Chapter 25
TERESA
Vlad had RSVP’d to the Donetsk Foundation New Year’s Eve Gala back in the summer.
Tonight, however, dressed to impress, neither of us wants to go.
I’m zipped into a silver sheath that fits like moonlight poured over skin.
My reflection tells me I look confident, but the knot in my stomach disagrees.
Vlad steps out of his closet in a midnight-black tuxedo, cuff links glinting, hair brushed back with ruthless exactness.
We study each other in the bedroom mirror—one tick, two.
His brow lifts, mine answers. Same thought, same timing.
“Going to be a crowded room,” he says.
“Too many security sweeps,” I admit, exhaling.
He considers, then shrugs a shoulder. “We could stay. No one’s going to mind if we no-show. Dress code still applies to private dining, yes?”
I grin. “I wouldn’t dare break it.”
And that settles it.
An hour later his security courier—basically DoorDash with Kevlar—arrives bearing a three-course meal from his favorite bistro.
Truffle beef Wellington, root-vegetable confit, chocolate soufflé puffed up to perfection.
We keep our couture on, light two candles, and eat at the far end of the long dining table.
Vlad notes my clean plate with a satisfied, “See, gala food never tastes this good.”
We share the soufflé directly from its container, trading the spoon as we watch the city through the windows. Outside, Manhattan’s skyline glitters—taxis blaring, Times Square filled to the brim, New Year’s Eve rooftop parties layering bass lines across the cold night air.
At eleven-fifty he gestures toward the balcony. “Care to take in the festivities from the comfort of our own abode?”
My heels are aching, but I nod. He slips off his tux jacket and settles it over my shoulders, that faint cedar-and-smoke scent of him wrapping me warmer than cashmere. Together we step outside.
The terrace is glass and slate thrust over the East River.
Wind nips my calves, snow whispering against the railing.
We press close to the glass balustrade just as the first firework blooms—red chrysanthemum exploding into neon petals.
Another follows, green comets corkscrewing up, fracturing into gold sparks that reflect in every high-rise window.
The whole city becomes a house of mirrors made of fire.
“They try to outdo themselves every year,” Vlad says.
“They sure do. What do you think? Are they succeeding?”
His gaze slides from the sky to me. “Tough competition.”
Color flashes across his face—ruby, sapphire, diamond white. I wonder if he knows how soft he looks in those pulses of borrowed light. Probably not. Vlad’s softness is something rare and slightly wild—startle it and it will vanish.
The crowd countdown filters up from street level, thousands of city voices merging.
Ten… nine… eight… I mouth along, heartbeat skipping.
At two, Vlad’s hand finds the small of my back; at one, I rise onto my toes.
Our mouths meet just as the midnight barrage detonates.
The kiss starts gentle, but the city’s roar pushes its rhythm faster, deeper.
His palm spreads at my waist, fingers spanning ribs and silk and softly buzzing nerves.
The snow picks up, tentative flakes catching in the dark waves of his hair. I pull back enough to see them melt against his heat. He speaks in Russian, “S Novym godom, solnishka.” Happy New Year, my little sun.
I answer by leaning in, whispering against his mouth, “Let’s start the year right.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
He laughs and turns me toward the doors.
Inside waits the warmth of the penthouse and a rug more tempting than any ballroom parquet.
As we step over the threshold, I kick off my heels.
Midnight fireworks keep flaring behind us, but the only spark that matters is the glow between our clasped hands—steady, fierce, real.
He catches my waist and kisses me. It’s slow, claiming, the kind that steals the winter chill from my skin. His hands trace the curve of my spine, finding the zipper of my gown and easing it down inch by inch until silk spills around my ankles.
His bow tie comes loose under my tug, his shirt buttons giving way one by one as our mouths keep finding each other, breathless and laughing. His hand slides up in between my thighs, my breaths perfectly synced to the fireworks popping in the distance.
The first Monday after the holidays is usually a slow stroll back into reality. Working for Vlad Angeloff turns it into a sprint.
