Chapter 4
Artyom & Willow
Artyom
She had nerve.
Willow Pierce. A woman who had tried to pay to fuck me.
I had told her more than once I wasn't some nightclub pretty boy, but she hadn't heard a damn thing.
When I walked back in with breakfast and pushed the suite door open, the bed had already been empty.
The curtains had been cracked just enough for the morning light to spill across the wrecked sheets, still holding a trace of her warmth.
I'd worked for thirty-six years. I'd slept in more beds than most people had walked roads. I'd held half of Europe's assets in my fist. And I'd never seen a woman finish, stack cash nice and neat on the nightstand, and then just walk the hell out.
Two hundreds. One crumpled fifty. That's what I was worth.
I stared at it for a full three seconds, then I laughed.
Yeah. Sure. Why not.
She'd really done it.
I'd meant to toss it in the trash. Instead, it ended up in the inside pocket of my suit.
As I turned, something pale pink at the edge of the carpet caught my eye.
A badge.
Her work badge.
In the photo, she wore that deep copper-red hair tied in a low ponytail, brows soft, eyes smiling—way sweeter than she'd looked last night. Last night her hair had been a mess, her eyes glazed with that watery, drunk shimmer, her mouth still slick when she grinned like she didn't give a damn.
Sokolov Holdings, Marketing Specialist, Willow Pierce.
I stared at the logo and let out a short, incredulous laugh.
So I'd slept with my own employee. And she'd treated me like a rented body, paid me, and stumbled off like a little booze-soaked menace?
I slid the badge into my pocket. And for the first time in a long time, I actually looked forward to going to work.
I really wanted to see if her face would go red when she saw me.
?????
The conference table gleamed, polished to the point it reflected faces like a mirror.
I sat at the head, spinning a pen between my fingers. My gaze moved over the managers sitting ramrod straight—then landed in the far corner.
She was curled into her chair, head down, curls hanging like a curtain over most of her face. Only the tip of one ear showed, pink as hell. She looked like a kid dragged in to get scolded, too scared to breathe.
I lifted a brow.
Cute contrast.
Where the hell had last night's courage gone—the girl who'd climbed into my lap, yanked at my shirt, and promised she'd "take real good care of me"?
The marketing director, Tom Carson, stood by the projector, spraying words like he'd been paid by the syllable. Three minutes in, I'd had enough. I tapped the tabletop.
"Stop."
The room went dead silent.
Tom's smile froze. He turned to me like I'd put a gun to his head. "Mr. Sokolov, what would you like to advise?"
I didn't look at him. I looked straight down the length of the table at that corner.
She jerked like she'd been shocked and tucked her head even lower, like she could shove her whole face into the folder and disappear.
"Willow Pierce."
I drew her name out slow on purpose. Her shoulders locked up hard.
"Come up here and walk us through the core idea behind this project."
The room erupted in whispers.
Every head snapped toward her. I saw her notebook clap shut. She scrambled up, and the chair legs screeched against the floor.
She still didn't lift her head. Her curls hid her face, but her neck was flushed bright red. She moved fast—too fast—like she was running for her life.
When she reached the screen, she finally looked up. The second her eyes hit mine, they went wide.
Ice-blue, stunned. The laser pointer almost slipped out of her hand.
I leaned back, watching her like I had all day. I tipped her a lazy little eyebrow.
Recognized me?
She frowned and looked away so fast it was almost rude.
I paused.
No.
She hadn't recognized me.
The next second she raised the pointer, her fingers shaking, the red dot wobbling drunk across the slide. She stumbled through the text, voice so quiet it could've been a mosquito. She didn't glance my way again—not once. Only the skin behind her ears stayed a vivid, bleeding red.
I watched that blush and almost laughed.
So in her head, last night's paid fuck and today's man in the head chair were two different people.
Good. Really good.
A woman could sleep with a man and show up the next day acting like he didn't even exist—couldn't be bothered to look at him twice. She was the first.
I wanted to drag her back to a room, force her to look me in the eye, and ask her what the hell gave her the right not to know my face.
But I couldn't.
The room was full. The projector light hit the trembling bones of her hand. The way she tried so hard to look steady—how breakable it was—almost made something in my chest go soft.
She was tense enough. If I pushed, she'd choke on every word.
