Chapter 3
Talia
The party is surreal. A word I never use, but it's the only option. I've been to office Christmas parties before, but this is on a whole different level—much like Anton Ismailov, himself.
Waitstaff in black uniforms weave through the crowd with trays of beverages and hors d'oeuvres. The scent of fresh spruce and cinnamon helps fill the air with holiday cheer. The real kind because nothing on the executive floor would dare to be fake. It’s my second day, the day before Christmas Eve, and I feel like an imposter in my thrift-store pencil skirt and silk-blend blouse.
Everyone else is a blur of expensive fabrics and sharp laughter that careens off the polished marble floors and gold-trimmed garlands.
Quiet carols spill from hidden speakers, the melody making me ache for a home I’ve never known.
I’m trying to look busy by a pillar, nursing a glass of water and pretending to be fascinated by the city lights sprawling outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
A prickle at the back of my neck tells me I’m being watched.
I’ve felt it all afternoon. A silent, searing heat that has tracked me since I walked in this morning.
Anton Ismailov.
My boss. The man who hired me with a look that felt like it stripped me bare.
Anton Ismailov stands across the room, oozing power in a dark, tailored suit.
He isn’t mingling. He’s observing, his steel-gray eyes missing nothing.
Especially not me. Every time I risk a glance, his gaze is already there, a physical touch on my skin.
He shouldn't be looking at me like this. It’s confusing.
Terrifying. And it makes a slow, deep heat coil low in my gut.
He hands out thick, cream-colored envelopes to his senior staff. Holiday bonuses, I assume. I don’t expect one. I’m a ghost in this machine.
Then he starts moving. Not toward the exit, but toward me.
The crowd parts for him, a silent, instinctual deference.
My pulse kicks up, a frantic little bird beating against my ribs.
He stops in front of me, his sheer size blocking out the rest of the room, stealing my air.
The atmosphere changes, charged with the sharp, woodsy scent of his cologne and an intensity that is his alone.
“You are not eating,” he says. It’s not a question. His eyes flick to my empty hands, then back to my face.
“I’m fine, sir. Thank you.” My voice is tight.
His gaze hardens almost imperceptibly. “That was not an offer.” Before I can protest, he turns, intercepts a passing caterer, and takes a small plate.
He turns back and presses it into my hand.
Miniature quiches, shrimp skewers, delicate little pastries.
My stomach growls in betrayal. I haven't eaten since the toast I had for breakfast.
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice a little shaky.
He gives a stiff nod, his eyes scanning the room as if checking for threats. Then his hand goes to the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out one of the cream-colored envelopes. My name, Talia Brooks, is on the front in sharp, black ink.
He holds it out.
My throat goes dry. Don’t take it. Don’t be indebted to him. I shake my head automatically. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I just started.”
“Take it.” His voice is a low, silken command.
My fingers tremble as I accept the envelope. It’s heavy. Solid. “Sir, I—”
“You have to let people do things for you sometimes, Talia.” His use of my first name is a shock, intimate, and rough against my ears. My pulse jumps in my throat.
Defiance, my only real defense, ignites in my chest. I lift my chin. “Do you?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. For a second, I think I’ve crossed a line.
But then the corner of his mouth ticks up, the barest hint of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“No,” he admits, the word a low rumble. “But for you… I might.” He leans in a fraction, his voice dropping to a near whisper, meant only for me.
“The question is, what do you want to do to me?”
My breath catches, a sharp little snag in my lungs. The deliberate slip, the raw possessiveness in his gaze, sends a shock of pure, unadulterated want straight to my core. He knows what he said. The heat in his eyes is a confession.
He wants this, too.
He holds my gaze for another second, his own pupils dilating, before he corrects himself, the words clipped. “For me.”
But the truth is already out, a current running between us, undeniable. Before I can find my voice, a man in a crisp suit is at his elbow. “Anton, we have a problem with the Zurich shipment.”
Anton’s focus snaps away, his expression icing over. The predator is gone, replaced by the Pakhan. He gives the man a curt nod, then his eyes find mine again. The heat is banked, but it’s still there, simmering. “We will finish this later.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me with a racing heart, a plate of food I can’t eat, and an envelope that feels like a brand in my hand.
***
The party dissolves an hour later. I slip out and head back to the deserted executive floor. I need to transcribe the notes from his morning meeting. I set the unopened envelope on the corner of my desk, its cream paper a sharp cut against the dark wood. A promise. Or a warning.
