Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Ella
I survived.
That was the first thought that hit me when I walked into the Volkov Group building on Monday morning.
No arrest. No charges. No one blocking the door saying, "Miss Collins, you need to come with us." Everything that happened Friday night sank like a stone in water, and the surface went smooth again.
Except for this damn hickey on my neck.
I patted on the third layer of concealer in the bathroom mirror, tugging my collar up again and again. Barely passable. I took a deep breath, staring at my sleep-deprived reflection.
It's fine. That man doesn't know me, and New York's huge. There's no way we'd ever cross paths again.
I shoved the concealer back in my bag and pushed through the bathroom door.
The Architecture Department's open floor plan was already buzzing. Lily stood by my desk with her coffee mug, waving me over. "Ella! Get over here, big news."
Lily was one of the few people in the department who was actually nice to me. Two years older, brown curls, total chatterbox, smiled like a chipmunk.
"What big news?" I dropped my bag and sat down.
"Department-wide meeting today. Everyone has to go." Lily's eyes sparkled like the star on top of a Christmas tree. "I heard the CEO's running it himself. As in, Sergei Volkov in person!"
"Oh." I picked up a file from my desk, zero interest in this topic.
"That's it? 'Oh'?" Lily looked offended. "You know how many people work here for three years without ever seeing him? My friend in Finance said the last time the CEO came to their floor was two years ago. Every woman in the office did her makeup."
"So you did your makeup today?" I glanced at her noticeably heavier eyeliner.
"Of course." Lily sounded righteous. "What if he falls for me at first sight?"
I couldn't help but laugh. That was Lily—always turning everything into the opening scene of a rom-com.
"What about you?" Lily leaned in. "Ever wonder what he looks like?"
"Nope," I said.
That was the truth. My only impression of the CEO came from that blurry business photo on the company website—dark suit, standard pose, face unclear. In my imagination, Sergei Volkov was probably pushing sixty, maybe thinning hair, maybe a slight paunch, definitely nothing remotely close to "hot."
"I bet he's got presence." Lily went on without me. "I mean, he's Russian, you know? That cold, makes-your-knees-weak kind of presence!"
"You read too many books."
"You don't get it." Lily shook her head. "You'll see when you meet him."
I didn't argue further.
But her words circled in my head.
Russian. Cold. Presence that makes your knees weak.
I did know a man like that.
Tall, gorgeous. Deep voice with that Russian lilt at the end. Silver hair gleaming cold in the moonlight, jawline sharp as a cliff edge.
I cut the thought off immediately.
Too late. The images broke through like a dam bursting—Friday night, the pool, him gripping my waist, water rippling around us, his breath hot and heavy against my neck.
My thighs clenched involuntarily.
Fuck.
"Ella?" Lily was calling me. "Why's your face red?"
"It's not," I scooted my chair further under the desk, trying to hide my lower half completely. "Probably just the heat."
Lily shrugged and didn't press.
Okay, enough, Ella. Stop thinking about it.
I took a deep breath and shoved that body, that voice, those hands out of my head.
That night was a mistake. Call it an accident, okay?
New York has eight million people. The odds of running into him are lower than winning the lottery. So I'll never see him again.
Never.
That thought calmed me slightly. I stood up with my mug and headed to the break room for coffee.
At nine-fifty, the Architecture Department started migrating to the thirtieth-floor conference room.
The elevator was packed. Lily clutched my arm, still chattering away. "Think I should sit up front? What if he's nearsighted?"
"Absolutely," I said. "For the sake of your perfect eyeliner today."
Lily laughed, clearly pleased with the teasing.
We left a little late. By the time we reached the conference room, it was more than half full. We could only find seats in the far corner. Lily sat beside me, initially disappointed, but quickly got caught up chatting excitedly with other coworkers.
"I heard he's single," one woman said.
"Single or not, what does it matter? A man at that level, looking at us?" Another girl laughed.
"A girl can dream, right? And you know what? He's only forty! Forty years old, and he's built the company to this scale. Total genius."
I gripped my water bottle, staring blankly at the projection screen at the front.
Forty, single, genius.
Sounded more like a novel protagonist. But it had nothing to do with me.
The conference room door opened.
Our supervisor Andrew walked in, followed by several assistant managers. Everyone started clapping. I halfheartedly joined in, my gaze drifting toward the door.
Then time stopped.
