Aleksander’s jaw ticks, one vein twitching at his temple as he stalks into the office like he owns the very air we’re breathing. He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t even glance at Vladimir, not at first. His icy blue eyes are locked on me with such concentrated loathing I feel like I’m being skinned alive in slow motion.
As far as he’s concerned, I all but pulled the trigger when Maxim was murdered.
Vladimir doesn’t move. His stance behind the desk is pure control, hands relaxed at his sides, posture easy, eyes unreadable.
“Get to the point, Aleksander,” he says, firm but respectful. “Why are you here?”
Aleksander doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly lifts one hand and points a finger in my direction.
“Her.” The word lands like an axe. “She’s the reason I’m here.”
I flinch. My throat tightens, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. Part of me wants to speak, to defend myself. Say I didn’t do anything wrong. That I’ve kept my head down for nearly two goddamn years, hiding from this man’s wrath.
But I also know what Aleksander is capable of. I’ve heard the stories. Seen the aftermath. He’s slit throats over small business deals. Ruined lives over minor slights. There are people who have crossed him once only to never be seen again.
So, I stay quiet.
“I recently learned that you hired her. And I want to know,” he growls, turning to fully face Vladimir, “why you did it.”
Vladimir doesn’t blink. “Because I needed a personal assistant. And she fit the bill.”
Aleksander lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Don’t insult me. This is New York City, Vladimir. You think I don’t know what kind of talent this city has? You couldn’t throw a rock without hitting five capable, brilliant young women. Ones who aren’t responsible for my son’s death.”
There it is. Out in the open. The accusation he’s been carrying like poison in his gut.
My stomach twists. The words don’t even surprise me anymore, not really, but hearing them aloud, stated like a fact, still feels like being punched in the chest.
I want to look at him and ask why.Why he thinks I had anything to do with Maxim’s death. Why he sees my grief and my survival as proof of guilt. But I can’t. Because I know if I open my mouth right now, I might cry, scream, or say something that gets me fired… or worse.
Vladimir’s voice slices through the tension like a scalpel. “Watch your tone, Alexsander.”
Volkov stiffens.
“This is my place of business,” Vladimir continues. Still calm. Still composed. “And I won’t tolerate personal vendettas disrupting it.”
Aleksander’s fury knows no bounds, but he shuts it down with the discipline of a man who knows appearances matter. Without another word, he stalks across the office to the polished black-glass bar. The decanters are crystal, their contents a deep amber. He selects a bottle of Dalmore 40—Vladimir keeps it for closing nine-figure deals—and pours a single, measured finger.
The room is silent but for the faint clink of crystal on crystal. He lifts the glass, turning it once in the light as though judging its value, then drinks slowly, letting the whiskey coat his tongue. I sit utterly still, palms damp against my skirt, my pulse hammering so loudly I’m convinced they can hear it.
A small, worried voice in my head whispers that he could pull a pistol and end this conversation—and me—before Vlad’s security even reaches the door.
Because that’s the world we live in.
I stare at a point on the floor, fighting the tremor in my knees. If I lose this job, I have nothing left—no career, no safety, no friends outside the handful who still dare to return my calls. I’m living on borrowed time and a PA salary, and Aleksander Volkov is the debt collector who always finds you.
At last, he turns, eyes glinting over the rim of the glass. “Fire her.”
The words drop like an executioner’s order.
Vladimir sets his hands on the edge of the desk and leans forward slightly. “No.”
Aleksander’s brows rise. “You must be joking.”
“I don’t joke.” Vlad’s tone stays polite but steely. “You are a valued client, Aleksander, but not my employer. Teresa will remain in her position.”
“She is a liability,” Aleksander snaps. “She will always be a liability. You want a ticking bomb on your payroll?”
“Teresa is a personal assistant,” Vlad replies. “She has no access to critical accounts, no keys to the vault. She screens calls, arranges travel, and prepares files—duties she performs flawlessly.”
