Chapter 19
TERESA
The hum at Angeloff HQ is extra sharp this morning—phones chirping, printers whirring, conversations pitched a notch higher than normal. Everyone is talking about the Bratva Christmas Gala.
I pretend not to hear the whispered betting pool on who’ll waltz with whom, burying myself in flight manifests for Vlad’s next meeting. Anything to keep my brain from replaying the events of the other night; Jack breaking into my apartment, scaring the hell out of me.
You’re safe now, I tell myself. Not a chance in hell Jack could break into Vlad’s place.
Or could he?
I’m so deep in gate assignments that I don’t notice the hush rolling across the executive pod until the faint cedar-and-whiskey scent reaches my desk.
I look up and almost choke on my coffee.
Vlad stands next to my desk in a charcoal suit that makes even the air feel more expensive.
No entourage, no subtle throat-clearing from Dmitri to announce him.
“Morning, Ms. Winslow.” His voice is polite, but his eyes hold an unreadable heat.
“Mr. Angeloff.” I manage to set my mug down without spilling. He’s never just appeared at my workstation before. Normally, it’s intercom calls where he tersely demands I come to his office.
He produces a thick ivory envelope stamped with the Angeloff crest, placing it atop my keyboard like a law being passed. My name shimmers in gold script beneath his.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Inside, embossed card stock lists Mr. Vladimir Angeloff he’s noticed everything, even the half inch I round down on my driver’s license.
“It will celebrate every curve,” he finishes, as if the matter is settled.
Fifteen minutes later, a seamstress in a slate apron hustles in with yards of deep-green charmeuse. Sylvie trails behind, forced into silence, holding pins like surrendered weapons. The seamstress drapes the fabric over my shoulders and smooths it along my waist, marking quick chalk lines.
Under the workroom lights, the satin glows against my skin, richer than anything I’ve ever worn. Mirrors surround us, and surprisingly, I don’t flinch when I look into them.
Sylvie’s smirk fades to a neutral mask. Good.
The seamstress pins the mock-up and steps back. The reflection shows an hourglass I usually disguise under blazers. Vlad studies it.
“Perfect.” He doesn’t say the word like it’s a compliment or an opinion. He states it like a fact.
My cheeks warm and not from embarrassment.
Sylvie clears her throat. “We’ll rush a finished gown by tomorrow evening.”
“Tonight,” Vlad corrects. “Courier it to the penthouse. Any overtime fees, add them.”
Her nod is practically a curtsy.
When the staff slips out for receipts, Vlad draws me into a quiet alcove lined with fabric bolts. The hush feels stolen. I exhale, hand brushing the unfinished silk at my hip.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “But you didn’t have to rescue me.”
He lifts a brow. “I didn’t rescue you. I reminded them of what was already obvious.”
A laugh escapes. “Obvious?”
Lust and admiration flash in his eyes, his gaze strolling over me like fingertips. “Painfully obvious. Where do I even begin with how perfect your body is? First, the freckles on your shoulders are like tiny constellations I trace when you’re asleep, mapping the sky of your skin.”
Heat blooms all the way to my ears.
“Second, those thighs—thick, delicious—the way your calves flex every time you pivot to hand me a file. Impossible not to stare.”
“You pay dangerously close attention, Mr. Angeloff.”
“Then there’s that curve where your waist drifts into your hips…” he draws it in the air, the motion slow and deliberate. “Perfect to grab when I’m taking you from behind.”
I pull in a shaky breath. His eyes drop to my mouth.
“And these lips,” he adds, thumb hovering near them but not touching. “Soft as silk, always parted when you’re concentrating. And when you’re coming.”
His gaze drifts lower, lingering where fabric stretches over my breasts. “And here—so perfect I forget how to think.” He places his hand just below my right breast, moving it up slowly.
The lights hum overhead, blood rushing in my ears.
“You’re impossible,” I whisper, cheeks burning.
“Impossibly captivated,” he corrects, tracing a fingertip along the underside of my breast. My nipple hardens at his touch. “Tell me, kotenok, do we continue this conversation here? Or back at home?”
I somehow find my voice. “Home,” I breathe. “Definitely home.”
His smile curves, dark and satisfied. “Then I’ll clear my schedule.”
We go back to the shop floor, my cheeks flushed, knees unsteady.
Receipts appear on a silver tray. Vlad signs without looking, but I glimpse enough zeroes to make me dizzy. Our champagne is topped off and we’re escorted to the front doors.
Sylvie, now the picture of politeness, murmurs, “Have a lovely evening, Ms. Winslow.”
I manage not to smirk. Vlad’s hand rests low on my back as the doors close.
Walking to the car, I catch my reflection in the dark glass. If Vlad can erase cruel whispers with a single sentence, maybe I can silence my own doubts.
At least long enough to glide across a Christmas-lit dance floor and show Aleksander Volkov exactly who isn’t afraid anymore.