Time to deliver the wolf’s package to his den.
A sleek, black Aston Martin idles at the curb, its lacquered body gleaming underneath the lobby’s amber lights. A chauffeur in a charcoal coat stands beside it, breath pluming in the crisp air. I gather my coat tightly around myself and hurry out, the cold biting my cheeks as the city wind carries a faint hint of pine and street-vendor chestnuts.
“Ms.?Winslow?” the driver asks in a clipped voice, Russian accent unmistakable.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Mr. Angeloff’s driver. Please.”
He inclines his head and opens the rear door. Heat wafts out along with the scent of leather and faint cedar. I slide in, clutching the brown folder like it’s a precious artifact. The door shuts quietly, sealing me into quiet luxury.
We drive north out of the Financial District. Outside the windows, Manhattan sparkles in full holiday spectacle—emerald garland sparkling with white lights looped over wrought-iron lampposts, red ribbons blowing in the wind, shop windows alive with twinkling LEDs and various merchandise.
Snow has dusted the sidewalks, the streets appearing edged in stardust. I press two fingers to the cool glass, following the movements of the skaters circling Bryant Park and the ghostly silhouettes of naked trees along Park Avenue, their branches strung with fairy lights.
Twenty minutes later, the car pulls onto a quiet, coveted stretch of Sutton Place in East Midtown. Here the city softens into limestone façades, discreet canopies, and small parks. The car stops before a tower of creamy stone and gothic flourishes, carved griffins perched above leaded-glass windows.
The driver escorts me inside, then leaves. The lobby feels more like a private club than a residence. Marble floors, burnished brass fixtures, a large Christmas arrangement of white amaryllis and spruce on an onyx pedestal. Behind the mahogany desk, a concierge with silver temples greets me.
“I’m here for Mr. Angeloff,” I say, adjusting the strap of my tote as I hand over my ID.
He glances at it, then checks a list before smiling politely. “Of course, Ms.?Winslow. Mr.?Angeloff requested that you take the private elevator. It’s located just down the hall. It opens directly into the penthouse foyer. He also requested that you wait in his study. He’ll be joining you shortly.”
Legs a little shaky, I nod my thanks, cross the plush runner, and step into a small elevator paneled in burled walnut. I ride upto the penthouse, and when the doors part, I’m met by warm lighting and soft music—a piano nocturne drifting from unseen speakers.
The penthouse is breathtaking—coffered ceilings, herringbone oak floors, backlit modern art hung on the walls glowing like stained glass. Tall casement windows frame the East River, its black water speckled with winter reflections. A cedar banister curves up a sweeping staircase; somewhere a grandfather clock chimes.
To my right, double pocket doors stand ajar. The study.
I slip inside and gasp. It’s a gorgeous room, a sanctuary of dark mahogany shelves soaring to a pressed-tin ceiling, each ledge lined with leather-bound volumes and antiques. A fire crackles in the hearth, throwing gold against Persian rugs and a pair of oxblood wingbacks.
I perch on one of the chairs, folder balanced on my lap. For a heartbeat I let myself marvel. I’ve tasted privilege before—champagne nights and silk sheets in the Volkov mansion when I was married to Maxim—but this is something else entirely. It’s curated and drenched in pedigree.
And since I’ve been exiled to a shoebox in Queens, the contrast is even more striking.
I draw a steadying breath, eyes flicking across the spines. Tolstoy, Borges, an absurdly rare first edition ofAnna Karenina.Above the mantel hangs a black-and-white photograph of Saint Petersburg in winter, yellow lamps glowing like halos through falling snow.
I lean back, letting the chair cradle me, pulse slowing to the rhythm of the flames. For a moment, I allow myself to breathe.The fire crackles softly. Five minutes slide by, then ten. I check my phone—nothing. The silence is oddly comforting, though I can’t help wondering what on earth is taking him so long.
Still, if I have to spend an evening in limbo, a room like this beats watching Netflix on the cracked screen of my ancient laptop in Queens. I settle deeper into the wingback, the leather sighing beneath me, and let my gaze drift across gilt-edged spines.
I think of Vladimir. Of the way his presence can fill a room and squeeze the air right out of my lungs, leaving every nerve humming like a plucked wire. It’s wrong to think of him in such a way. I know it is. He’s my boss, my protector, my potential executioner if Volkov twists the screws tightly enough. And Maxim… the memory of my sweet husband’s gentle touch still aches. Wanting someone else—Vlad of all men—feels like betrayal.
But the want is there and there’s nothing I can do about it. Maybe that’s why I’ve been shaky all evening. Perhaps the butterflies beneath my ribs isn’t fear but something darker, forbidden.
I pull my laptop from my tote and flip it open, fingers rattling across the keys before second thoughts can catch them.
Symptoms of trauma after grief.
Results appear instantly. Insomnia, intrusive thoughts, emotional numbing. Check, check, check.
I bite my lip then type:How to stop panic attacks.
Breathing techniques, grounding exercises, blah, blah, blah. All things I’ve already tried, things that work until they don’t.
My pulse skips. I hesitate, then type a whole new topic.
Is it wrong to feel attracted to my boss?
