Chapter 2
Anton
I watch her walk away, that ridiculous broken boot making her gait uneven, and a knot in my chest pulls tight. A feeling I don’t recognize. Don’t want to.
She shouldn't have this effect on me. A temp secretary with a run in her tights and desperation etched into every line of her posture—I've seen a thousand like her. Hired them, paid them, forgotten them the moment they walked out the door. They are shadows, interchangeable and disposable.
But when Talia Brooks stumbled into my office twenty minutes ago, dripping rainwater on the marble floor.
.. The scent of vanilla and peaches hit me first, sweet and out of place, cutting through the sterile air.
She was wet, trying so damn hard to hold herself together, and every carefully constructed wall I've built threatened to crack. Rain had plastered her shoulder-length curls to her head, and those wide, almond-shaped eyes were locked on me, full of grit. There was no artifice, no practiced seduction. Just raw, unvarnished need. It’s a language I understand better than any other.
The car pulls up, the black sedan a silent shadow against the falling snow.
Daniil is behind the wheel. He doesn't speak as I slide into the back seat, the scent of cold leather and clean steel filling the space. He just raises an eyebrow in that way that says he knows the balance shifted. Daniil’s been with me since we were teenagers running packages through Moscow's underbelly.
He reads my silences better than anyone reads a book.
"The girl?" he asks in Russian, his voice a low rumble as we pull into traffic.
My jaw tightens. "New secretary. Temporary." The word tastes like a lie on my tongue.
"Temporary." He says it flat, a statement of disbelief. Smart man.
I don't answer, just stare out at the snow blanketing the city, turning the grime of New York into a clean deception.
Holiday lights bleed on every corner, a pointless, festive glare I usually ignore.
But tonight, I think of her. For the first time in my life, I see a gift I actually want to unwrap.
My phone sends a heavy pulse against my thigh—Ivan, probably, ready to grovel. A shipment gone missing. His mistake, his problem. I ignore it. Let him sweat. Fear makes a man efficient.
My mind keeps circling back to her. Talia.
The way she held my gaze even when that grit wavered in those wide, almond-shaped eyes.
The brutal honesty when she admitted she needed money—no games, no manipulation.
She’d told me her story, a stark recitation of facts.
Parents gone. The foster system. A life lived on the knife’s edge.
I’d expected her to cry. She hadn’t. She’d just stated it, her chin held high, as if daring me to see her as a victim.
I hadn’t. I’d seen a survivor.
And that voice when she called me "sir." Breathy, automatic, like she didn't even realize the submission she was offering. The sound of it had coiled low in my gut.
Good girl.
I shouldn't have said it. Shouldn't have let the word slip out, low and intimate. A test. But I wanted to see her reaction. Wanted to see if that pretty mouth would part the way it did when I crowded her against the edge of my desk. Wanted to feel the heat rise in the space between us.
She didn't disappoint. Her breath hitched, her pulse jumped in the delicate skin of her throat. She's tall—five-seven, the file said—but I tower over her. And now, all I want is to find out what other reactions I can pull from her. What other sounds she would make.
"You requested her specifically," Daniil says, his eyes finding mine in the rearview mirror. "Why?"
Good question. The temp agency sent five résumés.
The other four were polished, perfect. Ivy League degrees, glowing references, photos of women with sharp suits and sharper smiles.
Predictable. Boring. Talia's was the least impressive on paper—gaps in employment, a half-finished degree.
But the cheap, grainy headshot had made me pause.
Not beautiful in the sterile way I'm used to.
Beautiful in a way that felt real. Soft curves she tried to hide in a bad blouse.
An uncertain smile on full, berry-colored lips—a tiny crease in the bottom one.
And those eyes. They looked like they'd seen enough hardship to understand the cost of survival. They looked like mine.
I told Elena to arrange the interview. Told myself it was curiosity.
Then she walked in, and curiosity twisted into a darker hunger.
"She needed the job," I say finally, the answer feeling thin. "And she'll be loyal."
"Loyal." Daniil glances at me in the mirror again, a trace of amusement in his expression. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
I shoot him a look that would make most men reconsider their next breath. He just grins and turns his attention back to the road. Bastard.
The office building I'm headed to sits in the financial district, all glass and steel. New money trying to look old. The meeting inside will be tedious—investors who think their MBAs give them an understanding of my business.
But I'll smile, shake hands, play the civilized businessman while my mind stays locked on a girl with broken boots and desperate eyes. I’ll sit there and let them drone on, thinking they have my attention, while I map out the first steps in a campaign they can’t begin to comprehend.
My phone pulses again. This time I check it.
Elena: Miss Brooks' paperwork is complete. Security clearance will be ready by morning. She asked about dress code.
A fresh spike of possession cuts through me. She’s already thinking about how to please me.
I type back: Business appropriate. And Elena—make sure she has access to the executive floor only. No one else interacts with her without my permission.
The reply comes fast: Understood, sir.
Possessive. I'm being possessive over a woman I've known for less than an hour, and I don't give a fuck.
She triggers every protective, predatory instinct I've spent years learning to weaponize.
Maybe it's the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide.
Or maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe I just want her, and I'm used to taking what I want.
The car stops. Daniil opens my door, and cold air rushes in, sharp enough to clear my head. Almost.
"Pick me up in two hours," I tell him. "And Daniil? Run a full background check on Talia Brooks. Everything."
He nods, understanding clear in his eyes. He knows what I'm not saying. If she's going to be this close to me, this deep under my skin, I need to know every secret, every weakness.
It's not trust. It's strategy. Liar.
