3. Nina
NINA
The hostess leads us through the main dining room with the kind of careful smile people reserve for men like Luka.
I follow half a step behind him, holding my tablet to my chest while every woman within sight tries not to stare openly.
One or two fail.
I don’t blame them.
Luka moves through the restaurant like he belongs to the room more than the furniture does. He has the coat off now, the sleeves of his charcoal shirt buttoned at the wrist, his expression cool and distant again. Whatever passed between us in the car is gone from his face.
We’re shown into a private room at the back where three men are already waiting. One I know from finance. One from legal. The third I’ve seen twice and never been introduced to, which usually means Luka doesn’t want names written down anywhere.
Luka takes the chair at the head of the table.
I move automatically to the sideboard to set out the files.
“Nina,” Luka says without looking at me.
“Yes?”
“Sit.”
I turn. “Here?”
He lifts his eyes to mine. “You were told to take notes.”
“Yes,” I say. “I assumed from the corner. Where support staff traditionally go to die quietly.”
The finance man coughs into his fist to cover a laugh.
Luka does not react. “Sit,” he repeats.
So I do. Two seats down from him, close enough to hear everything, far enough to pretend I’m invisible.
The meeting starts immediately. I take notes in neat shorthand and keep my face empty.
My phone buzzes once in my bag by my heel.
I ignore it.
Two minutes later it buzzes again.
Luka’s gaze shifts to the bag just for a second, and then back to the man from legal.
I stare very hard at my notes.
The meeting runs forty-three minutes. I know because I count every single one.
By minute thirty-two I’ve worked out that Luka is irritated with legal, unimpressed with finance, and deliberately not looking at me for longer than necessary.
By minute forty-one, I’ve also become painfully aware of his forearms when he rolls his sleeves back once and reaches for the water glass.
This is not useful information.
At forty-three minutes, the third man closes his folder and says, “It’ll be handled.”
Luka nods once. “Tonight.”
The man says, “Understood.”
That’s the end of the meeting.
No one wastes words. No one shakes hands.
The three men rise, and I do too, gathering the pages before anyone can leave fingerprints or coffee rings or whatever else men like this leave behind. The finance man mutters good night. Legal gives me a look that says he’s sorry for my employment situation. And then they’re gone.
The door shuts.
Silence settles over the room.
I keep stacking papers because it feels safer than looking at him.
“Your phone,” Luka says.
I don’t glance up. “What about it?”
“It’s been buzzing all evening.”
“That happens when other people are alive.”
“Is he persistent,” Luka asks, “or are you encouraging him?”
I lift my head slowly.
Luka’s still seated, one arm resting on the table, watching me with that unreadable expression that somehow always feels like a hand at the back of my neck.
“That is none of your business,” I say.
He remains quiet and then finally says, “I’m curious.”
I laugh once. “That’s somehow the least reassuring answer you could have given.”
He stands, and the room feels smaller immediately.
I hate that. I hate that my body reacts before my mind does, every single time. He’s just a man. A tall, dangerous, impossibly attractive man who could probably make bishops lie for him, but still. A man.
Luka comes around the table and stops beside my chair.
Not touching. Not quite crowding. Just there.
“Show me the notes,” he says.
I pass him the tablet because that is safer than arguing.
He scans the page, eyes moving quickly. “Page two is sloppy.”
“My shorthand is elegant.”
“It’s emotional.”
I stare at him. “My notes are not emotional.”
“The line about Voronin reads like you were offended by him.”
“I was,” I say. “He interrupted me twice and called me sweetheart once.”
Luka’s expression changes by one quiet degree. “Why didn’t you mention that?”
“Because you were busy discussing whatever rich men discuss when they don’t want courts involved.”
He looks back at the page. “You left it out.”
“It wasn’t relevant.”
His gaze lifts. “Everything is relevant.”
I swallow.
He means more than the notes. Of course he does.
My phone buzzes again.
Luka’s eyes shift to my bag. Then to me. “Answer it,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“Answer him.”
“Why?”
“Because if he keeps interrupting my evening, I want to know what’s so urgent.”
I fold my arms. “That sounds insane.”
“Do it anyway.”
“You don’t order me around outside work.”
His brow lifts. “You’re here because of work.”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
Annoyingly, he’s right.
I grab the phone from my bag and unlock it just to prove I can do this without caring.
It is Daniil.
Daniil: Still alive?
I type back, Unfortunately.
Before I can lock the screen, Luka says, “What did he say?”
I glance up. “You cannot be serious.”
“What did he say, Nina?”
“He asked if I was still alive.”
Luka’s mouth flattens. “And you found that interesting?”
“No,” I say. “I found it easy.”
