Alexei
The meeting runs seven minutes long. Not because anyone has anything new to say, but because no one wants to be the one who ends it while I sit there, hands loosely folded on the conference table, watching each of them as they circle the same numbers from three angles.
The room smells faintly of stale coffee and polished wood reflecting the afternoon light through the glass wall. Outside, cars feed into traffic patterns I could map without looking. Inside, the air feels tighter, every man at the table waiting for a signal that never comes.
I tap once against the folder in front of me enough to cut through the last sentence one of them is finishing.
“That will be enough,” I say, closing the folder in front of me.
Silence follows as the room goes still. They nod, one after the other, gathering their papers, chairs sliding back as they quietly file out of the room. No one rushes or lingers. They understand how this works.
I remain seated until the door closes behind the last of them, then lean back, my attention turning to the skyline beyond the glass. The numbers are solid. The expansion will hold. The route in Charleston will give us the coverage we need without drawing attention where it doesn’t belong.
Everything is in place, but my mind hasn’t stayed on the meeting or anything for long these past few days. I reach for my phone, unlocking it as my thumb moves before I consciously decide.
A message from my assistant sits at the top of the thread.
School pickup at four. Usual driver. Schedule unchanged.
I stare at it for a moment, then lock the screen again. I exhale through my nose and push back from the table, standing smoothly as I collect the folder and slide it under my arm. It sits solid in my hand, every piece where it belongs because I put it there.
Crossing the office, I stop briefly at my desk to set the folder down before reaching for my jacket.
There’s no reason to change the routine. It exists because I put it in place, built to run without interruption or me needing to step into it. I pick up my phone anyway and send the message.
I will handle pickup.
The reply comes through before I reach the elevator.
Yes, sir.
I don’t look at it again, slip the phone into my pocket, and keep moving.
The elevator ride is quiet, the faint sound of machinery beneath my feet as the numbers descend.
I watch my reflection in the brushed metal panel, taking in the familiar lines of my face, the faint shadow along my jaw, and the set of my shoulders that rarely gives in, no matter the situation.
Controlled and disciplined, it has served me well and should still be enough.
The doors open to the lobby, and I step out into the flow of people moving in and out, conversations low, the scent of cologne filling the space. My driver straightens the second he sees me, already moving to open the rear door.
“Change of plans,” I say as I approach. “We’re picking Ivy up.”
He nods once. “Yes, sir.”
I slide into the back seat, the door closing with a muted thud as the car pulls away from the curb, the city moving around us in its usual flow.
My attention doesn’t stay on any of it though.
Not on the traffic or the route, but on a small building that smells of lemon cleaner and animals, and on a woman who looks at me like my money and position mean nothing to her.
My jaw locks before I ease it and lean back into the seat.
This is unnecessary. I’ve been with women since Clara died.
Enough to understand the difference between distraction and interest. Enough to know when something isn’t worth the complication it brings.
Those interactions were simple, arranged, and clear in purpose, with no expectation beyond the moment itself. No lingering thought once it ended.
This isn’t that, and I don’t allow complications.
The car slows as the light ahead turns red, and I look out the window, taking in the street without fixing on any one point.
My attention turns inward again, focusing on the memory of Maggie with more detail than it should.
The line of her mouth when she realized she had made a mistake with the dog treat, the warmth of her skin, and the way her eyes stayed fixed on mine, not understanding what that invited.
There’s nothing practiced or calculated in her, and that alone sets her apart.
My cock hardens at the thought, not just because of how she looks but because of how she holds herself, like she doesn’t bend for anyone.
Whatever I am means nothing to her unless I prove it does.
I recognize it for what it is, a point of friction, a problem that doesn’t belong in my day, and still it remains.
The light changes, and the car moves forward again. The school sits off a quieter road, the building set back behind a row of trees. Children gather near the entrance, their voices rising and falling across the lot, kept in check only by the adults standing nearby.
The car pulls into the pickup line and comes to a stop as I look out over the crowd. It takes less than a second to find her.
