Rurik
“I don’t like it.”
The words aren’t meant to be cruel, but the room stills instantly.
Every person at the table knows my voice well enough to recognize that tone. It isn’t irritation or negotiation. It’s assessment. The kind that ends conversations rather than opens them.
Jessica doesn’t flinch and that alone is impressive.
She turns her attention fully to me, calm and steady, hands folded neatly in front of her tablet. No defensive edge. No false confidence. Just readiness.
“Can you tell me why?” she asks.
I shouldn’t be looking at her mouth when she speaks, but I am. At the soft shape of it. At the way she doesn’t rush to fill the silence when I don’t answer immediately.
She isn’t afraid. She genuinely looks open to my feedback and ready to take it on board.
The truth is, I don’t dislike the work.
I dislike the way my focus has narrowed to her presence in the room.
The way the cut of her skirt pulls my attention over the shape of her hips before I can stop myself.
The way the silk blouse fits her like it was chosen for my personal torment.
The way her red hair is twisted up, exposing the fragile line of her neck like she has no idea how dangerous that is.
I don’t like the way my body has decided she matters.
So, I do what I always do when instinct threatens to interfere with control.
I pivot.
“I want to see more options,” I say coolly. “Different palettes. Alternative layouts. I’m not convinced yet.”
A lie. Or at least a distortion.
I could sign off on this today and no one would question it. But if I stay in this room any longer, surrounded by other men while my attention keeps snapping back to her, something will fracture. And fractures get noticed.
Jasmine looks at me, curious at first before she hides a smug grin behind a little twist of her lips. Adrik frowns slightly, already gauging what this means for timelines.
Jessica simply nods.
“Of course,” she says. “I can put together additional concepts.”
Professional. Controlled.
Mine flares in my chest like a curse.
“I have another meeting,” I add, already standing. “I’ll be in touch.”
I don’t wait for agreement.
I leave because staying is a risk.
In the hallway outside the boardroom, I loosen my tie and draw a breath in through my teeth. This pull I feel toward her is… inconvenient.
I don’t ever feel like this.
Women have always been a diversion. A transaction. Something I indulged in and discarded without consequence. Why does this feel different? Why does it feel like it’s trying to consume me?
I push it aside and go back to my work.
The afternoon is a mess of damage control and strategy.
The Mayor of Las Vegas has made it clear he will not support us in our… business endeavors, so I’ve had to go higher than that.
Governors matter. Governors decide which doors open quietly and which stay locked no matter how much money is offered.
And the man I’m backing for Governor of Nevada is a liability.
He has a serious weakness for women and an even worse habit of assuming his power will protect him from exposure. It won’t. Not without my intervention.
I spend hours on the phone with editors, donors, legal advisors. Stories get buried. Payments get redirected. A staffer disappears from a news cycle after accepting a very generous settlement and a nondisclosure agreement thick enough to choke on.
I heave a sigh. All of this effort for a man I don’t respect. But once he’s in office, he’ll look the other way while the Korolyov’s expand. New licenses. New properties. Fewer inspections. A clean path forward.
That’s what a Kingmaker does. He moves the pieces around the board so subtly that by the time the results are in, people are too shocked to question it. They question everything else instead.
No one ever looks in my direction, and I find a perverse pleasure in that.
By the time night falls, the situation is contained but unresolved. Still, even as I negotiate power and consequence, my thoughts keep straying.
Jessica.
The way she held herself under pressure. The heat that coiled tight in my body every time her eyes brushed over me. The precise competence she wielded like a weapon without realizing it.
I see her again, standing at the head of that table. See the subtle curve of her waist. The swell of her breasts beneath cream silk. The red knot of hair I want to pull loose just to see how it falls around her shoulders.
I should let it go. Shut her from my mind and forget about her. That’s the rational response. Identify the distraction, remove myself from it, and move on. I’ve built my life on that principle. Weaknesses get isolated. Wants get compartmentalized. Control is everything.
And yet, hours later, with the city lit up beneath my office windows and the governor’s mess temporarily contained, she’s still there. In my head. In my body.
I sit back in my chair and press my fingertips against the edge of my desk, grounding myself in something solid.
Jessica isn’t a woman I picked out in a club or summoned because the night was long and my patience was short. She didn’t present herself to me. She didn’t try to catch my attention.
She earned it.
Competence has always been more dangerous to me than beauty. Beauty distracts other men, not me. But a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing, who stands her ground under pressure and doesn’t bend just because powerful men expect her to…that kind of woman alters the balance of a room.
I replay the meeting without meaning to. The way she answered every question without hesitation. The calm authority in her voice when she pushed back against the architect. The flash of something sharp in her eyes when I said I didn’t like it, followed not by offense, but curiosity.
As if she wanted to understand me.
That’s unacceptable.
Understanding leads to influence. Influence leads to loss of control.
I glance at my phone, still face down on the desk, as though it might accuse me of something if I look at it too long.
This is lust, I tell myself. Pure and simple. A physical reaction sharpened by proximity and novelty. It will pass.
Except my body has never reacted like this to lust.
Lust doesn’t make me imagine the weight of a woman in my hands. Doesn’t make me catalog the slope of her hips or the way her thighs press together when she’s standing still. Doesn’t make my thoughts drift to permanence instead of release.
I stand abruptly and move to the window again, watching traffic slide through the Strip below. Every light represents someone going somewhere. Living a life that has nothing to do with mine.
Jessica doesn’t belong in my world. That should be the end of it.
Instead, the thought twists in my chest, sharp and possessive. Because whether she belongs here or not, she’s already brushed against it. Already stood in a room where decisions that shape cities are made.
I turn away from the window and pick up my phone, nudging the papers from her design pack around until her phone number becomes visible beneath her business logo.
I don’t overthink the message.
I want another meeting. One-on-one. Tomorrow evening. My office.
I pause, then add a second line.
Bring the revisions. And yourself.
I ignore the way my heartbeat has increased and send it before doubt can catch up.
The response confirming she will be here at 4PM doesn’t come immediately, and that’s fine. It gives me time to look into her.
As I set the phone down again, a familiar calm settles over me. Whatever this is, I won’t let it drift unchecked. I’ll assess the situation and remind myself why I don’t let emotions dictate outcomes.
And if the pull is still there then I’ll deal with it the way I deal with everything else.
On my terms.