Chapter 9
YURI
Tatiana watches Astrid leave with an expression hovering between amusement and disdain. She doesn’t even try to hide it. Her arms are crossed, her mouth curled in a smirk like she’s just caught someone sneaking out of a bedroom window.
I don’t answer right away. I study her instead. Tatiana is undeniably beautiful. She always has been. But I feel nothing for her.
Especially after Astrid.
Hell, the way I feel around Astrid is almost frightening. My body reacts before my mind does, like she’s a trigger wired directly into my nervous system. It’s irrational. Dangerous. And exactly why I shouldn’t want her.
But I do.
Tatiana tilts her head, voice full of suspicion. “I don’t remember getting that much attention at my interview.”
“Watch yourself,” I say evenly.
She raises a sculpted brow. “Don’t forget who I am, Yuri. I’m not some intern you can order around and forget about.”
Unfortunately, she’s right. Her family is still useful. For now.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I mutter. “Let’s get back to business.”
We head to my office and I gesture for her to go in first. She walks toward the desk, swaying like she’s on the runway. I ignore it and pull up the Abramov file on the shared drive.
We go over the logistics for next week’s off-site meeting—scheduling, security clearances, the Abramov wire transfer that needs to clear before the quarter closes.
I flag two vendor contracts for review and confirm Luk’s request for the South Loop property audit.
Tatiana jots everything down like a good soldier, clicking away on her tablet, perfectly poised.
When we finish, I close the file. “Find Astrid. Tell her to come back.”
Tatiana glances at me over the top of her tablet. “You want her alone with you again?”
I meet her gaze. “Yes. And don’t give her a hard time.”
Her smile widens. “Who, me?” She turns and walks out, deliberately slow. I know she wants me to watch.
I don’t. Not anymore. Not when my lips can still taste her and my hands can still feel the quiet way she trembled beneath them.
The door clicks shut behind Tatiana and I’m alone again. My thoughts slide back to the plane, uninvited but relentless. Almost two months, and I still can’t shake her.
The way she’d looked at me—eyes wide, lips parted, breath caught in her throat as I pressed her back against the bathroom wall. Her skirt bunched at her waist, thighs trembling beneath my hands. The heat of her skin. The quiet, desperate way she’d gasped when I slid inside her.
She was tight. Sweet. Utterly wrecked and entirely mine in that moment.
The memory hits like a punch to the gut. My cock stiffens against my slacks before I can stop it. I grit my teeth. No. Not now. Not here.
I shift in my chair and adjust myself, dragging my focus back to the present. I’m a grown man, not some hormone-wired teenager. Still, seeing her picture come across my desk after our tryst was a shock to the system.
I did my research on her. Her foster parents were clean. Kind. Middle class. Raised her well. Taking their name was an act of gratitude, of survival. Not cowardice.
She could’ve claimed Devereaux, but she chose Jones. And for that alone, I’ll respect her silence. I won’t force her to face the truth before she’s ready. I’ll wait. And when she tells me—if she tells me—it’ll be because she wants to. Not because I pushed.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. I sit up straight, adjusting my cuffs as the tension coils tighter in my chest.
She’s back.
“Come in,” I call out.
She steps in and waits for instruction.
“Sit,” I say, sharper than I intend.
She obeys immediately, crossing the room and lowering herself into one of the leather chairs opposite mine. Composed. Alert. Still a little flustered from earlier. I like that—rattled but refusing to break.
“Today was intended as a bit of a trial run,” I begin. “Orientation-by-fire. I wanted to see how you’d handle the pressure.”
She nods, folding her hands in her lap. “Understandable.”
“You’re sharp,” I continue. “You didn’t miss a step. From what I’ve seen so far, you know what you’re doing.”
She shifts in her seat, hesitating. She wants to say something. I can feel it. The itch in her thoughts.
“Speak your mind.”
Her eyes flash, and then the dam breaks.
“I noticed some inconsistencies in the operating expense spreadsheets while I was in the break room,” she says.
“Two entries for a consulting firm—Bradle & Co.—dated three days apart with different invoice numbers and overlapping descriptions. It could be a split contract, but the dollar amounts are too close. And one of them lists a vendor address that hasn’t been used in over a year. ”
I sit back, eyebrows lifting slightly.
“There’s more,” she adds, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.
“I ran a quick cross-check on the expense ratios from your Q3 summaries, and the numbers don’t track with the ledger entries in procurement.
Either someone duplicated an entry, or they’re running costs through multiple accounts to mask real allocation totals. ”
She stops. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure if it was my place to say anything yet.”
I stare at her in silence for a beat. Then I let out a slow breath and push back from my desk.
She stiffens, misreading my reaction. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I say, eyes locked on hers. “You did everything right.”
She blinks.
“And that’s the problem.”
Confusion flickers across her face. “I don’t follow.”
“The discrepancies you caught? They should’ve already been flagged. I’ve got three analysts upstairs who have been reviewing those same reports for a week. And not one of them found what you just laid out in five minutes.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but I raise a hand to stop her.
“I was going to wait until Friday to make this official,” I say. “But you’ve earned it.”
She looks down at the folder, then back at me.
“I’m offering you a probational position. HR will send your on-boarding materials by end of day. Go home and review, sign, and return them by tomorrow.”
She nods slowly, absorbing the words.
“And tomorrow,” I say, standing, “you report directly to my office.”
Her breath catches, just slightly, but I don’t miss it.
Astrid rises, her movements smooth and composed. I can still see the undercurrent of tension in the set of her jaw, the way her hands flex slightly at her sides.
“Thank you for the opportunity,” she says.
I tilt my head. “I like what I’ve seen so far. But don’t confuse potential with position. You’ll have to work like hell to earn your place here.”
She nods. “Understood.”
“If you do that,” I add, my tone sharpening, “the rewards will be worth it.”
When she looks at me, I see a flicker of curiosity. Challenge. Heat. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says quietly. “Bright and early.” She gathers her things and leaves.
She questions whether or not I remember her. I can see it in the guarded glances, the stiff posture, the tension behind every too-pleasant smile. She wonders if I’m the kind of man who could fuck a woman senseless in a bathroom stall then forget her face the next day.
She’s wrong.
I remember everything. The way she looked up at me, lips parted, eyes glazed. The feel of her nails digging into my shoulders. The sound she made when she came, like she’d been unraveling for years and I was the one to finally snap the thread.
I’ll bring it up. Eventually. But not yet. She’s not ready. And truth be told, neither am I.
I sit back down at the desk, my eyes drifting toward the window at the city stretching out beneath me, and I let my mind wander.
I imagine her in my office again. Only this time, she’s not sitting across from me firing off numbers.
She’s gliding toward me, hips swaying to let me know she’s fully aware of what she does to me.
Her blouse is unbuttoned just enough to be dangerous, showing the curve of her breasts beneath the silk, teasing lace peeking out beneath.
She stops in front of my desk. Our eyes meet. Without a word, she slowly sinks to her knees. Like she belongs there.
Her hands slide up my thighs, firm and confident.
She looks up at me, those blue eyes burning with mischief and submission, a wicked combination that short-circuits my pulse.
Her lips part. I can feel her breath on me.
My head falls back against the chair, every muscle coiled tight, every instinct screaming for more—
I exhale.
My palms press flat against the desk, the cool wood grounding me.
Enough.
I blink, dragging myself back to the present.
I can’t afford distractions.
But damn, she makes it hard.