Chapter 4
LEV
I’m usually good at compartmentalizing my life. There’s business, there’s the Bratva, and there are women who blur the edges when I let them. But Mari refuses to stay in the box I put her in.
It’s been days since she first walked into my office, and I still can’t shake her. I told myself she’s just another employee, another body behind a desk pushing numbers. She is utterly replaceable. Yet every time I catch sight of her through the glass wall, something in me tightens.
She works with her head down, deliberate and methodical, with the kind of focus I respect.
But she undercuts it with small, thoughtless gestures that tear through my control.
Like the way she chews her bottom lip when she concentrates.
The way she brushes her hair back, only for it to fall forward again minutes later.
How her brows draw together whenever she finds something that won’t reconcile.
I’ve had more women than I care to count but the memory of her body tangled with mine that night keeps coming back to me, unbidden and relentless.
Out of nowhere, I remember the way she gasped against my mouth, the way she opened for me without hesitation, the way her skin burned under my hands.
It should have been forgettable. Yet the memory clings to me like cellophane.
My employees are starting to notice my distraction.
In meetings, I catch myself drifting. My eyes skip past spreadsheets and graphs, pulled instead to the faint outline of her in her office across the floor.
I force myself back to focus, only to realize the silence has stretched too long and that I’ve missed half a sentence. Their eyes flicker, uncertain.
I correct it the way I always do, with a sharp edge. I tear apart proposals that would have passed on any other day. I cut men down with words cold enough to sting for weeks. They think I’m ruthless. They think I’m distracted by work. I’m happy to let them believe that.
Better that than the truth.
When she brings me her first report, all neat columns and careful notes, I could tell her it’s solid.
I could give her the rare approval I offer when someone actually meets my standards.
Instead, I flip through it with a frown, tell her it’s not good enough, and order her to redo it by morning.
Her eyes spark with anger, quick and hot, but she swallows it and nods.
An hour later, I call her back into my office on a pretext so thin it barely holds.
She stands in front of me again, shoulders stiff, voice clipped, and all I can think about is how those same shoulders had pressed into the mattress when I pinned her down.
I ask questions I don’t need answered just to keep her in the room.
It becomes a cycle. I push her harder than anyone else, then I find excuses to summon her back when she’s been gone too long.
I tell myself I’m testing her, that I need to know if she can withstand pressure.
That’s a lie. The truth is simpler. I want her near me.
I want to watch the small cracks in her composure, to see if I can break past that professionalism into something raw.
I built my life on discipline. I control everything. Nothing touches me unless I allow it. However, she has slipped through my grip, and the more I try to lock it down, the more my control slips.
One night, I stay late, the building quiet, my lamp the only light left on the executive floor.
She’s still in her office, bent over a stack of statements, her blazer hanging off the chair.
Her blouse clings to the curve of her back, her hair falling forward as she scribbles notes.
I tell myself to leave, to walk out and let her stay alone in that square of lamplight.
Instead, I send a message through my assistant, summoning her one more time.
She comes with tired eyes but steady hands, sets another report on my desk, and explains her process with calm precision.
I don’t look at the numbers. I look at her.
The faint smudge beneath her eye. The indentation on her finger from the pen she gripped too tightly.
The soft rise and fall of her chest as she draws a breath.
None of it is my business. All of it feels like mine.
“Eat before you go home,” I say.
The words come out before I can stop them. I’ve never given a damn if my employees ate, slept, or collapsed at their desks. They’re tools. Replaceable.
She freezes at the unexpected softness, then nods once. “I will.”
Then she leaves, the door shutting softly behind her, and I sit there, furious with myself.
The next day, I overcorrect. I bark orders sharp enough to slice.
I cut her off when she answers. I make her justify decisions that don’t need justification.
I tell myself I’m breaking her down to test her resolve.
The truth is uglier. I’m trying to drown out the heat pressing against my ribs every time she looks at me.
It doesn’t work.
In the middle of a briefing, I catch sight of her through the glass, sleeves rolled up, hair falling loose, lip caught between her teeth.