I’m trying to focus when Elena, his primary assistant, stops by my desk, shrugging into her coat.
“He’s a force of nature, isn’t he?” she says, her smile knowing. She nods toward his closed office door. “Don’t stay too late. And Merry Christmas, Talia.”
“Merry Christmas, Elena.”
She leaves, and the floor falls completely silent except for the click of my keys. The quiet feels different now. Charged. His words replay in my head. What do you want to do to me?
My fingers still. I close my eyes, and I know the answer. The thought alone makes heat bloom low in my stomach.
“Hey, new girl.”
My eyes fly open. Alex Jameson from HR is leaning against my desk, a goofy grin on his face. “Talia, right? Burning the midnight oil?”
“Just finishing up,” I say, forcing a polite smile. Go away.
“Come on, live a little. It's Christmas.” He wiggles his eyebrows and pulls a sprig of mistletoe from his pocket, dangling it over my head. “You know the tradition.”
Heat prickles at my nape, hot and uncomfortable. I hate this, being put on the spot. The forced cheer, the expectation. “Very funny, Alex. I’m sure that’s against about a dozen HR policies you wrote yourself.”
He laughs, leaning closer. The smell of stale champagne rolls off him. “It’s Christmas spirit. Who’s gonna tell?”
He lowers his face, and a knot of panic tightens in my gut. I lean back, my hand coming up to push him away, but then the air in the room drops twenty degrees.
The laughter dies in Alex’s throat. My own breath freezes in my chest.
Anton is standing there, having emerged from his office as silently as a panther.
He’s holding his office door open, his body framed in the doorway, a monolith of pure, cold fury.
His expression is utterly calm, but his eyes—they’re locked on Alex, then on the mistletoe, then on me.
They’re not gray anymore. They’re black.
“Get away from her,” Anton says. The words are flat, devoid of emotion, and more terrifying than any shout.
Alex stumbles back, the mistletoe falling from his numb fingers. “Mr. Ismailov. Sir. It was just a joke.”
Anton takes a slow step forward. His focus is entirely on the man who dared to touch what he’s already claimed. “You are the head of Human Resources, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.” Alex’s voice is a squeak.
“And you don’t understand the simple concept of consent?” Anton stops beside my desk, his presence a wall of heat and power at my back. “You thought it was appropriate to corner a female employee?”
“No, I—it wasn’t like that—”
“Pack your things,” Anton cuts him off, his voice low and sharp as stone. “Security will escort you out. You are finished here.”
Alex’s jaw goes slack. He sees the absolute finality in Anton’s eyes and practically flees.
The silence he leaves behind is deafening. My heart pounds. He just ended a man's career. For me. Anton doesn’t move. He just stands there, radiating a possessive energy that blankets the entire floor.
Then, he turns his head, his gaze finally falling on me. “My office. Now.”
My legs feel unsteady as I stand. I follow him into the lion’s den. The door clicks shut behind us. The air smells of leather, pine, and him.
He turns to face me, a tense silhouette against the city's lights. “Did you want him to kiss you?”
The question is low, dangerous.
“What? No,” I whisper. “Of course not.”
He watches me, his eyes searching my face.
Then he walks back to the door, opens it, and plucks the discarded mistletoe from my desk.
He closes the door again, sealing us inside.
He stalks back toward me, holding the small green branch as if it’s a weapon, and stops so close that I tip my head back to see his face.
“He was right about one thing,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. “It is tradition.” He lifts the mistletoe between us. A challenge. “The question was wrong. It is not, ‘did you want him to kiss you.’ It is… do you want me to kiss you, Talia?”
My breath hitches. Don’t do this. Don’t want this. The moment you reach for something, it slips through your hands.
“What about the rules?” I whisper, the last gasp of my professionalism. “HR…”
A dark, humorless chuckle rumbles in his chest. He takes another step, closing the final inch between us.
His body is a wall of heat. “I am an Ismailov… we have no rules.” He lowers his head, his mouth hovering a breath from mine.
"So I ask you again. Do you want me to kiss you?
Because if anyone kisses you here, it will be me. "
My breath hitches. This is wrong—he's my boss, this is my job, I need this paycheck—but the way he says it, like it's already decided, has my knees quaking. "Sir, I—"