Ivy stands near the edge of the group, her backpack slipping off one shoulder as she bounces from one foot to the other, her attention moving between the gate and the people around her. Her hair catches the light, warm brown curls loose around her face.
She looks up and spots the car, going still for a fraction of a second before her expression changes. Then she runs, quick enough to show it, but not enough to make a scene.
I step out of the car before she reaches me, closing the distance as she stops just short of colliding with me, her hands gripping the front of my jacket as she looks up.
“Papa!” she says, breathless. “You came.”
“I had time,” I reply, my hand coming to rest briefly on the top of her head before I take her backpack from her shoulder.
“Can we go see the puppy?” she asks, already turning toward the car.
“Yes. I assumed we would.”
I wait until she climbs in, my attention briefly on the seatbelt before I step back. The driver swings the door shut, and I move around to the other side before getting in.
Ivy edges forward in the seat, her hands braced lightly on the leather as she looks out the windshield, as if she could will the car to move faster.
“He was so small, like really small, and his ears don’t match yet, like one goes this way and one goes that way,” she says, turning toward me, her words coming out quickly.
“And he didn’t come out at first, but then he did, and Maggie said that’s a good sign, and Jules said he’s dramatic, but he’s not, he’s just nervous, and Daisy would like him, I think, because he’s not loud—”
I glance at her and nod once. “Mm.”
“And they have a room with all the puppies, but he’s not in there yet because he just got there, and Maggie said we have to go slow, and I did, I didn’t even reach in right away—”
“That’s good, solnyshko.”
She keeps going, her hands moving as she talks.
Maggie’s name comes out of Ivy’s mouth again, and my body reacts instantly, a low, hard pull that I clamp down on immediately, my hand flattening against my thigh, fingers pressing once, hard enough to pin it in place.
I keep my eyes forward.
Ivy keeps talking beside me, her enthusiasm filling the space while I hold the line.
The shelter comes into view a few minutes later, set back from the road with a lot holding more cars than it should. There’s no order to how they’re parked, no clean lines or structure that holds from one day to the next. It functions anyway.
The car stops, and I step out, moving to open the door before the driver reaches it. Ivy is already halfway out, her shoes hitting the pavement with a quick, light sound before she looks back at me.
“I remember,” she says, before I speak. “Ask first. Be gentle.”
I nod once. “Good.”
She turns toward the building, her pace quick but controlled, her hand brushing mine for a second before she pulls away, already focused on what’s waiting inside.
I follow.
The door opens, and I see her immediately.
Maggie is crouched near one of the kennels, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, one hand resting against the metal while the other stays loose at her side.
Her hair is pulled back again, though it has already started to come loose, strands falling around her face, unnoticed.
“Hey, Maggie!” Ivy calls out.
“Well, hey,” she says, pushing up to stand, but not as casually as she wants to appear. A faint flush rises in her cheeks as her eyes stay on me a second longer before focusing on Ivy. “Don’t you look pretty as a peach today. And look who you brought with you.”
There’s a brief pause, not quite surprise, more like an awareness that wasn’t there before.
“Yes,” I say, my attention still on her. “She’s been asking about the puppy.”
Ivy moves past me before the last word leaves my mouth, crossing the space and dropping near the kennel like she’s done this a dozen times, her familiarity earned over the last two weeks.
“I missed you,” she says, her voice softening as she leans closer, her hand hovering just outside the kennel.
The puppy inches forward, small and uncertain, his ears twitching before his tail gives a hesitant wag.
Maggie lowers again, her attention turning to Ivy without losing track of me entirely. “I think he missed you, too, sugar,” she says, her voice dipping just enough to let the warmth come through. “You made quite the impression on him.”
Jules appears next to her, his presence easy but deliberate, his eyes landing on me with a look that takes everything in without asking permission.
“Well,” he says, lifting his cup before taking a sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “If it isn’t dog treat man, back for round two.”
Maggie exhales under her breath, the sound quiet but pointed as her shoulder bumps lightly against his knee.
“Don’t you start,” she mutters, not looking at him.
“I’m just observin’,” he replies, his tone light, but his attention fixed on me.
I let it sit, giving him nothing.