adult woman.
Curves that laugh at corporate dress codes and make older board members blink twice.
My hips are not subtle.
They never have been.
And they are mine.
I've made peace with my body. Mostly.
I sit straighter, smoothing the folder in front of me. The movement shifts my blouse against my chest, fabric pulling slightly.
His eyes flick down.
Just for a beat. But I catch it.
My pulse stutters.
Oh.
Oh no.
Was he checking me out?
Absolutely not. We are not doing this.
Except his pupils just dilated.
And his jaw just ticked.
And I'm suddenly very aware of how warm this office is.
How the air between us feels charged.
Stop. You're exhausted. You're hallucinating.
The women Sasha dates live on green juice and emotional unavailability.
Stick-thin. Effortless. Minimalist chic.
Women who look poured into couture without trying.
Not women who take up space and refuse to apologize for it.
So no. That glance was not interest.
It was observation.
Nothing more.
Focus, Gabriella. This tyrant doesn't tolerate distraction.
I lift my chin.
"As I was saying, the projections are solid. The risk assessment accounts for market volatility, and the timeline is aggressive but achievable," I say with way more confidence than I feel.
Something shifts in his expression. One eyebrow arches, slow and lethal.
There it is. The look that sends grown men scrambling for transfers. The look that should make me stop talking.
Instead, I hold his stare. I didn't claw my way out of four foster homes to flinch now.
He leans back. Studies me like I'm a puzzle he's deciding whether to solve or destroy.
"Tell me, Miss Reese." His voice drops an octave. "Do you always challenge authority? Or am I special?"
My mouth goes dry.
“How long have you been with AngelCorp?”
"Three years, Mr. Orlov,"I say, refusing to look away.
“Then you should already know.” He pauses, the chair creaking. “I expect perfection.”
Three years ago, I was the scholarship kid surrounded by legacy hires. The girl who grew up in four foster homes and learned to read people the way others read books. In houses where moods changed faster than rules. Where survival meant adaptation. Where perfection was safer than being noticed.
I came here with a state school degree and a chip on my shoulder. No family name. No safety net. No one to call if I failed.
I walked in with hunger. And hunger does not fold under pressure.
Now I'm the person Sasha Orlov calls when he needs something done that no one else can do. For better or worse.
He stands. Not suddenly, not violently.
Just stands.
Power that doesn’t need volume or movement to be felt.
He circles the table, predator-slow, and stops in front of me.
Too close. His thigh brushes my armrest. Heat sears through wool. His scent drowns me—cedar sharpened by leather, a faint metallic edge of gun oil, and dark amber that clings like expensive sin, the kind that lingers on skin after midnight decisions.
He’s now close enough that I feel the heat radiating off him.
"There's something else." My stomach sinks. Sasha's "else" means doom.
"A merger. AngelCorp and Dandelion Technologies."
For a second, I think I misheard him.
"Dandelion Technologies?" I repeat. "The same Dandelion that's spent the last two years positioning themselves as our primary competitor?"
"Yes."
No hesitation. No blink. Like he just asked me to order lunch.
I hold his stare. "That's not a merger. That's a declaration of war."
"No." His jaw tightens. "It's a hostile takeover. There's a difference."
"With all due respect, why hand something of this magnitude to me instead of the senior M&A team?"
His gaze drops. Brief. Measured. Back to my eyes.
"You prefer I give it to someone else?"
The air shifts.
"That's not what I'm saying. I'm asking why you're trusting me with what could be the biggest deal of the quarter."
His mouth curves. The bastard looks amused.
"I want the first draft on my desk by tomorrow morning. Don't be late."
I open my mouth to protest. To tell him that's impossible. That I haven't slept in three days. That I'm running on fumes and spite.
But he's already walking away, dismissing me with the kind of casual arrogance that makes my blood boil.
"Oh, and Miss Reese?"
I freeze halfway out of my chair.
He doesn't turn around. "This merger goes through, you'll have earned yourself another promotion."
My heart stutters.
"And if it doesn't?"
Now he turns. Those gray eyes lock onto mine with predatory focus.
"Then we'll discuss your future at AngelCorp."
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand there for a moment, my heart still racing.
That last look wasn’t just intimidation.
It was heat.
Dark. Dangerous. Completely inappropriate.
I force a slow breath and straighten my spine.
Focus, Gabriella.
You have one day to save your career.
Or watch it burn.