Chapter 5 #2
My hands shook badly. Hot water spilled over the rim, scalding my fingertips. I yelped. Hot water sloshed over the cup's edge and splashed onto my shirt.
Right on my chest.
Cold. Then burning. I looked down at my white shirt rapidly turning translucent, the white lace edge of my bra clearly visible.
"Oh, Ella." Lily walked into the break room just then, empty mug in hand. She immediately turned her head with an "oh."
"Fuck." I bit out.
"Are you okay? Do you want to go to the bathroom and change? Do you have a spare in your locker—"
"I'm fine." I covered my chest with my hand. "I'm fine."
Under Lily's worried gaze, I stumbled back to my desk, grabbed some tissues, and scrubbed at my shirt, but the more I wiped, the worse it got. The stain spread wider.
"Ella Collins."
The office intercom suddenly rang. Emily's voice came through.
"Mr. Volkov wants you upstairs immediately."
My heart lurched violently.
"Now?"
"Now."
I froze, looked down at my soaked shirt.
No time to change.
I could only cover my chest with my hand and head toward the elevator with dread.
When I pushed open the office door, the first thing I saw was Brianna's back.
She stood in front of Sergei's desk, holding the file—my file—explaining in that voice polished for executive boardrooms. "...so I believe in budget allocation, we should prioritize the north district, given the land value there..."
She noticed the sound of me opening the door. Turned her head. Gave me a smile.
A victor's smile. Precise. Premeditated.
I stood in the doorway, hand still on the handle, feeling the marble floor suddenly turn to quicksand beneath my feet.
Then I saw Sergei.
He sat behind his desk, another file by his hand, but he wasn't looking at it. He was looking at me. Those gray eyes lingered on me for less than a second—swept over the wet mess on my chest—then moved away, returning to the desk.
His jawline was tight.
This wasn't the kind of cold I'd seen before—not the lazy, toying-with-prey cold, but something else, like the silence before tectonic plates shift. Quiet enough to be dangerous.
"...so this project," Brianna continued, a subtle note in her voice suggesting she sensed the atmosphere had changed, "if led by our department's senior team—"
"Miss Smith."
Sergei didn't look up. His voice was quiet.
Brianna stopped. "Mr. Volkov?"
"On the cover of this proposal," he pushed the file to the edge of the desk, fingertip tapping lightly, "whose name is written?"
Silence.
"Ella Collins." He answered himself, finally lifting his eyes. "Not yours."
Brianna's smile developed a hairline crack. "Mr. Volkov, Andrew thought the level of this project required someone with more experience to—"
"I don't recall needing Andrew's approval before making decisions." He cut her off, tone calm as if discussing the weather, but every word sounded stamped from a metal press. "Nor do I recall authorizing you to manage my staff for me."
Brianna's expression changed, but she didn't immediately back down. She took a deep breath, shifted her angle, and lowered her voice half a degree with an intimacy reserved for specific occasions. "Sergei, I just thought—"
"Get out."
Not a question, not a warning. Just two words, casual, like closing a window.
"What?"
"I said, out." His gaze moved to me. "Miss Collins, come in. Close the door."
Brianna stood frozen for three full seconds. She glanced at me—that look held too much, resentment, humiliation, something else I couldn't quite read, like anger at a card being forced into play too early—then grabbed her bag and slammed the door. The sound exploded in the empty office.
I stood there, motionless.
Sergei didn't speak immediately. He looked down at the file, fingers slowly turning a page, then turning back, the whole process silent.
"Come here." Sergei looked at me.
I walked over, stopped in front of the desk, head down.
"Look at me."
I raised my head and met his eyes.
Those eyes held none of the mockery I'd expected, none of the condescending toying. Just anger, pressed very low, very deep, like embers at the bottom of a furnace.
"This proposal." He pushed the file toward me. "You did this?"
"Yes."
"Then can you tell me," his voice dropped half a tone, making it more dangerous, "why Miss Smith walked into my office with it?"
"Andrew thought this project—"
"I'm not asking about Andrew." He stood, walked around the desk, and stopped in front of me. "I'm asking you. I gave this work to you, not anyone else, Miss Collins." He paused. "You let her take it."
"She took it straight from my hands—"
"You let her take it." He cut me off, eyes sharp. "You stood there. You have a mouth, hands, legs. And you did nothing."
I bit my lip, speechless.
He took a deep breath, stepped back half a pace, like forcing himself to maintain a certain distance.
"Miss Smith's uncle," he said slowly, "is one of several people in this city I have to shake hands with at certain functions.
This has given her delusions she shouldn't have—that the door to this office is always open for her. "
He spoke calmly, but bit down hard on "have to."
"But that doesn't mean she can take what doesn't belong to her." He looked at me again. "In this company, only I decide who does your work. Understand?"
"Understood."
"Good." He stepped back. "Now I'm giving you an assignment."
