“Yes,” he confirms, clearly annoyed by my questioning him. “Is there a problem?”
"No," I calmly reply, "aside from the fact that the St. Regis suite books out weeks in advance. Two days' notice is asking for a miracle."
His gaze cools, his lips forming a straight line. "Then I suggest you start praying."
"Prayer won't get us a conference room. A realistic timeline might."
Something flashes in his eyes—dangerous amusement, maybe. Like a wolf deciding whether you're prey or entertainment.
"Negotiating with me, Teresa?" he says quietly. "Bold."
"I thought you’d appreciate the honesty."
"I appreciate results." He leans forward, palms flat on the desk. The movement is slow, deliberate. Predatory. "But since I’m in the holiday spirit, let's make this interesting."
My pulse kicks up. "Interesting?"
"If you secure the suite and the jet by end of day tomorrow, you get the full Christmas holiday off. December 23rd through January 2nd." His eyes lock on mine. "If you fail, you work the Baltimore trip. All of it. No assistant. No backup. Every meeting, every meal, every late-night revision."
The room suddenly feels smaller. Hotter.
He doesn't give anyone the full Christmas holiday.Ever.
I've heard the other assistants complain about skeleton crews and rotating schedules. Two days off if you're lucky.
"That's one enticing offer," I say, keeping my voice level. "Yet, you're betting against an impossible timeline."
"Then don't accept." He straightens, adjusting his cuff with casual arrogance. "Walk away. I'll find someone else."
He knows I won't. The challenge is already written in his expression.
Bastard.
"Fine," I say. "But when I pull this off—I want that holiday in writing."
His lips twitch. Not a smile exactly, but close enough to unsettle me. "Done."
"And if I need to call in favors from your contacts, I expect full access. No runaround from your people."
He tilts his head slightly, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's deciding whether to solve or discard. "You're pushing, Teresa."
"You're the one who wants this done."
Silence stretches between us. The air feels charged, crackling with unspoken challenge.
"Very well," he says finally. "You'll have what you need. But understand this—" He leans forward slightly, knuckles resting lightly on the desk. Every nerve ending in my body stands at attention. "I don't make allowances. You succeed, or you don't. There's no middle ground with me."
Heat rushes up my neck. "I’d expect no less."
He holds my gaze a second longer before straightening. "Then we have an agreement."
"Yes, sir."
He watches me for another beat, and I could swear something shifts in his expression—something almost like respect, buried deep beneath all that ice.
The charged silence returns. My heart thuds in my chest, his nearness like electricity along my skin.
The intercom crackles abruptly, breaking the tension. "Mr. Angeloff," his secretary's stern voice announces. "Aleksander Volkov is here."
