Chapter 1 #2
My throat tightens. Here it comes. The polite rejection, the thanks-but-no-thanks, the door closing on my last chance before eviction.
"But you're also desperate," he continues, and his gaze sharpens. "And desperation makes people reliable. Motivated. Less likely to ask inconvenient questions."
I should be offended. Should tell him to take his job and shove it. But rent doesn't care about pride.
"I need the money," I say quietly. "And no one else is hiring right before Christmas."
His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping there. I want to press my fingers to it, feel the tension under his skin.
What is wrong with me?
"Elena has worked for me for eight years," he says. "This is the first time she's requested holiday leave." There's an edge to his voice. Frustration, maybe. Or sharper.
"That's... a long time to go without a break."
"The world doesn't stop for holidays, Miss Brooks. Business continues. Deals close. Problems arise that require immediate attention." He pushes off the desk, moves to the window, and I breathe again. "I don't understand this need to halt everything for a single day."
"Maybe because people need rest? Time with family?"
He glances back at me, one eyebrow raised, and the look is so sharp it cuts. "You have family waiting for you? Big Christmas dinner planned?"
The question lands like a fist to my sternum. "No."
"No family, or no plans?"
"Both." The word comes out harder than I intend. "I've been in the system since I was seven. Foster care doesn't exactly come with a built-in family. So no, no big dinner. No one waiting. Just me and whatever's on TV."
His expression shifts—not quite softening, but the sharp edges dull slightly. He turns fully to face me, and the intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch all over again.
"Then why defend the holiday?"
"Because other people have families. Other people get to sit around a table and pretend everything's fine for a few hours. Just because I don't have that doesn't mean Elena shouldn't."
Silence fills the space between us, heavy and charged. His gaze holds mine, and I refuse to look away even though my pulse hammers in my throat and my palms are slick with sweat.
"You have opinions," he says finally.
"You asked a question."
"Most people in your position would tell me what I want to hear."
"Most people in my position probably aren't one broken boot away from eviction."
A flicker crosses his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or respect. He moves back to his desk, but this time he sits, and the loss of his proximity feels like cold water.
"Tell me about your last position. Why did you leave?"
"The company downsized. Last hired, first fired."
"And before that?"
"Retail management. Before that, waitressing to pay for school. Before that, whatever paid enough to keep the lights on."
"You've worked since you were—what? Sixteen?"
"Fifteen. Under the table at a diner near my high school."
His fingers drum once against the desk, and I track the movement. Long fingers. Strong hands. The kind that could—
Stop.
"No safety net," he says. "No family money to fall back on."
"No."
"And yet you're still fighting for that degree."
"Yes."
"Why?" He leans forward, elbows on the desk, and the movement brings him closer again. Close enough that I see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. "You could have stopped years ago. Settled for less. Why keep going?"
Because I have to. Because it's the only thing that's mine, the only proof that I'm more than just another foster kid who aged out of the system and disappeared. But I don't say that. Can't say that.
"Because I'm going to finish," I say instead. "Even if it takes until I'm thirty. Even if it kills me. I'm going to finish."
His gaze sharpens, and for a long moment, he doesn't speak. Just watches me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve, and I feel stripped bare under that stare. Exposed.
Wanted.
The thought hits me like a slap, and I have to look away. Have to break whatever this is before I do stupid things like lean forward and—
"You're resourceful. Determined. These are useful qualities."
"Thank you."
"I wasn't complimenting you. I was stating facts.
" But there's an edge in his voice now, rough and low, and it does things to me.
Makes my thighs clench, my breath catch.
"This building, this office—everything that happens here stays here.
You might see things, hear things. Names, numbers, conversations.
None of it leaves this floor. Understood? "
A chill that has nothing to do with my wet clothes runs down my spine. "Understood."
"If you betray that trust, there are consequences." He leans forward, and the movement brings him so close I feel the heat radiating off him. "Severe consequences. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Miss Brooks?"