His gaze rests on my face for a moment too long. “That sounds sad.”
“So does your calendar.”
Something almost like amusement touches his eyes. “There’s another room reserved,” he says. “Alina will be here in fifteen minutes.”
“Lucky me.”
“You’ll stay until she sits down.”
“Then what?”
“Then you leave.”
“Do I get a medal?”
“No.”
“A raise?”
“No.”
“Then I’m struggling to see the incentive.”
Luka hands back the tablet. Our fingers brush, brief and useless and impossible to ignore. “Consider it character building.”
“I have enough character,” I mutter.
“I know,” he says.
The way he says it makes me look up.
Big mistake.
His eyes are on me, steady and dark and far too aware.
My phone buzzes again. This time I step back first and look down.
Daniil: Are you always this cheerful or am I getting special treatment?
Without thinking, I smile.
A mistake.
Because Luka sees it.
He says nothing for a second, then, “There it is again.”
I lock the phone. “What?”
“That smile.”
I try for breezy. “Maybe I’m in a good mood.”
“Were you?”
“What?”
“In the car,” he says. “Before he texted.”
I stare at him.
He waits. He really is unbelievable.
“No,” I say. “I was trapped in a luxury vehicle with my employer.”
Luka’s mouth shifts, just slightly. “And now?”
“Now I’m trapped in a luxury restaurant with him.”
He takes one step closer. And my spine goes rigid.
“And yet,” he says quietly, “you’re still smiling.”
I should answer. I should say something smart and sharp and safe.
Instead, the hostess knocks lightly and opens the door before I can get there.
“Mr. Kazan,” she says, “your guest has arrived.”
Luka’s gaze leaves mine.
Just like that, the room cools.
He turns to the door. “Bring her in.”
The hostess nods and disappears.
I hate how quickly I miss his attention. I hate even more that I’m relieved to lose it.
Alina Karelin enters a moment later looking like she’s never once in her life had to rush for anything. Dark hair, impossible cheekbones, cream silk, long earrings. She kisses the air near Luka’s cheek like they’re in a film with a terrible ending.
He takes her hand, courteous and distant.
He doesn’t look at her the way he looked at me three seconds ago.
“Nina,” Luka says, not turning. “We’re done.”
Of course. Dismissed before the date can begin.
I tuck the tablet under my arm and head for the door. Alina gives me a quick once-over, polite but dismissive, the way beautiful women sometimes look at women they assume are staff and therefore harmless.
She’s not wrong. Mostly.
I make it to the hallway before I realize I’m furious for no sane reason. I walk out of Maison, get into the back of the second car Luka arranged for me, and spend the entire ride home answering Daniil out of pure spite.
He sends me a photograph of his dinner. I tell him it looks like a lecture in beige. He tells me I’m impossible. I tell him he likes impossible because it gives him something to discuss between documentaries.
By the time I get home, I’m not calmer, just meaner.
At eight the next morning, I’m back at Kazan Tower with coffee in one hand and a headache behind my left eye.
By eight-fifteen, I’ve already received two calendar changes, one message from a florist, and one deeply sincere apology from Alina Karelin’s assistant for “last night’s emotional tone.”
I don’t ask. I just add it to the diary.
At eight-thirty, Luka walks out of the elevator and the entire floor changes shape around him.
He’s back in full armor today. Black suit. White shirt. Dark tie. Cuff links. Face unreadable.
No sign whatsoever that last night ended badly, or well, or at all.
He stops at my desk.
I don’t look up immediately because I have dignity.
“Nina,” he says.
I glance at him. “Mr. Kazan.”
His eyes rest on my face. “Boardroom in ten.”
“I’m aware.”
“Bring the acquisition folder.”
“I was planning to bring balloons, but sure.”
His gaze drops to the coffee in my hand. “That your first?”
“My third.”
“You look tired.”
I give him a flat look. “Your concern is touching.”
“It isn’t concern.”
“Of course not.”
He says nothing. I hate that too.
Then his phone lights in his hand. He glances at it, types one short reply, and slips it away.
“Ten minutes,” he says again.
I lift my coffee in a mock toast. “Thrilling.”
He walks away. And I watch him go for one stupid second too long.
Then I drag my eyes back to my screen and decide I need a distraction before the day kills me.
Daniil, conveniently, has already texted.
Daniil: Good morning to my favorite bully.
I type back, You need higher standards.
He replies, I’m open to suggestions.
I smile despite myself and tuck the phone beside the folder as I head for the boardroom.
The meeting’s already half full when I walk in. Senior staff, two board members, one consultant with the personality of stale bread. I set Luka’s folder at his place, distribute the briefing copies, and take my usual seat against the side wall.