Vlad sits at the head of the walnut conference table, jacket draped over the chair back, sleeves rolled just enough to flash his gorgeous, toned forearms. I’ve got my laptop open, a stack of Antwerp-expansion briefs fanned like cards in front of me.
“Margin on the Flanders corridor drops to eleven percent after tariffs,” I say, scrolling.
“Not if we route via Rotterdam first.” He taps the screen, lips curving. “Best analyst in Manhattan.”
“Flattery noted,” I murmur, adjusting my emerald blouse. As I reach for my water he nudges it closer, fingers grazing mine. Static pops along my wrist.
I pull up a risk matrix, but the columns blur. A sour swirl punches my gut fast and hard—like the floor just dropped five feet. I swallow. Nope, not here, not now. I force a casual sip of water.
Vlad pauses mid-sentence. “You alright, solnishka?”
“Fine.” I clear my throat.
He arches a brow. I mumble something about needing some coffee and escape.
The hallway’s marble floor feels weirdly bouncy under my heels. I breeze past Nika, the outer-office assistant, and duck into the private restroom. The door clicks shut, the smell of soap and disinfectant wrapping around me.
I make it to the toilet just as breakfast decides to exit.
I rinse, splash water until my cheeks sting, and dab mascara smudges with a paper towel. The woman staring back looks pale enough to star in a ghost tour. Pull it together, Teresa.
I return holding two coffee cups to sell the story. Vlad is now seated, but the intensity of his stare nearly steals my momentum. I set a mug by his elbow. “No bigger tragedy than cold coffee.”
He relaxes a fraction, but I see the gears turning. “You’ve gone pale twice this morning,” he points out, voice gentler now. “If you need a doctor—”
“Holiday hangover,” I interject. “I’ll be fine.” I sip my coffee, hoping it won’t make my stomach worse.
He studies me, fingers steepled, like he’s weighing the cost of calling my bluff. After a beat, he reaches into a drawer and slides a single ginger-mint across the table. “Research indicates this helps.”
I pocket it. “Energy stays up, we close Antwerp by noon.”
“Antwerp by eleven-thirty.” The corner of his mouth twitches.
Work resumes. We volley numbers, refine a slide, and get a rough outline for the first part of January.
But every time I glance up, he’s half watching me.
Admiration, yes, but suspicion sidles in around the edges.
I can’t blame him; if our positions were reversed, I’d have Dmitri running blood panels already.
Half an hour later the nausea nips again, tiny but insistent. I press a palm to my stomach, as if that can reason with whatever rebellion is brewing. Vlad’s gaze tracks the motion and his lips part, question forming but not spoken.
We wrap up the deck at eleven twenty-eight. Vlad emails the finalized file to the Antwerp partners, hitting send with a decisive click. “Victory,” he declares.
“Barely made your deadline,” I tease.
“Deadlines are movable when you own the clock.”
He rises, rounding the table and my pulse jumps. He stops beside my chair, brushing a stray lock behind my ear. The gesture is intimate, nurturing, and it scares me how much I lean into it.
“I’ll have Nika book you with Dr. Kornilov,” he says gently but unmistakably an order.
The automatic no jumps to my tongue, but I tamp it down. “I’ll be fine. It’s passing.”
His look says he’s indulging me, not believing me. “Teresa.”
“I mean it. Like I said, it’s probably stress. I don’t need a doctor fussing over me.”
He steps closer, thumb tracing my cheekbone. “If it hasn’t passed by the end of the week, I’m taking you to the doctor whether you like it or not. I won’t play games with your health.”
A tiny flare of irritation, bigger flare of something warm. “Bossy.”
“Correct.” He slides back into his jacket, the CEO settling over him like armor. “Lunch?”
“Sure.”
He smiles and offers his arm. I take it and stand. The room steadies, ginger mint and stubbornness doing their jobs.
At the elevator, he presses the button then asks, “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
My hand drifts to my stomach without permission. The doors part, his eyes drop to the gesture, then up to mine—question still there, tempered by something softer. Maybe wonder. Maybe hope.
Whatever’s happening to me—food poisoning, stress, something else entirely—I’ll face it. But not in fear, and not alone. The doors close, and for the first time all morning, the spinning stops.