Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Sergei
Seven a.m. Saturday. I was already awake.
The Brooklyn project was one of three I needed to monitor closely this quarter. Site visits every two weeks—mandatory, not some spur-of-the-moment punishment. But today I left fifteen minutes early and took a detour through Queens.
I filed this under "convenient."
Forty minutes later, the car pulled up outside a decrepit apartment building in Queens.
The place dated back to the seventies at least—weeds sprouting from the brick mortar, fire escape rusted to hell, looked ready to collapse.
Uncollected garbage bags piled beside the dumpster, a raccoon pawing through the mess.
Ella lived here.
I hit the horn.
Half a minute later, the building door opened.
My eyes locked on her immediately.
Navy blue dress, hitting just above the knee. Fitted waist, V-neck. Cream-colored trench coat over it, belt tied loose. Hair down—red waves cascading over her shoulders, catching the morning light like fire.
She'd done her makeup.
I could tell. Light, but her lips had color, her cheeks had a glow. Simple, but beautiful. It pleased me immensely.
She glanced around, spotted me, and walked over.
I stood there watching her approach, every step making that dress sway.
Christ, was she doing this on purpose?
She opened the passenger door, slid in, voice tight with nerves. "Good morning, Mr. Volkov."
"Good morning, Miss Collins." I let my gaze travel over her dress. "Beautiful dress."
Her face went crimson immediately.
"Thank you."
I started the engine.
The car left Queens, headed toward Brooklyn. First ten minutes—nothing but engine noise and the occasional GPS prompt. She sat rigid in the passenger seat, hands folded on her knees, eyes glued to the window.
I could smell that faint scent of her shampoo, identical to what I'd caught in the elevator.
I'd planned to keep quiet. But her tension was too obvious—that tendon in her neck was jumping.
"Miss Collins." I broke the silence.
She whipped around like a student called on in class. "Yes!"
"You're heading to a construction site," I said, glancing at her, "not an execution."
Her face flushed. Her lips moved, finally managing, "I know."
"Then why do you look like you're going to your death?"
"I don't." The rebuttal came fast, but without conviction.
I shot her a look. She avoided my eyes, focused on fidgeting with her fingers.
"Did you eat breakfast?" I asked.
She froze. "What?"
"Breakfast. Did you eat this morning?"
She hesitated. "No."
I said nothing, pulled the car onto a side street, and stopped outside an ordinary-looking breakfast joint.
"Wait here." I unbuckled, got out.
"Wait, you don't have to—" she called after me, but I'd already shut the door.
The breakfast place was a regular stop. The owner, a Greek old-timer who knew me, grinned when I walked in. "Mr. Volkov, early today?"
"Work," I said. "The usual."
The old man glanced at the car parked outside and caught sight of Ella through the window. He gave me a knowing smile, asked nothing, and turned to prepare the order.
I returned with two paper bags and handed her one.
She took it, looked inside at the croissant, scrambled eggs, and fruit. Her expression shifted—something between curiosity and surprise.
"You...eat this?" She picked up the croissant and turned it over. "I thought you'd have those expensive, artfully plated breakfasts. Like avocado toast with poached eggs, or quinoa bowls."
"You've been on Instagram too much," I said, biting into my own croissant.
She laughed, a real laugh that lit up her whole face.
"So," she ventured carefully between small bites, "you eat this every morning?"
"Most mornings."
"Doesn't it get old?"
"Used to it," I said.
She looked at me, said nothing, and went back to eating.
The tension in the car eased with that small discovery.
"What about you?" I asked. "What do you usually eat?"
"Frozen curry," she said matter-of-factly. "Or chicken. Sometimes staff meals when I'm working at the restaurant."
"Tony's?"
She looked up, surprise flickering in her eyes. "How did you know I work there part-time?"
"Bosses have an obligation to know their employees." Not a lie—I had seen it, in the photos Bogdan sent me.
She nodded, didn't press. "Yeah, Tony's. The owner's great. Staff meal is pasta or pizza."
"You like pasta?"
"Love it," she said, eyes brightening. "Especially cream and mushroom."
Little girl.
I smiled.
Forty minutes later, we reached the Brooklyn site.
I grabbed a bag from the back seat and handed it to her.
"What's this?"
"Safety gear," I said. "Hard hat, reflective vest, work boots."
She took the bag, stared.
"You...how did you know my shoe size?"
"Employee file." I turned toward the site entrance. "Put it on. Catch up."
She stood there clutching the bag, expression so complicated I wanted to laugh.