A memory slams into me. Suddenly, we’re back in the hotel elevator, her pressed against the wall, my hand wrapped around her thigh.
My chest tightens so hard I have to grip the edge of the desk until my knuckles turn white.
I snap at the director, who was speaking. He flinches and starts again, his eyes darting nervously. I let him flounder. Better his fear than my distraction exposed.
By Friday, the whole floor is walking on eggshells. They know I’m hunting for weakness. They don’t know why. None of them realize the storm has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the woman down the hall.
She stays late again that night. I stay too, telling myself it’s a coincidence.
She works under the glow of her lamp, her face bent toward the ledger, and I can’t look away.
The desire to call her in nearly breaks me.
I want to pull her across my desk, silence the questions in her eyes with my mouth, remind myself that she is just another woman I can take and discard.
Instead, I sit in the dark and remind myself she is an employee.
The building is emptying, the air thinner without the hum of voices. She stands near her desk, laughing at something on her phone, and I feel a twist in my chest sharp enough to make me clench my jaw.
One of my junior analysts, barely out of school, still green around the edges, stops by her office.
He leans a hand on her doorframe, too casual, too familiar.
I watch the way she tilts her face up, smiles politely, tucks her hair behind her ear as she listens.
There is absolutely nothing inappropriate about the interaction.
Nothing obvious, anyway. And yet, heat surges through me so fast it shocks me.
A streak of hot, possessive jealousy shoots through me.
Before I know it, I’m out of my chair, crossing the floor. The kid sees me coming. He straightens, pulls his hand back from the doorframe, but it’s too late.
“Step away,” I say. My voice is quiet, but my employees know that I’m less dangerous when I’m shouting.
He freezes. His eyes widen, darting to Mari, then back to me. He knows who I am. Not just the CEO. Not just the boss. He knows the truth, the thing whispered in the corridors, the shadow that hangs over this building whether they acknowledge it or not.
“I—I was just—” he stammers.
“You were just putting your hand where it doesn’t belong,” I cut him off. I take one step closer, close enough that he has to tilt his head back to meet my eyes. “Do you enjoy working here?”
His throat bobs. “Y-yes, sir.”
“Then hear me once. If you value your position, your fingers, your life—you do not speak to her again unless it is strictly business.”
The color drains from his face. He nods so fast he looks like he might break his neck. “Understood.”
“Good. Now get out of my sight.”
He practically stumbles backward, muttering an apology as he retreats down the hall. His footsteps echo, quick and clumsy, until they fade into the elevator.
I turn back, expecting relief. Instead, I find her eyes blazing.
Mari stands behind her desk, arms crossed, fury in every line of her body. “What the hell was that?”
I meet her stare without flinching. “Discipline.”
“Discipline?” Her voice rises, sharp and incredulous. “He was asking me about a report. That’s it. You humiliated him for no reason.”
I step into her office, closing the distance, my presence filling the room the way it always does. “If a man stands in your doorway with his hand on the doorframe, laughing like you’re his entertainment, it’s not business. It’s a mistake. And I don’t tolerate mistakes.”
Her cheeks flush, but it’s not embarrassment. It’s anger. She leans forward, palms flat on the desk. “You don’t get to decide who I talk to and who I don’t.”
I let the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating. I can feel the heat between us, sharp as it had been in that hotel room, but this time it’s tangled with defiance. She isn’t scared of me. She’s furious with me.
And God help me, I like it.
“You’ll thank me later,” I say finally. My voice comes out lower, rougher than I intend.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffs. “You’re being an ass just for the sake of being an ass.”
The air crackles between us, charged and dangerous. I could push. Could lean in, remind her of the way she begged for me with her body, strip away that anger until it turns into something else entirely. But I don’t. I can’t. Because the truth cuts deeper than either of us are ready for.
She isn’t just another employee. I’m becoming dangerously obsessed with her.
I pull back, force my face blank. “Go home, Ms. Gonzales.”
Her jaw tightens. For a second, I think she might argue again but she only shakes her head, gathers her things, and walks past me without another word.