Chapter 7
ASTRID
Ivanov Holdings towers over the street like it owns Chicago. A mirrored monolith of black steel and power, the building looms, larger than life, cold and precise.
Just like the Ivanovs themselves.
I stand on the curb, heels anchored, breath misting in the morning air, trying not to look like a woman walking straight into the mouth of something that might eat her alive.
It’s going to be fine.
I smooth my blouse—cream silk tucked into charcoal slacks—and adjust the strap of my leather tote. I spent forty-five minutes getting ready this morning, reapplying lipstick three times before deciding on “confident nude” instead of “nervous red.”
“First day?” the doorman asks as I pass.
God, is it that obvious? I nod. “Interview.”
He smiles, professional but warm. He checks my ID, then prints out a temporary building pass.
Inside, the lobby hits me like an ice bath. Everyone walks fast, speaks quietly, and looks like they know exactly what they’re doing.
A receptionist greets me, glancing at my temp pass. “Miss Jones? Mr. Ivanov will see you on the top floor.”
Top floor. Of course.
I mutter thanks and scan the area as I follow a security guard toward the elevator bank. Cameras are tucked subtly into the crown molding, biometric eyes disguised as decorative panels.
The whole place feels like a panther at rest—beautiful, sleek, and dangerous.
Less like a finance firm, more like a fortress.
The elevator dings. I step inside alone, glancing at my reflection in the mirrored interior. My pulse thuds at my throat.
You are Astrid Jones. Nobody knows you’re here.
Once at the top, the doors open to a floor that feels like a different world—quieter, more elegant, the air itself richer somehow.
I’m met by another assistant with a clipboard wearing a headset.
She greets me with an all-business, brisk tone as she gestures toward an open set of glass doors at the far end of the floor.
“He’s ready for you.”
Without another word, she leads me down the hall, toward the office. Once there, she stops, nods, then sweeps her hand toward the open doors.
“She’s here?” calls a voice from inside.
“She’s here.”
“Send her in.”
The voice… that accent…
No.
I step through the doors and stop dead in my tracks.
He’s standing at the window, hands in his pockets. Tall. Broad. Wearing a perfectly tailored, deep navy suit that defines him perfectly.
He turns slowly. Gray eyes meet mine.
Oh my god.
My stomach drops, then flips, then twists into a knot so tight I forget how to breathe.
He’s no longer the stranger with a Russian accent and hands that made me forget my own name. He’s the CFO of Ivanov Holdings. Potentially my new boss.
And the father of my child.
What are the actual fucking odds?
He stares at me, expression unreadable. Something flickers across his face. Surprise? Good. At least we’re both feeling it.
He crosses the room in five slow, deliberate steps. He extends his hand. “Miss Jones,” he says, voice low and smooth. “Welcome.”
No flicker of recognition. Nothing. Just a perfectly polished greeting. My name sounds foreign coming from him. Like it doesn’t belong to me.
My hand slips into his before I can stop it. Electric is the only word to describe it. Our palms touch, and it’s like my body short-circuits, every nerve lighting up with memory.
His mouth. His hands. The way he made me come undone.
The way he got me pregnant.
He still says nothing. My stomach turns. Does he not remember? Did it mean that little to him? The father of my child. Is he the kind of man who can screw a woman in the sky then forget her by the time they land? The thought makes me sick.
Six weeks of replaying every second. Obsessing. Regretting. Wanting. And he might not have spared me a single thought.
I pull my hand back too quickly. He notices, but his face doesn’t change.
“Thank you,” I manage, barely above a whisper. I clear my throat. “I appreciate the opportunity to interview.”
He nods and gestures smoothly toward the office space behind him. “Before we begin, let me give you the tour.”
“This wing contains internal operations,” Yuri says, gesturing to a corridor flanked by smoked-glass offices. “Strategy, compliance, risk management. Nothing gets off this floor without passing through one of those doors.”
I follow him through the top floor like a soldier trailing her commanding officer.
Everything gleams—the glass, the marble, the people. The staff are dressed impeccably; sharp lines, crisp collars, stylish ensembles. A woman walks past in a pair of Louboutin’s. A man at a desk has the stillness of a sniper. No one slouches. No one smiles.
Yuri walks with silent confidence, one hand in his pocket, the other occasionally gesturing to rooms I barely glance into.
“Trading happens here,” he says, nodding at a floor-to-ceiling glass space where men in suits speak in low, urgent voices. “Family offices are next door, legal is down the hall. I’ll loop you in once you’re settled.”
I nod, playing the part, but inside I’m memorizing every detail. Every surname on the nameplates. Every logo.
Ivanov. Ivanov. Ivanov.
It’s printed on the doors, the security badges, the chrome letters outside the boardroom.
My parents’ blood helped build this empire. The thought makes me dizzy.
He stops so suddenly I nearly bump into him. “We’ll pass the executive wing next, where you’ll be meeting the others.”
“The others?”
“My brothers.”
The door opens before I can ask anything more. Two men are inside—one lounging, one standing.
The one seated—tall, golden, arrogant—glances over and smirks. The other—dark, broad, brooding—barely moves but pins me in place with a look that could freeze bone.
“Miss Jones,” Yuri says smoothly, “this is Luk, our CEO, and Lev, our COO.”