Five minutes later, she appeared in the safety gear.
Yellow hard hat, orange vest, black work boots—paired with that light green dress and camel trench coat.
She looked like a fashion editor who'd wandered onto a construction site by mistake.
"This looks...weird, right?" she said quietly, looking down at herself.
"No," I said. "Adorable."
Her head snapped up, eyes wide.
I said nothing more and walked into the site.
The Brooklyn project was one of Volkov Group's biggest investments this year—a thirty-thousand-square-foot commercial complex. Office tower, shopping center, small art gallery.
Ella was responsible for the gallery design.
I walked her through the construction zone, explained foundation structures, load-bearing wall positions, future utility layouts.
She listened intently, occasionally snapping photos on her phone or jotting notes. When I asked her opinion on design details, she'd pause, tilt her head in thought, then offer her take.
Her takes were professional.
Not textbook regurgitation, but real understanding of balancing architectural aesthetics with functionality.
I began to see why she'd won best graduation project.
"Here." I stopped in front of an empty lot—future site of the gallery's main hall. "In your design, this section has floor-to-ceiling glass windows, correct?"
"Yes." She stepped beside me, surveyed the space. "I wanted natural light to filter in, let exhibits take on different lighting effects throughout the day."
"But did you consider," I said, "that this direction in Brooklyn gets intense western sun from three to five p.m.? With full glass panels, the exhibits will fade from overexposure."
She froze, frowned.
"I...didn't think of that."
"So," I said, "you'll need to adjust window angles and size, or install smart shading systems."
She immediately pulled out her notebook and started writing.
"Got it," she said. "I'll recalculate lighting angles and shading solutions."
"Good." I paused. "Any other questions?"
She looked up, hesitated.
"Mr. Volkov, can I ask something...maybe a bit presumptuous?"
"Go ahead."
"Why did you bring me to the site?" Her voice was soft. "This is usually the project manager's job."
"Because I wanted to see if you had the ability to face these buildings," I said it plainly.
She bit her lip.
"And what's the verdict?"
I looked at her—standing in the middle of the construction zone in that ridiculous safety gear, clutching her notebook, eyes full of anxiety and hope.
"You need more confidence," I said.
She paused, said nothing. But her eyes smiled first—those blue-green eyes that had held nervousness and uncertainty now melted into something bright, something soft. Then the smile spread to her lips, forming a small curve that made it impossible to look away.
My heart kicked hard.
Fuck.
After the inspection, the sky started spitting rain.
"Shit." I looked up. "Forecast said sunny."
"Manhattan forecasts are never accurate," Ella said, catching a raindrop in her palm.
The rain picked up fast.
"There's a work shed," I said. "Let's take cover."
We ran toward the nearest temporary shed, rain drumming on our hard hats.
The shed was tiny—just a makeshift metal shack, stacked with materials and tools. A broken umbrella leaned against the wall.
"Shit." I shook off my soaked suit jacket.
Ella was shaking out her trench coat, but too late—rain had already soaked through her dress and coat.
She stood by the entrance, back to me, shoulders trembling slightly. Water dripped from her hair down her neck, disappearing into her collar. That dark green dress clung to her body, outlining every curve.
Fuck.
My throat tightened.
"Are you cold?" I asked.
"I'm fine," she said, but her voice shook.
I pulled off my suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders from behind.
She stiffened, then slowly turned and looked up at me.
Rain dripped from her lashes. Her eyes looked freshly washed, glowing green. Wet auburn hair stuck to her cheeks, lips pale from the cold, but her skin had a faint sheen from the rain.
She looked like a mess.
But I couldn't look away.
"Thank you," she said quietly, fingers gripping my jacket collar.
"It's nothing." I stepped back, leaned against a shed post, put distance between us.
Not because I was a gentleman, but because I didn't want things getting more complicated here, now.
The rain intensified. Wind blew in through the entrance, carrying the smell of rain and earth. The shed fell quiet except for the rain and two sets of breathing.
"Looks like we'll be waiting awhile," I said.
"Yeah."
The shed fell silent.
Just rain. And our breathing.
"Mr. Volkov," she said suddenly.
"Yeah?"
"You're...very different from the rumors."
I turned to her. The comment surprised me.
"How so?"
"I thought you'd be a cold businessman, like all CEOs." She bit her lip. "But today, when you were explaining those structures and designs, you sounded...very professional. Not like someone who only understands buildings from a business perspective."
I was quiet for a few seconds.