Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Ella
Time moved like the Manhattan subway—once it picked up speed, there was no stopping it.
Before I knew it, December was half over.
Corner shops started hanging Christmas decorations, red and green lights twinkling in glass windows, the air thick with roasted chestnuts and cinnamon.
Central Park's trees got wrapped in golden string lights that glowed at night, making the whole city shimmer.
The office had already started prepping for the annual gala. It was a Volkov Group tradition—two weeks before Christmas, they threw this massive dinner party in the top-floor ballroom. All the department heads, core employees, major clients—everyone showed up.
Lily had been buzzing since Monday, spending every lunch break scrolling through shopping sites, hunting for a dress.
"Did you find one?" she asked, eyes glued to her phone screen.
"Find what?"
"A dress! For the gala!" Lily's head snapped up, like she'd heard something impossible. "You're not planning to wear your regular clothes, are you?"
"I wasn't planning to go at all."
"What?!" Lily's voice shot up three octaves. People from nearby cubicles glanced over. "Didn't you read the email? All managers and core employees have to attend! You're permanent now, and you're the lead designer on that project—you have to go!"
"I—" I wanted to say I didn't have the right clothes, didn't want to stick out like a sore thumb at that kind of event, but the words died in my throat.
Lily caught my hesitation and lowered her voice. "Besides, it's the perfect chance to network—you know what I mean."
I pretended not to and kept working on my drawings.
But my heart was already racing.
All managers and core employees would be there.
That meant he'd be there too.
Tuesday afternoon, I was at my desk revising a proposal when the internal line rang.
"Miss Collins, Mr. Volkov would like to see you." Emily's voice came through, cold as ever.
"Okay, I'll be right there."
I hung up, smoothed my clothes, took a deep breath, and headed for the elevator.
Things had changed since that day—though we kept our professional distance at the office, after work, he'd pick me up, take me to dinner, or just pull me back to his place.
Forty-second floor. The elevator doors opened.
Emily was used to seeing me by now. She didn't even bother announcing me, just jerked her chin toward the dark wood door. "Go on in. He's waiting."
I pushed the door open.
Sergei stood with his back to me by the floor-to-ceiling windows, phone in hand. Outside, Manhattan's winter dusk pressed against the glass—gray-blue sky tangled with the city skyline, his blurred reflection ghosting across the surface.
"Mr. Volkov?" I called.
He turned.
Today he wore a charcoal suit jacket, white shirt, tie knotted precisely. Silver hair caught the fading light, but those gray eyes warmed when they found me.
"Come here."
I crossed the room and stopped in front of his desk.
"Sit."
I settled into the chair across from him, hands folded in my lap, waiting.
But he didn't speak.
He just looked at me.
"What?" I asked, shifting under his gaze.
"Are you ready?" he asked suddenly.
"Ready for what?"
"Friday's gala."
My heart skipped. He knew I was going? No, he knew I'd have to go.
"I... I don't have a dress yet."
"I know."
He pulled a black box from under his desk and slid it toward me.
"Christmas present."
I froze.
"Christmas present? But Christmas is still a week away."
"Then I'll give you another one then." His mouth curved slightly. "Open it."
My hands shook.
The black gift box was velvet, tied with a deep wine-red ribbon that screamed expensive.
Just the box probably cost more than three months of my salary.
I untied the ribbon and opened the box, pulling out something soft and shimmering.
A dress.
Wine-red satin that caught the office lights, glowing with that particular silk sheen. V-neck—not too deep, but enough to show off collarbones. High waistline, hemline hitting just below the knee. Not too long, not too short.
I held it up, watching light slide across its surface, speechless.
"Try it on?" he asked.
"Here?"
"There's a changing room." He nodded toward the door to the inner room.
I carried the dress inside and closed the door.
The inner room was his rest area—couch, coffee table, small bar. An oil painting of Moscow's Red Square in winter hung on the wall. I didn't stop to look, just pulled off my sweater and skirt and slipped the wine-red dress on.
The moment the fabric touched my skin, I knew—
This dress was made for me.
Every detail perfect. Waistline cinching at the narrowest point, neckline following my collarbones' curve, hemline hitting right at my ankle's slimmest part. The fabric molded like a second skin but didn't squeeze—it moved with me, swaying when I walked.
I turned to face the full-length mirror in the corner.
The woman in the mirror wore a wine-red dress, auburn hair loose over her shoulders, a small expanse of pale skin below her collarbones, cheeks flushed pink.
