11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Aurora
“I’m wondering the same thing,” Sergei says, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s dressed in an elegant suit, and I immediately feel the urge to apologize to it for subjugating it to whatever sticky liquid is probably clinging to the booth.
His presence at Dancing Monk feels almost otherworldly, as if he accidentally landed on Earth.
On second thought, Sergei is too calculated to do anything by accident.
“I’m working?” I reply with a question, not sure myself anymore. I glance around to check if Dave is still hovering nearby or if he has retreated to his office.
“I was under the impression that you work for me.” At first, Sergei’s stare doesn’t waver, sending a shiver down my spine. But then his eyes methodically scan me.
Suddenly, I become acutely aware of what I’m wearing. “I do,” I say as my cheeks heat up. I glance down, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. “I planned to quit today, but I can’t.”
“Explain,” Sergei commands, his unblinking eyes locked on me. I bet he’d be really good at staring contests. The intensity of his gaze makes my heart race.
“My coworker needs to visit her sister, who’s having surgery, so she can help with her kids. If I quit, Dave will be down a waitress, and it’s either him not letting her go or me staying.” I suck in a breath, trying to steady my nerves. “But it should only be two weeks until she comes back.”
“Where’s this… Dave?” he says through clenched teeth. His question sparks panic within me.
“He’s in the back. But he’s a nasty guy—” I start to warn him, but Sergei is already halfway through the bar, heading toward the office in the back. I scramble after him. “Sergei—”
He swings open the office door with a loud snap.
“What the fuck?” Dave asks. Bits of food fly out of his mouth as he drops his burger and springs to his feet.
In two swift strides, Sergei closes the distance, towering over him. I remain by the door, my finger tapping repeatedly against my leg as I brace for whatever is about to unfold.
“This is Miss Sinclair’s last shift,” Sergei declares, his tone carrying the finality of credits rolling at the end of a four-hour movie.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Dave snaps, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“I’m her new employer,” Sergei says sharply.
“And I’m not waiting two weeks for her to finish at this…
”—he glances around the room—“fine establishment, before she can focus on her new job. Consider this…”—he pulls out his wallet, setting a folded stack of bills on the table with a deliberate force—“for your troubles of finding a replacement.”
“I don’t think so, buddy.” Dave jabs his finger at Sergei’s face.
I barely manage to blink before Sergei grabs Dave’s finger and twists it, forcing him to double over.
“What the hell, man?” Dave yelps. “Let me go!”
“Do we have an understanding that Miss Sinclair is done here?” Sergei asks.
Dave whimpers as he struggles to free his finger. “You’re going to break it!” he yells.
“Do. We. Have. An understanding?” Sergei repeats, his voice dropping to a low, menacing tone.
“Yes,” Dave gasps.
“And!” I say, before fully realizing what I’m doing. Both of them slowly turn toward me, and I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “Yara still gets to go on her trip.”
Sergei turns back to Dave, silently communicating that this can, in fact, get worse.
“Fine,” Dave says through gritted teeth.
“Very well,” Sergei says, releasing him and turning on his heel. “Let’s go,” he tells me as he motions toward the door, waiting for me to exit.
As soon as we step into the street, I feel the effects of my clothes, or lack thereof.
The October breeze is light, yet its chill settles deep into my bones.
I clutch the plastic bag containing my regular clothes to my chest, the wind pressing it flat against me, and quicken my pace when I spot Sergei’s SUV.
The first thing I notice is Pavel, Sergei’s driver, leaning against the car.
I’ve only seen Pavel once at the apartment and only from a distance, but the resemblance between him and Anton is unmistakable.
Despite their similar features, Anton has a warm and welcoming demeanor that contrasts with Pavel, who’s more stoic and distant.
The scar across Pavel’s face adds to his threatening look.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, catching up to Sergei until I stand in front of him, forcing him to stop.
Noticing my slight shiver, Sergei takes off his dark green jacket and steps closer.
The action makes me flinch. “What are you doing?”
“Stand still,” he orders, draping the jacket over me.
His hands linger on my shoulders for a brief moment.
The scent of his cologne—citrus mixed with spice—compels me to close my eyes, allowing my nose to feast. I finally understand what Layla means when she describes being drawn to someone’s scent.
