Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Ella
Monday morning, nine-thirty. I walked into the break room with my coffee. Lily was already there.
She wore a pink cardigan, hair pulled into a high ponytail, staring blankly at the microwave—her oatmeal still spinning inside, but her eyes glazed over, clearly somewhere else.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning!" She whipped around, eyes bright. "Ella! Finally!"
"I come in at this time every day."
"No, no, I mean—" She leaned in, dropping her voice. "Where were you Saturday? I sent you three messages. You didn't answer until evening, and even then, you were all vague!"
My face went hot instantly.
"I was busy! You know... personal stuff..."
"Liar." Lily narrowed her eyes. "You're blushing."
"I'm not." I denied it immediately.
"You are." She grinned like a fox. "Your face is red as a tomato. Spill. What did you do on Saturday?"
The microwave dinged, but Lily didn't even glance at it. She crossed her arms, blocking my path, clearly not letting me go anywhere until I talked.
I sighed.
"Fine. I worked. I went to a site."
"A site?"
"The Brooklyn project site," I said. "Mr. Volkov asked me to go with him for an inspection."
Lily's eyes went wide.
"Wait, you mean Sergei Volkov, our CEO, personally took you to a site?"
"Yes."
"Just the two of you?"
"Yes."
"Oh my God." Lily gasped, then grabbed my shoulders. "Ella Collins, do you know what this means?!"
"It means I need to do a good job on this project," I said, trying to pry her hands off. "Lily, you're hurting me."
"No!" She gripped harder. "It means he's into you!"
I nearly spilled my coffee.
"What? No, you're reading way too much—"
"I'm not!" Lily cut me off, words tumbling out.
"Ella, you know Volkov never takes employees to sites.
Never. My friend in project management says he usually just sends supervisors.
He just reads reports. But—" She paused, eyes gleaming with gossip.
"But he personally took you. On a Saturday. His day off."
"Lily, no, you're misunderstanding, you—"
"And!" Lily barreled on, not letting me get a word in. "You know how mysterious he used to be? HR said during orientation that the CEO rarely shows up at the office. He handles most things through video calls. But this month, he's been here almost every single day!"
My heart started racing.
"That's probably just because of quarter-end!"
"Quarter-end? Please, Ella." Lily rolled her eyes. "Last quarter, he didn't show his face once. But this time, he's here every day, and he keeps calling you upstairs. You know what everyone in the architecture department is saying?"
"What?" I asked quietly, though I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
"That you're the CEO's secret girlfriend."
"What?" My eyes went wide.
"Shh—" Lily clamped a hand over my mouth. "Keep your voice down!"
I pulled her hand away, lowering my voice. "That's ridiculous. I'm not—we're not—he's just my boss!"
"Then why is your face so red?"
"Oh God, that's not even—" I groaned, covering my face.
"And," Lily leaned closer, eyes full of mischief, "you spent all day Saturday alone with him. What happened?"
Everything from Saturday flooded back.
The site. The rain. The kiss in the shed. His hand on the back of my neck. His heat. His breath. His lips.
My heart skipped.
"Ella? Ella!" Lily waved a hand in front of my face. I snapped back to find her staring at me, hands on her hips. "You zoned out again! You're definitely hiding something!"
"I'm not," I said, but my voice had zero conviction.
"You are," Lily said confidently. "And it's about Mr. Volkov. Oh my God, you actually like him, don't you?"
"I don't like him!" I shot back too fast, even I could hear how guilty it sounded.
Lily stared at me for three seconds, then suddenly laughed.
"Okay, okay, I'll stop pushing." She grabbed her oatmeal. "But Ella, if you really do like him, go for it. Do you know how many women in New York would kill to get close to him? And you're the only one who's succeeded. If you don't make a move, the chance is gone."
I opened my mouth to argue, but the break room door swung open.
Brianna walked in.
Today she wore a white silk blouse with high-waisted black pants and Manolo Blahniks that cost at least five hundred dollars. Her hair was clipped back with a Tiffany barrette, pearl earrings at her ears.
She looked like she was heading to Fashion Week, not working at an architecture firm.
"Morning." She said, voice saccharine. "What are we chatting about? Sounds fun."
Lily immediately shut up and grabbed her oatmeal to leave.
"Nothing much," I said.
"Really?" She glanced at me, that familiar look of dismissal sliding from my shoes to the top of my head, like she was taking inventory, finally landing on the generic store-brand instant coffee cup in my hands. Her mouth turned down slightly.