I repeat that to myself as I walk into the building.
I repeat it as I sit through the meeting, my face an impassive mask.
I repeat it as I sign the multi-million dollar documents without reading them.
My lawyers have vetted them, but more than that, no one in this room is stupid enough to fuck over the Ismailov name.
Strategy. Protection.
Not the fact that I still smell the faint scent of vanilla and peaches that clung to her, still see the way her pulse jumped in her throat, still hear that breathy "yes, sir" that made me want to find out exactly how obedient she could be.
By the time Daniil picks me up, night has fallen. The city looks clean under its white blanket, hiding all the dirt and blood.
"The background check?" I ask as we head toward my penthouse.
"Confirmed what she told you." Daniil hands me a tablet. "Parents died in a car accident. Foster homes until eighteen. No criminal record, no debt beyond student loans. Working three jobs at one point to get through college."
I scroll through the report. A stark picture of someone utterly alone. Someone who might understand what it costs to build walls around yourself.
"Relationships?" I ask, hating the raw edge in my voice.
"None to speak of. She’s been too busy working to have a life. She is exactly what she appears to be, Anton. A girl who needs a job."
He's right. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm already planning how to keep her, how to make her indispensable, how to weave her into my life until she can't imagine being anywhere else.
The penthouse is dark when I arrive. I bypass the lights and head straight for the bar.
I pour myself vodka—the good stuff from home—and stand at the glass, watching snow fall over my kingdom.
Tomorrow she'll walk into Sindicate Tower in whatever clothes she cobbled together.
She'll try to be professional, competent, invisible. And I’ll let her. For an hour. Maybe two.
But the image that burns behind my eyes has nothing to do with spreadsheets or schedules. It’s her, in my office, after everyone else has gone home. Talia, with her back pressed against this very glass, the city a thousand feet below. My city. My office. My girl.
I’d walk up behind her. So close I could feel the heat of her skin through the fabric of her prim little blouse. I wouldn’t touch her. Not yet. I’d just lean in, my mouth close to her ear, and whisper, “Look down, Talia.”
And she would. Her breath would fog the cold glass. Her hands would press flat against it as if to steady herself.
I’d watch her pulse beat in her throat, a frantic little bird I want to trap in my palm. I’d trace the line of her spine with one finger, feeling her shiver. I’d slide my hand to her hip, grip it, and pull her back against me until she could feel exactly how much I want her.
“You’re mine now,” I’d tell her. Not a question. A fact.
The fantasy is so sharp, so real, that my hand clenches around the empty glass.
It’s not enough. The vodka hasn't quieted the need; it's only made it louder, more insistent.
I need to hear her voice. I pull up her new employee file on my phone.
Her personal number is right there. I press "call" before I can talk myself out of it.
It rings. Once. Twice. My thumb hovers over the "end" button. I’m an idiot. A fool. I am Anton Ismailov. I am not some high schooler, fumbling with a phone, desperate for a girl’s attention. I don't call. I summon. On the third ring, she picks up.
"...Hello?"
Her voice. It’s exactly as I remembered, but softer now. Sleepy. Breathy. It coils in my gut all over again, and I close my eyes, just to listen.
I clear my throat, my voice a rough rasp. "Talia Brooks."
There's a sharp intake of breath on her end. "Mr. Ismailov?" She sounds confused. Alert. Probably scared. Good.
"I'm calling to make sure you made it home safely."
The excuse sounds pathetic even to my own ears. A complete and utter lie. I couldn't help myself. I had to hear her voice, had to imagine it was the last thing I heard before I fell asleep. A dangerously weak thought.
"Oh." She sounds surprised. "Yes. Yes, sir, I did. Thank you. The car service was... thank you."
A pause. The line is dead air, but I hear her breathing. It’s almost enough.
"Are you alone?" The question is out before I can stop it. It’s too raw, too possessive.
"Sir?"
"Your background check," I lie, trying to cover. "It's standard. I'm asking again, Talia. Are you seeing anyone?"
"No, sir." Her reply is quick, just like it was in my office. "I'm not."
"Why?"
"Why... what, sir?"
"Why aren't you?" I say, leaning my forehead against the cold penthouse glass. "A woman like you."
There's a beat of silence, so long I think she might have hung up. When she speaks, her voice is small, brittle with a truth that costs her.
"No one's... interested in me like that, sir. I’m not the kind of woman men... look at."
My grip on the phone tightens. The sheer, unfathomable ignorance of the men she’s known. The blindness.
"They're fools," I say, my voice low and guttural. "They don't know what they're looking at. You’re beautiful, Talia."
A tiny, choked sound, like a gasp she swallowed.
"I... I don't..." she stammers, her voice unsteady.
"I believe you," I cut in, steamrolling her. "I believe you're alone. Because if you had a man—a real man—he would never let you walk around with a broken boot in a snowstorm. He'd make sure you weren't working for the holidays, that you had every gift you ever wanted."
"Sir..." she says, and her voice is suddenly stronger. Sharper. "Stop."
I pause, intrigued.
"All I ever wanted... it can't be bought, Mr. Ismailov."
The words land between us. A challenge. An admission. And just like that, the hook sets deeper. Talia doesn't want money. She doesn't like gifts. She wants something real.
Good.
I will give her that. I will give her an entire world, and I will own every part of it.
"Get some sleep, Talia," I say, the command soft but absolute. "You'll need it. I'll see you tomorrow."
I hang up before she can answer.
I stare out at my city, but I don't see the snow. I see her. It can't be bought. Maybe not.
But it can be claimed.