Chapter Nine - Janice
Marcus calls an emergency team meeting at nine on Monday morning.
I’m already at my desk, second coffee in hand, trying to focus on campaign drafts that all blur together into meaningless corporate speak.
My weekend was consumed by research—pulling everything I could find on Rudenko Industries’ current projects, media coverage, public perception metrics.
Trying to build strategy around a client who terrifies me in ways I can’t afford to examine.
“Conference room, now,” Marcus says, passing my desk without slowing. “All hands.”
Diana catches my eye from across the office, eyebrows raised. I shrug and follow.
The team is already assembled when I arrive. Marcus stands at the head of the table, looking simultaneously excited and nervous in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
“Good news,” he announces. “Rudenko Industries wants to move faster than anticipated. They’ve requested an immediate strategy session to align on campaign direction before the official kickoff next week.”
Relief floods through me. Strategy session means the full team, multiple people, professional distance. I can handle that.
“Janice, you’re up.”
The relief evaporates. “I’m sorry?”
“Dimitri Rudenko specifically requested you for this initial meeting. One-on-one, his office, today at two.” Marcus is already moving on, pulling up project timelines on the screen. “It’s unusual, but he’s the client. He wants to discuss strategic vision before we bring in the full team.”
Every eye in the room flicks toward me.
I feel the weight of their attention: curiosity, suspicion, speculation about why the client would single out a mid-level strategist for private meetings. Diana’s expression carries a warning I don’t need translated.
“I—” My throat is dry. “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate for you to attend, as senior partner?”
“He asked for you specifically.” Marcus finally looks at me directly. “Is there a problem?”
Yes. Multiple problems. None I can voice without explaining things that would end my career.
“No. Of course not.”
“Good. His assistant will send over the address. Don’t be late.”
The meeting continues, but I stop hearing it. My pulse hammers in my ears, drowning out discussion of deliverables and timelines and budget allocation.
One-on-one. This isn’t business.
Diana corners me the second the meeting ends. “You can’t go,” she says, voice low and urgent.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You absolutely have a choice. Tell Marcus you have a conflict, that you can’t work with this client.”
“That what? That I had a relationship with him four years ago and then anonymously published an investigation that nearly destroyed his business? That’ll go over great.”
“Better than whatever he’s planning.”
She’s right. I know she’s right.
“I’ll be fine. It’s his office during business hours. What’s he going to do?”
Diana stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.
“Be careful,” she says finally. “Text me every thirty minutes so I know you’re okay.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“You’re being naive.”
Maybe. Probably.
I return to my desk and try to work. The address comes through at eleven—a building in Midtown I recognize from my research, fifty stories of steel and glass housing Rudenko Industries’ executive offices.
I have three hours to prepare.
I spend them alternating between building presentation materials I know he won’t care about and staring at my phone, trying to convince myself to call Marcus and refuse.
I don’t.
At one thirty, I change into a different blouse—something that doesn’t gape between buttons, something that feels like armor. Reapply lipstick with hands that won’t stay steady. Check my reflection in the bathroom mirror and see a woman trying very hard to look like she’s not falling apart.
I text Diana: Leaving now. If you don’t hear from me by four, call the police.
Her response is immediate: Not funny.
I’m not joking.
***
The Rudenko Industries building is exactly as intimidating as I expected.
Security checks my ID against a list, directs me to elevators that require keycard access. A receptionist on the forty-eighth floor greets me with professional courtesy that doesn’t quite mask her curiosity.
“Mr. Rudenko is expecting you. Last door on the left.”
The hallway stretches longer than it should, each step echoing against marble floors. My heart hammers against my ribs, breath coming too shallow. I force myself to slow down, to breathe normally, to remember that I’m a professional here for a business meeting.
The lie doesn’t help.
I reach the door, pause with my hand raised to knock.
This is a mistake, but I knock anyway.
“Come in.”
His voice sends electricity down my spine: familiar, controlled, dangerous.