I should be scared. Should recognize this for the warning it is, take my broken boot and run. But I'm three weeks from eviction, my bank account has two digits, and pride doesn't pay rent
And God help me, the way he's looking at me makes me want to stay.
"I understand."
He studies me for a long moment, and I force myself to hold still even though everything in me wants to squirm under that gaze. Finally, he nods. "You start tomorrow. Eight a.m. Elena will handle your paperwork and security clearance."
Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. "Thank you. I won't—"
"Don't thank me yet." He picks up his phone like I'm already dismissed. But then he glances up, catches me mid-rise from the chair, and his gaze drops to my legs. Lingers there. "And Miss Brooks? Fix the boots. You'll be on your feet."
My throat tightens. "Yes, sir."
The title slips out automatically, years of service-industry jobs making it reflex. But his fingers still on the phone, and when his gaze lifts to mine, there's heat there—dark and dangerous and entirely inappropriate for an interview.
His pupils dilate. Just slightly. Just enough that I notice. "Good girl," he says, so quietly I almost miss it.
The words are like a physical touch everywhere. My pulse jumps. My breath catches. Heat pools low in my belly, and I have to press my thighs together against the ache.
What the hell is happening to me.
Then he's speaking rapid Russian into the phone, and Elena appears at my elbow, guiding me out. My heart hammers against my ribs for reasons that have nothing to do with relief over getting the job.
The elevator ride down feels longer than the one up. My reflection stares back—eyes too wide, lips parted like I've been running. Like I've been kissed.
I press my fingers to my mouth, trying to calm my breathing. Just a job. Two weeks, maybe three. Good pay, long hours, and a boss who looks at me like he's deciding whether to fire me or devour me.
And God help me, I'm not sure which one I want more.
I handle this. I have to handle this.
The lobby is busier now, people in expensive coats hurrying through, arms full of shopping bags and wrapped gifts. Music plays softly through hidden speakers, classical and beautiful. I pause near the tree, staring up at the lights, trying to ground myself.
My phone buzzes. A text from the temp agency.
Mr. Ismailov called. You're approved. He's requested an advance be sent to your account—first week's pay. Rate is $85/hour. Congratulations.
I read it three times. Four. The numbers don't change.
Eighty-five dollars an hour. Triple my normal agency rate. For a temporary position. For two weeks of work that should pay maybe fifteen, twenty an hour tops.
My hands shake as I do the math. Forty hours a week at that rate is—
No. That can't be right.
I pull up my banking app, and there it is. A deposit. Three thousand, four hundred dollars. One week's pay, sitting in my account like it's nothing. Like it's normal for a temp to make more in a week than I usually make in two months.
My stomach twists.
Why?
I remember the way his gaze dropped to my legs when I mentioned my broken boot. The way he stared at my mouth like he was deciding whether to kiss me or fire me. The heat in his eyes when I called him "sir."
The way my body responded. The way it still responds, pulse jumping at the memory.
What exactly does he think he's paying for?
I want to feel grateful. Want to feel relieved. But all I feel is suspicious, and I hate it. Hate that foster care taught me to question every kindness, to look for the angle, to never trust anything that seems too good to be true.
People have motives. Hidden ones. And men like Anton Ismailov—powerful, dangerous men who look at you like they own you—they always want things.
I just don't know what yet.
My phone buzzes again. Another text.
Tomorrow. 8 a.m. Don't be late.
Not from the agency. From him. Which means he has my number now, pulled from my file, and the thought makes my pulse jump for reasons I don't want to examine.
I shove my phone in my pocket and head for the doors, limping on my broken boot, trying to ignore the way my hands still shake.
Three thousand dollars. Enough to pay rent, buy groceries, maybe even fix my heat. Enough to take three classes next semester instead of one.
Enough to make me wonder what I just sold.
I step out into the snow, and the cold bites through my coat, sharp and clean. I pull it tighter and start walking, my uneven gait making every step a reminder of how this day started. How it's ending.
With a job I desperately need and a man I can't stop thinking about.