She didn't look like me.
She looked like the woman I'd always wanted to be.
I pushed open the door and stepped out.
Sergei stood by his desk, document in hand. When he heard the door, he looked up.
His movement stopped.
The document hung mid-air, but his attention was completely gone from it.
He looked at me.
Head to toe, then toe to head, something burning in those gray eyes.
"How is it?" I asked, voice nervous. "Is it too red?"
He didn't answer.
He just walked over and stopped in front of me.
"Turn around."
I obeyed, the hem lifting slightly, catching light as it moved.
His hand rose, fingertip barely grazing the fabric below my collarbone.
"Not too red," he said, voice dropping. "Perfect."
My face burned.
"Thank you for the gift," I said. "I... I love it."
Then something came over me—maybe I was too happy, maybe the dress made me feel special, maybe it was just the way he looked at me—I threw myself at him, buried my face in his chest.
"Thank you," I mumbled into his shirt. "Sergei, thank you."
He went rigid for a second.
Then his arms came around my waist.
His other hand cupped the back of my head, palm pressing gently.
"You don't need to thank me," he said, voice rumbling from above. "You deserve it."
I pressed my face deeper into his chest.
God, just those few words and he'd already wrecked me. If he asked for the moon right now—well, I couldn't deliver that, but honestly, I'd give him everything I could reach.
I took a deep breath and lifted my head to look at him.
"I have a surprise for you, too."
His eyebrow arched.
"What surprise?"
"Not telling." I smiled. "You'll see."
"Ella."
"It's 'Miss Collins,'" I said, mimicking his tone when he called me at the office. "We need to maintain appearances at work, Mr. Volkov."
He stared at me for two seconds, then his mouth curved into that smile that made my knees weak.
"Fine," he said, stepping back and picking up the document again. "Miss Collins, you're dismissed."
"Yes, Mr. Volkov."
I went back to the changing room, put on my own clothes, and headed out. Two steps later, I turned back.
"Thank you for the dress," I said. "I'll wear it well."
He made a soft sound.
I left the office and closed the door gently.
Then I leaned against the hallway wall and let out a long, slow breath.
My heart still raced.
My face still burned.
I couldn't stop smiling.
I clutched the black box and walked down the hallway toward the elevator, replaying the way he'd looked at me.
That gaze felt like it could swallow me whole.
I started humming.
Not any particular song, just humming, the tune all over the place, but I felt ridiculously happy.
The elevator arrived.
I stepped in and hit fifteen.
Right before the doors closed, I suddenly felt—
Someone was watching me.
Not a casual, passing glance.
A sustained, weighted gaze from a fixed direction.
I jerked my head up, looking down the hallway.
Empty.
Just the fire door at the far end slowly closing with a soft click.
"Hello?" I said quietly.
No answer.
The elevator doors shut.
I stood there watching the numbers descend, an inexplicable unease creeping in.
Probably just seeing things.
Too much overtime lately, eyes playing tricks.
I shook my head, pushed the thought away, and kept humming.
Friday night at six, I stood in front of my apartment's chipped full-length mirror, doing one last check.
Wine-red dress, hemline below the knee, V-neck showing collarbones and a hint of chest. Hair down, curled into loose waves over my shoulders. Makeup—heavier than usual but not overdone. Red lips, slightly winged eyeliner, mascara making my lashes long and curled.
I spun once, the hem lifting slightly.
I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo for Sasha.
She replied instantly. "Oh my god, what planet is that dress from?"
I typed back. "Mr. Volkov gave it to me."
She replied. "Marry him."
I typed "shut up," then flipped my phone face-down on the table and smiled at my reflection.
Don't be nervous. You're a designer. You belong there.
I took a deep breath and grabbed the borrowed black coat—Sergei had said he'd send the gala details to my phone, but all he'd sent was: Six o'clock, downstairs.
I checked my phone. Five fifty-five.
Time to go.
A black sedan waited downstairs, not his usual SUV but a longer, more formal car.
The driver was a middle-aged man I didn't recognize. He got out when he saw me. "Miss Collins, Mr. Volkov sent me to pick you up."
"Thank you."
I slid into the back seat, hands folded in my lap, palms sweating.
The car merged into Manhattan's night.
Outside, streetlights streamed past like a flowing river of light. I breathed deeply, trying to slow my heartbeat.
We arrived.