I open the door.
The office is massive, one wall entirely of glass overlooking Manhattan. Expensive furniture, carefully curated art, the kind of space designed to intimidate. Dimitri sits behind a desk that could double as a small car, fingers steepled, watching me with those steel-gray eyes that miss nothing.
“Close the door.”
I do, because refusing would reveal fear I can’t afford to show.
“Sit.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
The command in his voice makes my knees weak in ways that have nothing to do with fear. I sink into the chair across from his desk, back straight, hands folded over my tablet.
He doesn’t speak immediately. Just watches me with the same unnerving focus from the boardroom, letting silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable.
“You requested this meeting,” I say finally. “What did you want to discuss?”
“Campaign strategy. Target demographics. Brand positioning.” He says the words like they bore him. “Isn’t that what you’re here for?”
“Yes.”
“Then present.”
I open my tablet with fingers that tremble slightly, pull up the preliminary strategy deck I’d prepared. Launch into my pitch—audience analysis, messaging frameworks, media placement recommendations.
He doesn’t look at the screen. Doesn’t take notes. Just watches me with that predatory stillness that makes every word feel like walking across broken glass.
Halfway through the third slide, he interrupts. “Why did you come back to New York?”
The question has nothing to do with marketing strategy.
“Job opportunity. It’s a better salary than I could get elsewhere.”
“You could work anywhere. Remote positions, other cities. Why here?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Humor me.”
I meet his gaze directly. “Because running away felt like losing. I don’t like to lose.”
Something flickers across his expression. “No. You don’t.”
He stands, moves around the desk with that controlled grace I remember too well. I tense, every muscle screaming at me to run, but I force myself to stay seated.
“The campaign strategy is irrelevant,” Dimitri says, leaning against the desk directly in front of me. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, see the precise tailoring of his suit. “We both know why you’re really here.”
“Marcus said you wanted to discuss it personally.”
“Marcus says what I tell him to say.” His voice drops lower. “Just like you used to do what I told you to do. Remember?”
Heat floods my face. “That was four years ago.”
“Was it? Because I remember it very clearly. The way you responded when I touched you. The sounds you made. How your body—”
“Stop.”
“Why? Does it bother you, remembering what we did?”
“It was just one time. You made sure of that.”
His jaw tightens. “I made sure you stayed safe.”
“You got me fired. Erased me from your life like I never existed. That’s not protection, Dimitri. That’s cruelty.”
“What you did after?” His voice hardens. “Was that justice?”
My pulse spikes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” He leans closer, and I can see the rage simmering underneath his control. “The exposé. ProPublica. The anonymous investigation that nearly destroyed everything I’d built. That wasn’t you?”
I should deny it. Should act confused, offended, professionally outraged at the accusation.
Instead, something reckless surfaces.
“Would it matter if it was? You’d already destroyed me. Why shouldn’t I return the favor?”
The admission hangs between us, sharp and damning.
Dimitri goes very still. “So it was you.”
“You got me fired from the only opportunity I had. Ruined my references. Made sure I couldn’t work in this city for years. What did you expect me to do? Thank you?”
“I expected you to disappear.” His voice is dangerously quiet. “To understand that some worlds aren’t meant for people like you. To be grateful I let you walk away alive.”
“Alive?” Fear finally breaks through my anger. “What are you—”
“You exposed operations that cost me millions. Cost people I’m responsible for their livelihoods and safety.” He straightens, and suddenly he’s towering over me. “Did you think there wouldn’t be consequences?”
“I thought…” My voice cracks. “I thought the truth mattered.”
“The truth.” He laughs, cold and bitter. “You wrote about gentrification and displacement like you understood what you were documenting. You had no idea what you’d actually uncovered.”
“Then enlighten me.”
“No.” He circles behind my chair, and I resist the urge to turn and track his movement. “You don’t get to understand. You don’t get explanations or context. You get consequences.”
