Chapter 1
JENNA
Mondays can fuck right off.
Standing at my desk, I take two steadying breaths before making the walk toward his lair. The hallway feels colder with every step. His door waits ahead. Sleek, silent, and about as welcoming as a shark tank at feeding time.
Something about the start of the week brings out his limited-edition, premium-grade bastard side. The kind of energy that warns everyone to move fast, speak less, and avoid eye contact.
Even his silence has sharp edges. One quiet tsk and the entire floor forgets how to breathe. I’ve never heard him raise his voice, which is shocking for a man who commands a firm worth hundreds of millions.
In fact, I can’t imagine Abram being anything less than impeccably controlled. Everything about him screams meticulous precision, from the razor-cut perfection of his suits to the frost in his gaze that could stop a heartbeat.
Some people have resting-bitch faces.
Abram? Resting apocalypse.
I stop outside his office suite. Double-tinted glass doors, spotless and severe, like everything else he owns. Clutching my tablet in one hand and his black coffee in the other, I brace myself for whatever fresh brand of fuckery awaits.
For a split second, I catch my reflection in the glossy surface.
Red curls. Green eyes. Hips that refuse to apologize.
I’m wrapped in a tailored two-piece skirt suit that fits me just right. I look like I have my life together—mostly because I’ll be damned if anyone, especially Abram Vasiliev, gets a glimpse of the chaos inside.
When it comes to his office, I learned early on that knocking is pointless. His exact words: “If I don’t want you in here, Ms. Ridley, I’ll lock the door.”
Taking one last steadying breath, I twist the knob and push it open. The latch clicks. A sound too sharp, too loud. A warning I choose to ignore.
Abram stands silhouetted against the window of his thirty-second–floor office, the city skyline burning behind him. Sunlight cuts around his tall frame, tracing the breadth of his shoulders and the quiet power in the way his arms cross over his chest.
The man oozes dominance.
I swallow hard, feeling a sense of dread take over.
When am I going to get used to him?
“Coffee,” he says without turning around, voice clipped, cold. That accent—rich, dark, rolling over the word like smoke.
Biting back a sigh, I roll my eyes behind his back and stride forward. “Black,” I announce, managing to thread just the barest hint of sarcasm into my tone. “Just how you like it.”
As he slowly turns, my breath stalls in my lungs because, damn him, Abram Vasiliev is devastatingly handsome. Even after weeks of working for the man, the sight of him still strikes me like a physical blow.
The office lights highlight his chiseled, commanding features beneath a perfectly tailored, dark gray suit. A carefully groomed salt-and-pepper beard sharpening his jawline and emphasizing those infuriatingly kissable lips.
It’s rude, really.
That he looks this good while single-handedly ruining everyone’s Monday.
His eyes are piercing beneath dark, arched brows.
They can pin you where you stand and strip away every defense.
Just like they're doing now.
My thighs clench, heat pooling low and traitorous.
It’s crazy how my body responds to him, how every glance seems to pull at something begging to be released.
Focus, Jenna.
You’re here to pay rent, not ruin your life with six feet of Russian chaos.
Apparently, my hormones didn’t get the memo that he’s a total dick and morally questionable.
His gaze slides over me, one brow rising, mastering that silent, infuriating expression somewhere between intimidating and amused. Like a predator toying with its prey.
I set his printed agenda neatly on the desk, the individual pages clipped and color-coded.
“Your nine-forty is running five minutes late,” I say smoothly. “Traffic on the 215. I pushed Zurich by ten, confirmed logistics with their rep, and synced the updates across your devices.”
His brow arches, a flicker of approval barely escaping his control. “You’re rather efficient this morning.”
“I like to stay two crises ahead.”
That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. His version of surprise.
“And the Zurich projections?”
“Uploaded, color-coded, and summarized in the executive brief,” I say, sliding the tablet toward him. “You’ll find the forecast comparison on page four. Highlighted, per your preference.”
His gaze flicks down to the tablet, then back to me. “You memorized my preferences.”
“It’s my job to,” I say evenly.
One corner of his mouth twitches. Just slightly.
He glances back down at the agenda, then back to me. “Why am I meeting with my lawyer?”
“I’m afraid I’m not privy to that information. The file for that meeting was marked confidential,” I reply evenly.
“You scheduled the appointment,” he says, edged with impatience.
“Henley didn’t include the details in the briefing notes. I don’t make a habit of prying into privileged matters. I trust the chain of communication for a reason.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “A competent assistant knows every detail of every meeting. Otherwise, she’s useless.”
Something tightens in my chest.
My smile stays professional.
Inside, I’m dunking his stupid thousand-dollar tie into his coffee and stirring until his ego dissolves.
“Noted,” I say crisply. “I’ll speak with Henley.”
He turns his gaze to his watch.
“Very well.”
I rise, collect myself, and walk toward the door.
The click of my heels slices through the silence.
I pass through the double doors and close them firmly.
Outside, I press my back against the wall, breathing steadily even as my pulse races.
If surviving Abram Vasiliev doesn’t earn me a gigantic bonus, it damn well better earn me a statue. Preferably one flipping him off.
A few weeks into this job, and I’m already questioning my life choices. Leaving isn’t an option, not when the paycheck’s this good and I’m barely staying ahead of my bills.
I’m not a quitter, never have been, and I’m not about to start now. I just need to stick it out long enough to save for my dream of running a niche publishing house.