"What assignment?"
"Tomorrow." He returned to his desk and picked up another file. "Saturday, eight a.m. We're going to the Brooklyn site for inspection. This project needs field research, and you, as the designer, need to see the location yourself."
"Saturday?" I froze. "But tomorrow's a day off—"
My tomorrow was already packed with gig work, part of my debt-paying existence.
But...
He raised his eyes. "Problem?"
"No."
"Good." He waved a hand. "Now get out. Tomorrow morning, eight sharp. Don't be late. And—"
He walked over deliberately. I was confused, about to step back, when suddenly a thick cedar scent surrounded me—he'd draped his jacket over my shoulders.
He leaned down, moved close. I could barely stand.
"Little bear pattern? Quite the view, but I don't want my employees distracted by it. Better if only the boss gets to enjoy it."
My face completely ignited. I clutched the jacket collar and fled.
"So—" Sasha rolled up a slice of margherita, sized perfectly to fit in her mouth, "he calls you up every single day."
I groaned and pressed my forehead to the table.
Tony's Trattoria was packed. Friday night, every wage slave in Manhattan crammed in here, pretending a seven-dollar pizza and three-dollar wine meant they were still enjoying life.
We sat in a booth by the window, where I worked.
I'd gotten the restaurant manager to scratch me off the schedule at three this afternoon.
"Ella."
I lifted my head.
Sasha was looking at me.
Her hair was a new color—pinker than last Friday's pink, fluorescent pink. Her mascara looked like two little brushes. She'd just shoved pizza in her mouth with zero grace. Cheese still clung to the corner of her lips.
But her eyes were serious.
"Babe." She said. "We need to have a serious talk."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Tomorrow you're going to a site with him. Alone. Just you two."
"There'll probably be a driver... right?" I countered weakly.
"Ella Collins." She put down the pizza, planted both hands on the table, and leaned toward me. "Do you know what this means?"
"Overtime?"
"No," she said. "He's courting you."
"What?" I nearly spit out my water. "You're insane. He's my boss—"
"So?" Sasha cut me off. "Bosses can't chase employees? And you're forgetting what happened Friday night."
My face burned.
"That... that was different."
"How?" Sasha said. "Ella, wake up. If a man isn't interested in you, he doesn't find excuses to see you constantly, doesn't smell your hair in elevators, doesn't get that angry when you hand your work to someone else, and doesn't specifically kick that woman out."
"He's just... just playing with me."
"Maybe at first," Sasha said. "But not anymore. He even gave you his jacket. He was jealous! Can't you see? He cares about you."
"He doesn't care." I shook my head. "He just... just wants my body."
"So what?" Sasha shrugged. "What if you want his too?"
"I don't—"
"Stop lying to yourself." Sasha cut me off. "Every time you mention him, your eyes light up. You like him, Ella. Admit it."
I opened my mouth to argue, but no words came.
Because she was right.
I liked him.
I fucking liked this man who'd forced me Friday night, teased me in elevators, played with me in his office.
"I'm insane," I said quietly. "I must be insane."
"Maybe." Sasha smiled. "But at least you're a happy lunatic."
"I'm not happy," I said. "I'm in agony every day."
"Then do something about it," Sasha said. "Tomorrow you two will be alone. It's a perfect opportunity."
"What opportunity?"
"Seduce him."
"What?!" My eyes went wide.
"Seduce him," Sasha said seriously. "Ella, you've already slept with him. What are you afraid of now? If you like him, be proactive."
"I can't—"
"Why not?" Sasha said. "Because he's your boss? Please, what century is this? Because you're afraid of rejection? But he's obviously interested in you. Listen to me. Tomorrow, don't wear those stiff pencil skirts you wear to work. Wear that Reformation dress you got half-price last year."
"That's for summer—"
"It's October in New York, throw on a jacket. Then do light makeup. Kill him."
I buried my face in my hands.
"Sasha—"
"Say 'okay.'"
"Sasha, I really don't—"
"Say 'okay,'" she said loudly, "or I'm emailing your company's HR tip line right now."
I lifted my face from my hands.
"You don't even know the address."
"I'll Google it."
I took a deep breath.
Outside, New York was raining. The glass window wore a thin layer of fog, smudging the streetlights into blobs of light. My friend, my best friend, with her fluorescent pink hair and cheese-smeared mouth, was looking at me, waiting for an answer.
I thought of Sergei. Thought of those cruel, mesmerizing gray eyes.
I was an adult.
I knew Sasha meant well.
I knew this would end with me in tears.
I knew—
"Okay." I closed my eyes and said quietly.
"What?"
"Okay." I opened my eyes and looked at her. "I'll wear the Reformation tomorrow."
Sasha let out a shriek. The whole restaurant looked over.
"I hate you," I said.
"I love you," she said. "Now, another glass of wine."