My hands are shaking now. I grip the tablet tighter, trying to maintain composure that’s rapidly deteriorating.
“What do you want from me?”
“Everything you took.”
He’s in front of me again, and this time when he moves, it’s fast. His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“You cost me four years of searching. Four years of looking over my shoulder, wondering who knew what, who could be trusted. Four years of being haunted by a ghost I couldn’t identify.”
“Let go of me.”
“Afraid of what might happen if I don’t?”
Yes. Terrified.
Beneath the fear, something else pulses, something hot and unwanted and completely inappropriate, given the circumstances.
He sees it. I watch his pupils dilate, watch recognition cross his face.
“You still want me,” he says, voice rough. “Even now. Even knowing what I am.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
His other hand reaches into his jacket, and suddenly there’s metal pressing cold against my throat.
A gun.
Every thought evaporates into pure survival instinct. My breath stops. My body goes rigid.
Dimitri’s expression doesn’t change. Doesn’t soften. He just watches me with that merciless focus while pressing the barrel harder against my skin.
“This is what happens when you cross people like me, Janice. This is the world you tried to expose.” His voice is perfectly calm. “One word from me, and you disappear. You’ll be just another casualty of a city that eats idealists alive.”
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can only stare at him while my pulse hammers so hard I’m certain he can see it.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he continues almost conversationally. “Death would be mercy. And I’m not feeling particularly merciful right now.”
He steps back, lowering the gun. My lungs finally remember how to work, dragging in air that tastes like fear and adrenaline and something darker I refuse to name.
“Get out.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I grab my tablet with numb fingers, stumble toward the door on legs that barely hold me. My hand slips on the handle twice before I get it open.
“Janice.”
I freeze, can’t help looking back.
Dimitri stands exactly where I left him, gun held loosely at his side, expression unreadable.
“This isn’t over. Not even close.”
I run.
Down the hallway, into the elevator, through the lobby. I don’t stop until I’m three blocks away, ducking into an alley where no one can see me collapse against a brick wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on dirty pavement.
My whole body is shaking. Tears I didn’t feel starting are wet on my face. Every nerve ending feels stripped raw, exposed.
He could have killed me. Should have killed me, probably, for what I did.
Instead, he’d let me go with a warning I’ll never forget.
My phone buzzes. Update. Now.
I can’t answer, can’t form words that would explain what just happened.
Another buzz. JANICE. ANSWER ME.
I’m okay. On my way back.
The lie feels enormous.
I’m not okay. Don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again.
Underneath the terror, underneath the rational fear of a man who’d just pressed a gun to my throat, there’s something else.
Heat. Want. The traitorous pulse of desire that flared when his hand tangled in my hair, when his body crowded mine, when his eyes promised things that should horrify me.
I’m broken. Have to be broken to feel anything except fear after what just happened.
I push myself upright, smooth my clothes, and wipe my face clean of tears and mascara. Then I walk back toward the office like a functional human being instead of someone who just stared death in the face and felt their body respond with want.
Diana is waiting when I arrive.
One look at my face, and she knows. “Conference room. Now.”
I follow, grateful when she closes the door behind us.
“What happened?”
“He knows about the exposé. He knows it was me.”
“How?”
“I told him.” The admission sounds insane even to my own ears. “He confronted me, and I—I just admitted it.”
Diana stares at me. “Are you crazy?”
Maybe. It would explain a lot.
“He threatened me. Made it very clear what happens to people who cross him.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He let me go.”
“Why would he let you go?”
“I don’t know, but he said it isn’t over.”
Diana sinks into a chair. “You need to quit. Today. Right now. Walk into Marcus’s office and resign.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Running makes me look guilty. Makes me look weak. I’m done being weak.”
“This is going to get you killed.”
She’s right. I don’t care.
Something shifted in that office. Some line I thought was solid turned out to be permeable, and I crossed it without meaning to.
Dimitri Rudenko wants revenge.
Fine. Let him try.