"Oh, Collins." She picked up her personal mug—the one with her monogram on it, the one she used for her imported capsule coffee. "Still drinking that?"
Her tone was peculiar, the kind that didn't say anything directly but packed contempt into every syllable. Anyone who'd worked with her for more than two weeks could hear it.
"Yep," I said.
"I thought someone who's been going upstairs so often would have upgraded by now." She said casually, sliding a capsule into the machine. "After all, they stock Nespresso up there. Supposedly Mr. Volkov's preferred brand."
Lily's eyes flicked to me. I met her gaze and rolled my eyes, then turned back to Brianna.
"I just like this. I'm used to it."
"That's because taste needs cultivation." She said, tone like she was instructing a slow student. "You can't choose where you come from, but you can improve your taste. Of course, that requires resources." Her gaze lingered on me. "Some people work hard. Others use... other means—"
"Brianna," I cut her off, voice calm, "you know what I've been thinking lately?"
She raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting me to push back.
"I've been thinking," I looked straight at her, smiling slightly, "if Volkov keeps calling me in to report, it's probably because he thinks my work is pretty good. And you just spent all that time telling me to improve my taste," I tilted my head, "which suggests you've been pretty free lately."
Brianna's expression froze for a second.
Behind me, Lily made an extremely faint sound like she was dying trying not to laugh.
"Collins, you—"
"Oh, right," I stood up, coffee cup in hand, nodding at Lily, "let's go. I'll help you with that daylighting scheme. You said you got an angle wrong."
I pulled Lily out of the break room. Behind us, Brianna's cup clattered back onto the counter.
We hadn't gone far when Lily grabbed my arm, doubled over laughing.
"What you just said," she whispered, tears in her eyes, "that was amazing—"
"Stop laughing," I said, though my mouth was twitching too. "She'll hear you."
"So what if she does? She is idle. Ella, what's gotten into you today?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're different today." Lily studied me seriously. "You seem... I don't know how to describe it. More confident?"
"It's nothing," I said. "I'm just in a good mood."
That was a lie. A terrible one.
The truth was, when Brianna used that condescending tone, something in my head suddenly conjured up a voice—
In this company, only I decide who your work belongs to.
And just like that, I had backbone.
Which was absurd in itself. Getting confidence from a man—that was exactly the kind of life I'd spent the last two years trying to despise.
But the thing was—
He felt different. That sense of "you already have ground to stand on, now go stand on it." A subtle distinction, but a real one.
I didn't know what to make of it.
Lily gave me one of those "I know what's really going on" looks but didn't push further.
I shoved the feeling down and went back to my desk.
Three p.m., I gathered the architecture department's progress report like usual, stared at the Google Doc for a full three minutes, then printed it out and headed for the elevator with the file.
The elevator rose.
Forty-second floor.
Emily saw me and told me to go straight in. Volkov was expecting me.
I pushed open the door. The office was quiet. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan's skyline stretched out, sunlight pouring through the glass, gilding the whole room.
But Sergei wasn't at his desk.
I felt a pang of disappointment, but quickly reassured myself.
Maybe something urgent came up. I could come back later.
I walked forward a few steps and set the report on his desk. I was about to turn and leave when I heard a low voice from the inner room.
Russian.
I stopped, unsure whether I should leave.
Then I heard another sound.
A low whimper, like some kind of distressed animal.
I turned toward the inner room door—it was half-open, showing a sliver of carpeted floor.
This was Sergei's privacy. Maybe I should pretend I'd heard nothing and leave quietly.
But my legs wouldn't obey. After only a second's hesitation, I walked over.
The moment I pushed the door open, I froze.
Sergei crouched on the floor, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. In front of him lay a massive golden retriever.
The dog's coat was that warm, slightly frosted old-gold color. A leather collar hung around its neck, but it lay flat, paws stretched forward, head down, ears drooping, like all the strength had been drained from its body.
Sergei was gently stroking its head, murmuring Russian I couldn't understand, voice soft, tender, nothing like the cold CEO I knew.
"Mr. Volkov?" I said quietly.
Sergei looked up.
When he saw me, his expression flickered with something unguarded, like he'd been caught in a secret.
But it lasted less than a second before his usual calm returned.
"Come in," he said, standing. "Close the door."
I walked in and shut the door.
The inner room was a lounge area—sofa, coffee table, a small bar. The windows looked out over a corner of Central Park.