I want to bathe in it, I want to submerge myself, let it wash over me, envelop my body and soul.
“I had an urgent meeting.” Sergei’s voice breaks through my trance, and I bite my tongue to suppress an expletive.
He opens the car door with a swift motion.
“A meeting with an international investor. He was only available tonight. But my nanny was busy serving alcohol to a bunch of degenerates. Get in,” he orders.
When I pull out my phone, I notice several missed calls. “I had Do Not Disturb on. I’m sorry. I can come now.” Guilt washes over me as I think of not being there for Misha.
“Too late. He’s no longer available. Please. Get in.” The ‘please’ sounds as if it physically hurts him.
I quickly climb into the car and yank the seatbelt over me.
“To Miss Sinclair’s place,” Sergei instructs Pavel as he gets inside the car. “You’ll pack your essentials tonight, and Anton will help you move the rest of your belongings tomorrow.”
“Hold your horses.” I pull my seatbelt back to face Sergei. “What are you talking about?”
“I think it’s best to have you live at the apartment. This way, situations like tonight won’t be repeated.”
I blink at him slowly. “You want me to move in with you?” I ask. Clearly, Sergei has lost his mind. Perhaps the fumes from the grease and the stale beer at the bar have clouded his senses so badly that he’s gone completely delusional.
Sergei turns gradually, his gaze causing my throat to tighten with unease.
“I want you…” He pauses. The weight of his words sends fire through my body.
“To be available to watch Misha at any time, day or night,” he adds the last part as an afterthought.
“We’re approaching a pivotal moment in my hotel launch, and I’m likely to be called away. ”
“You made me quit my job, and now you want me to move out of my room—”
“Your room?” His head whips toward me.
“Yes… I’m renting a room with some friends. I’m not going to move out given…” my voice trails off. Your history of firing nannies left and right, I finish in my head.
I cross my arms over my chest in defiant protest. When he doesn’t speak, I dare to pivot slowly, stealing a glance at his face. His gaze is piercing—dark gray eyes ablaze with intensity. “What assurances can I have that you won’t dismiss me in a week?” I ask.
“Would you like to sign a contract?” The corner of his lips twitch, like he’s amused by my question.
“Actually, yes,” I say.
“That can be arranged. Any specific points you would like to include?”
I think for a moment before saying, “You give me one month’s notice before firing me, or I continue working until August, which is when I hope to start my internship. Whichever comes first.”
His face is unreadable again, but I can sense an emotion resembling displeasure spreading across his features.
Did he plan on firing me sooner? Is he unhappy with me reminding him of my failures?
Is he questioning my ability to care for his son?
A wave of self-doubt creeps in, but I force the thoughts to dissolve.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“Yes. Can I get health insurance?”
He narrows his eyes. “All my employees are eligible for benefits.”
“Then, I think that should be sufficient,” I say contentedly.
“Good. My turn.” Sergei shifts in his seat, now fully facing me.
Despite the spacious backseat of his car, the distance between us shrinks, and the tension becomes more palpable.
“You’ll move into the guest room so you can cover for me if the need arises,” he says, and his gaze drops to my lips before returning to my eyes. “Your salary will reflect the additional time and effort expectations. I’ll also need a full report on what you and Misha do every day.”
For once, my lack of a social life will work in my favor, I think, given the demanding schedule of my new role as a live-in nanny. I assume he’s done, but then he adds, “And, given the publicity that accompanies me, I expect you to dress more professionally.”
I gasp. “I dress professionally.” Sergei gestures to my current outfit. “I usually dress professionally. I won’t be dressing like this when I’m with Misha.”
“I’d like this to extend to when you aren’t with Misha either.”
“You want a say in what I wear when I’m not watching your son?
” This is getting ridiculous, though I’m not surprised.
Men like Sergei Chernov are accustomed to power and control.
They know no other way to live than by telling others what to do and expecting compliance.
He’s the type of person who says, “Jump,” and you simply ask, “How high?”
“I think that if someone saw you dressed like this, it would reflect on me and my reputation,” he continues.
“What if I go on a date?” I ask, unsure why I’m even suggesting such a preposterous scenario.
His eyes narrow. “I don’t think you’ll have much time for dating. Misha requires full-time attention.”
“Apparently, so does his father,” I mumble, quiet enough he doesn’t hear it.