“Gentlemen.” I keep my voice level. My smile is polite, but inside, I’m screaming.
Both of them give me a slight nod; Luk’s gaze indifferent, Lev’s unreadable. Neither of them says a word, the silence heavy and almost oppressive.
I feel their eyes track me as Yuri guides me out again. The second we’re clear, I exhale.
“They seem…” I search for a word that isn’t terrifying.
“Efficient,” Yuri offers.
“Sure. Let’s go with that.”
He chuckles, the sound deep and genuine, like he’s letting me in on something. It sends unwanted heat through me.
“They know you’re an interviewee,” he says. “And they’re not going to waste a word until you’re part of the team officially.”
“I see.”
Just as we reach a quiet corridor, he says casually, “I think I remember your father was a Sorbonne man, wasn’t he?”
I freeze for just a fraction of a second, but he catches it.
Does he know who I really am?
“No,” I say quickly, smoothing my expression. “My dad went to City Colleges of Chicago.”
“Oh?”
“Community college.”
He tilts his head like what I said was interesting but says nothing more. Just keeps walking.
My heart pounds harder than it should.
He leads me into a smaller office with glass walls, minimalist design, one desk, two chairs.
“This is yours,” he says, moving to the corner and unlocking a drawer.
I drop my bag slowly, like there’s a bomb inside. “What is this?”
He grins. “Consider it your interview. Part of it, at least. Let’s see what you can do while I’m standing here.”
He hands me a flash drive and explains that it holds a ledger with at least half a dozen spreadsheets containing subtle anomalies baked into line items. It’s a test.
“While you’re standing here?”
“Yes. Consider this the least amount of pressure you’d be working under. Take your time—I’d rather you get it right slowly than rush and screw it up.” He sits in one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk.
I settle in and open my laptop, plugging in the flash drive. Within seconds, I’m in the zone. My brain shifts into numbers mode like a second skin—columns, calculations, patterns.
Numbers don’t lie. People do.
Within minutes, I find a problem. Duplicate vendors. Two expense lines billed to different departments for the same date. Misfiled, but intentional. Clever, but sloppy.
“I’m seeing some overlap here,” I say, highlighting the area and turning the screen toward him. “Either someone’s padding reports or you’ve got a ghost vendor.”
Yuri leans toward me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. He smells like cedar and sex. My pulse jumps.
He scans the screen then smiles. It’s not warm or friendly. It’s admiring. “Efficient,” he says. “Most analysts don’t catch that in a week.”
I look away before he realizes what he’s doing to me. I want to hate him, I really do. But his attention makes me feel… seen. It makes me feel good.
I came here to spy. To dig. Not to want him all over again. I’m still mentally rebuilding my emotional walls when there’s a sharp knock on the glass.
Both of us glance up at the cause of the interruption, Yuri’s jaw instantly tightening.
A man stands there, all smug precision in a perfectly pressed suit, self-satisfaction oozing from his pores.
His shoes are expensive. So is his watch.
His smile is the kind that’s rehearsed in mirrors. Two men stand behind him, unremarkable.
“Mr. Ivanov,” he says. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”
“You are.”
Yuri doesn’t stand up. Doesn’t react physically in any way. He simply closes my laptop and leans back in his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Smug Suit glances at me. “And you must be… new.”
“Research assistant,” I reply with a practiced smile. My voice is pleasant, polite. “Well, interviewing to be one, to be more precise.”
One of the men behind him writes something down in a handheld notebook.
Yuri gestures lazily between us. “Agent Spalding. Miss Jones.”
Agent Spalding. FBI. The name crackles in my memory, connected to whispers and redacted files. He’s been sniffing around the Ivanovs for years. A parasite in a $4,000 suit.
He flashes his badge. “We’re just doing a courtesy stop. Updates for the CFO.”
Yuri doesn’t invite him to sit. They stare at each other for a long, tense moment. Predator to predator. I try not to shift in my seat though I feel like a loose thread caught between two blades.
Spalding steps closer. “She’s not listed on any of the on-boarding logs.”
“She is now. There’s no reason for you to expect you’d have up-to-the-minute information on the goings-on in my company.”
My pulse flutters. I don’t know who I’m more afraid of—this smug, well-connected fed or the ice-veined Bratva heir.
“You’re quick to hire. I hope you’ve warned the lady about what she’s getting herself into,” Spalding says, eyes lingering on me. “Especially when your department’s under audit.”
Yuri smiles without humor. “If you’re done wasting my time, I’ll have legal forward you the updated records.”
“I’d prefer to see things firsthand.”
Yuri’s jaw works, then he looks at me. “Miss Jones, why don’t you take a break?”
Translation—get out. But I don’t move. Not yet.
This is the first time I’m seeing Yuri rattled—although just slightly—but it’s there. And somehow, instead of fear, what blooms in my chest is something much different.
Loyalty.
I pack up slowly, eyes on Spalding. He watches me right back. I hate that his gaze feels like he’s cataloging me. I hate more that he probably has a file on me I don’t know exists.
“Actually, I think I’ll head down to legal for those notes. Nice meeting you, Miss Jones,” he says before turning and walking away.
Yuri and I are alone once again.