He walked in.
Silver-gray hair combed back perfectly, gleaming cold under the conference room lights. Charcoal three-piece suit, impeccably tailored, wrapping his broad shoulders and lean waist.
My brain hit pause.
It's him, it's actually him, no, no, no...
I could barely stay in my seat. My heart hammered against my ribs, vision going white, coffee almost spilling on my lap.
Friday night, poolside, the storage closet, the lounge chair—the man who'd gripped my waist, who'd nearly fucked me unconscious, was standing right in front of me.
He was my boss. The Volkov Group CEO.
I almost groaned out loud.
Was God playing a joke on me?
Sergei Volkov sat down at the head table, his gaze sweeping across the conference room.
I froze, barely able to move. But those gray eyes just glanced past me coolly, then moved on, like we were strangers.
I quietly exhaled, sinking back against my chair as the adrenaline slowly drained from my fingertips.
Good. Okay. He didn't recognize me. Or he did recognize me, but he wasn't going to do anything about it. Either way, he wasn't pointing at me in front of three hundred people, saying "that's the woman who broke into my place Friday night," which was already the best possible outcome.
I quietly pinched my thigh.
Stay calm. This is just a regular quarterly meeting. He's just your CEO. Nothing happened between you.
Nothing.
"This quarter's core objective," he began, voice deep and resonant, needing no amplification to reach every corner of the room, "is to compress overall delivery timelines by fifteen percent while maintaining quality standards."
I stared at the projection screen, trying to force my brain into work mode.
Listen. Pay attention. This meeting concerns you.
"The Architecture Department's current bottleneck is in the proposal phase with repeated revisions," he continued, flipping to the next slide. "This problem needs to be solved at the source, not patched at the delivery stage."
I nodded, pretending to take notes.
But my pen stopped on the paper. Not a single word written.
I could hear his voice, but my brain refused to process the meaning. It was only processing the tone—that deep, slightly Russian-accented tone, exactly the same as Friday night when he'd whispered in my ear.
I looked down, staring at my blank notebook.
Stop it.
Lily gently nudged my arm, leaning to my ear to whisper. "Hot, right? Told you."
I didn't respond.
I felt it.
Something.
A gaze, from straight ahead, landing precisely, unmistakably.
I looked up.
The projection screen, the slides, Sergei standing at the front talking, his eyes on the data chart to the left. Everyone's attention focused on him. No one paying attention to me at all.
I looked back down.
Probably my imagination. Or some stress response, like my nervous system lying to me. That's all.
I wrote "Q3 delivery timeline" in my notebook, then stopped.
There it was again.
That gaze, like a needle, cutting through the crowd, landing on the back of my neck, ice-cold, making every hair stand on end.
I bit my pen cap, held out for ten seconds, then looked up again.
He was answering a question from some executive in the front row, body angled slightly left, gaze nowhere near my direction.
Okay, Ella, stop being so paranoid! This world isn't a fairy tale, and you're definitely not Cinderella.
You're just an ordinary, poor woman worrying about making ends meet every day.
That night was earth-shattering for you, but you really think that goddamn rich bastard remembers you?
Please. You're probably just one of countless faceless women he's had in his bed!
I chewed my pen cap until it squeaked.
But regardless, this was torture. That hour was the longest sixty minutes of my professional career, worse than any deadline crunch, any public criticism from Brianna, any bombardment of debt collector calls.
My back started sweating at ten o'clock sharp and by now had plastered my shirt to my spine.
Finally.
"That concludes today's meeting." He closed his folder. "Submit revised quarterly plans by end of week."
I shot up from my seat, clutching my notebook and water bottle, moving with the flow toward the door. Almost there, almost out! Just get through that door, go downstairs, back to my desk, and pretend none of this happened.
"Ella Collins from the Architecture Design Group." The devil's voice rang out behind me. "You stay."
Every eye in the Architecture Department landed on me in the same second.
My footsteps stopped.
What the fuck?!
My brain completely stopped functioning.
Lily turned around in the crowd to look at me, eyes wide as saucers, silently mouthing: What happened?
I don't know. I have no idea. All I know is I'm screwed.
The rest of the Architecture Department filed out one by one, everyone throwing me a glance as they passed—curious, sympathetic, gleeful. Brianna even hummed softly as she walked by, a smile on her lips that made my teeth grind.
The door closed.