After a few stutters, her voice steadied. The farther she went, the smoother she got. The mess of logic Tom had butchered into nonsense—she straightened it out in a few clean sentences.
I'd seen the early draft. She'd put real work into it. Solid, smart. Then some self-important idiots had "improved" it until it barely resembled itself.
Ten minutes later she stood there, gripping the pointer like a lifeline, and said, small and wary, "That's all."
The room held its breath.
I didn't answer right away. I rolled the pen once more between my fingers.
When I didn't move, Tom jumped in like a damn jack-in-the-box. "Mr. Sokolov, she's new. I told her her approach had issues. If you're not satisfied, I can transfer the project to someone—"
"I think it's great."
I cut him off. The pen clicked as I set it down. "Clear thinking. Solid numbers. A hell of a lot more useful than the garbage you were just talking."
Tom's face went red, then pale. His lips worked, but he didn't dare argue.
I looked at Willow. Her eyes were still wide, like she'd short-circuited. That stunned look was cuter than when she'd been peeling my shirt off last night.
"Take a break."
When I stood, she still hadn't moved. People around her rose and filed out, and only then did she seem to snap back into her body. She dropped her head and hurried off the front like she couldn't get away fast enough.
And the direction she ran?
That was my private corridor. At the end was my lounge.
I suddenly wanted to know—had she done that on purpose, or had she just bolted the wrong way?
If it was on purpose, it was a tease.
If it wasn't, it was her walking straight into a trap.
Either way worked.
She wasn't getting away.
?????
Willow
I cut down the hallway, turned into the restroom, and only when the door shut did I let my back hit the divider.
It was my first time in a meeting like that. Tom had always kept me on the outside, blaming it on me being "too junior." He wouldn't even let me touch the meeting notes.
If Ms. Foster hadn't called my name today, I probably wouldn't have known which way the damn door opened.
But I hadn't expected the CEO to look like that.
He had looked exactly like the guy from last night.
The second Artyom's face flashed in my head, heat rushed up my cheeks again.
I cranked the faucet and slapped cold water onto my face hard, like I could drown the memory. Drops ran down my jaw and into my collar, soaking the edge of my blouse. I didn't care.
I gripped the sink and forced myself to look up.
My eyes were still rimmed red. My lips were a little swollen. A small split on my lower lip—where he'd bitten me last night.
God, I was insane.
How did I confuse a company's executive CEO with a nightclub escort?
I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them again, the mirror still showed the same panicked, embarrassed face.
The faucet kept running, a steady rush. In that boring noise, I heard footsteps behind me—light. Leather shoes on tile, nearly swallowed by the water, but somehow it made my stomach drop.
I spun.
He was already inside.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Locked.
The room shrank.
He was too tall, shoulders like a wall. One step, then another, closing in. My lower back hit cold marble. Nowhere left to go.
"Two-fifty?"
His voice stayed lazy, but the last word hooked, like he'd tugged a leash. His tie hung loose and crooked, sleeves rolled to his forearms. On the inside of his arm, a faint red scratch—my nails from last night.
He glanced at it and curled his mouth, like he was reminding me.
"You really have the balls to name that price."
I didn't answer.
Water dripped onto the tile like a heartbeat I couldn't slow down.
He stood too close. Close enough I caught the scent still clinging to his shirt—cold, clean, sharp. Not cologne. Just him.
I stayed pinned there, forgetting how to breathe.
"Sir..." I managed to scrape sound out of my throat. Dry. Tight. "What are you talking about? I don't know what you mean."
Yeah.
I could play dumb.
He stared at me, eyes so dark they looked like a winter lake with a skin of ice—calm on top, dangerous underneath.
The smile didn't fade. It deepened.
He slid a hand into the inside pocket of his suit and slowly pulled out three bills.
Two hundreds. One fifty. The wrinkled edges pressed together neatly. The numbers stung my eyes.
Then his other hand produced something else. A pale pink lanyard. A plastic badge. The photo showed a girl smiling at the camera like an idiot.
That idiot was me.
"CEO of Sokolov Holdings, Artyom Sokolov."
He said it slowly, like he was reading the question out loud to a student who couldn't keep up. Then he leaned in, just a little—close enough that his nose almost brushed my forehead.
"Nice to meet you, Ms. Pierce."