With determination steeling my spine, I push away from the wall and stride down the hall toward the legal department. The heels of my shoes click against the polished marble floors, punctuating each step with stubborn defiance.
I find Mark Henley, Abram’s personal lawyer, seated in his expansive, overly lavish office, fingers tapping on his laptop. When he sees me, he gives an amused smirk.
“Ms. Ridley. Did the boss send you?”
“Who else?” I say, forcing a polite smile. “He needs details about your meeting at three. Apparently, I should already know.”
Henley chuckles softly. “Well, we can’t have Abram disappointed, can we?”
“No,” I deadpan. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He rifles through a file, quickly scanning its contents. “Ah, yes. It’s regarding the acquisition of the club downtown.”
“What kind of club?” I ask. Abram owns plenty of properties—some legitimate, some not—but the way Henley’s eyes gleam puts me immediately on alert.
“It’s, well, a sex club,” he says, voice laced with dry amusement. “Though not officially. High-end. Exclusive clientele.”
A flush rises beneath my skin.
My brain stalls for a second, catching on the phrase like a fishhook.
A sex club?
That’s not what I was expecting to hear.
I keep my expression calm, voice cool.
“Of course it is,” I say smoothly, arching a brow. “And I’m guessing that ‘confidential’ stamp wasn’t for decoration—it’s not exactly above board, is it?”
Henley chuckles, but it’s the kind of chuckle lawyers give right before they start dancing along the edge of legal definitions.
“That depends on what you mean by ‘above board,’ Ms. Ridley. Is it a licensed nightclub? Yes. Does it serve alcohol legally? Also yes. Are there private areas where consenting adults can spend time together away from prying eyes? Sure. But that doesn’t make it a brothel, which would be illegal under Nevada law—at least in Clark County. ”
Translation: legal loophole, morally sketchy by design.
I nod my head. “So it’s legal because it’s not charging for sex.”
“Exactly,” he says, pleased that I understand.
“There’s no transactional exchange of money for sexual services.
No solicitation. No in-house staff providing those kinds of amenities.
What the club does provide is an environment.
Mood if you will. Lighting. Private rooms. Security.
Discretion. If consenting adults choose to engage in certain activities while on the premises, that’s their business. ”
“And if law enforcement shows up?”
He shrugs easily. “They don’t. The place is discreet. Membership-only, vetted guests. Surveillance but no recordings. No flyers, no ads, just word-of-mouth fantasy.”
I nod slowly, absorbing everything he just said. It’s not just shady. It’s calculated. Clever.
Very Abram.
I manage a slight smirk, though beneath the surface, my mind races.
My boss is buying a sex club.
Armed with the details Abram demanded, I thank Henley and step into the hallway, heart thudding just a little harder than I’d like to admit.
A sex club? I knew Abram had ties to things most people wouldn’t understand. Shady business dealings, hush-hush partnerships, maybe even some money laundering. But this? This is different. Intimate. Personal.
My mind spins as I make my way back to Abram’s office. Did he buy the place just to profit from it? Or does he actually partake? I try not to imagine him in a private room, voice low and commanding while someone is pinned beneath him, trembling and begging.
But the image won’t leave.
Instead, it spreads like wildfire, heat licking up my neck, curling between my thighs.
Abort.
Stop right there, horny brain.
Back to spreadsheets and trauma bonding with caffeine.
He’s the villain, not the vision board.
By the time I get back to Abram’s office, my jaw is tight, my face composed, and I’ve rehearsed my update enough times to sound coolly professional, even if my pulse hasn’t quite recovered.
When I enter his office again, Abram is seated behind his desk, brow furrowed in concentration over his laptop. His attention snaps to me as I approach.
“Well?” he prompts impatiently.
I meet his gaze evenly, folding my arms over my chest. “Your meeting with Henley is about acquiring another club. It’s exclusive, high-end, and skirting the boundaries of legality.”
His eyebrows lift, surprise briefly flickering across his carefully controlled features only to be replaced quickly by narrowed suspicion. “Did he say anything else?”
My lips twist slightly. “He mentioned it’s a sex club.”
His eyes darken. That accent deepens when he speaks again, slower now, the sound rough velvet against my skin.
“Did he now?” he murmurs, almost thoughtful. Well I’ll be damned. He already knew.
I tilt my head, studying him. “Would you have demanded these details if I were a man?”
His expression cools instantly, eyes sharpening. “My assistant should have complete knowledge of my affairs, regardless of their nature.”
Sure. Because nothing says “professional boundaries” like briefing your boss on his sex dungeon.
I let a soft, skeptical hum escape my lips, then straighten. “I’ve already ordered your lunch. It’ll arrive promptly at noon. Anything else?”
A faint smirk plays at his mouth before he turns back toward the window.
“That’ll be all, Ms. Ridley.”
I turn without a word, shutting the door behind me. Back in my office at my desk, I sink into my chair, the anger and indignation slowly ebbing, replaced by reluctant curiosity.
Abram Vasiliev, Bratva kingpin and billionaire asshole extraordinaire, is about to own a sex club.
I imagine him there, dark eyes watching, that powerful, commanding presence dominating every room. Heat flushes my cheeks, and I angrily shove the thought away.
No. Absolutely not.
I refuse to let my attraction to my boss cloud my judgment. I’ve fought for every inch of stability I have. I’m not about to lose it to one arrogant billionaire with a God complex.
Abram Vasiliev might be a powerful, intimidating, insufferable prick, but he won’t break me.
He doesn’t get to.