Stop!
I squeeze my eyes shut, mortified by the slick warmth pulsing between my thighs. Maxim flashes through my mind—sweet, gentle Maxim—and guilt punches me square in the chest. Betrayal tastes like iron on my tongue.
If Aleksander ever learned that his son’s widow fantasizes about Vladimir Angeloff, he’d put bullets in both of us and sleep soundly afterward.
I drag in a ragged breath; palms pressed flat against the door. My world now consists of boardrooms and vendettas, contracts that read like death warrants, and a boss whose very presence unravels me. But I survived a ballroom painted in blood; I can survive this too.
I square my shoulders and cross to the desk, opening a new travel request form. The glow of the monitor steadies me.
I will not be pulled into the madness of Vlad’s world.
CHAPTER 3
TERESA
Later that night…
My phone buzzes against the desk, the screen flashing with Vlad’s name.
I take a deep breath before answering. “Yes, Mr. Angeloff?”
His voice comes through the speaker, low and precise. “I need you to bring a set of legal documents to my home. Immediately.”
He doesn’t say please. Of course not.
“Which documents?”
“The merger contracts stamped this afternoon. They’re on my desk in a brown folder.” A pause. “My address is One Sutton Place South, penthouse.”
Sutton Place is old-money Manhattan, all limestone facades and generational wealth. I glance at the clock on my monitor and blink. Seven-forty-two p.m. When did evening slip in? The office floor is nearly empty, lights dimmed, the cleaning crew beginning their work.
“I was about to head home,” I tell him.
“Duty first.” His tone isn’t unkind, just absolute. “Text me when you’re in the lobby. My driver will collect you.”
“I can take an Uber.”
“No.” The single syllable leaves no room for negotiation. “The documents are too important. Be downstairs in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” I hang up, pulse tripping like a misfiring metronome. I don’t know if I’m excited or scared. Maybe a bit of both. The sensations blur together, heat and adrenaline tangling beneath my skin.
I grab my coat, slip my phone into the pocket, and stride toward his office. The corridor lights have switched to night mode, casting long shadows across holiday garland that now feels less festive and more ominous.
The double doors yield to my swipe badge with a soft click. It’s the first time I’ve entered his office without him here, and the space feels different somehow. The city sprawls beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, thousands of lights glittering like jewels against the dark winter night.
His scent lingers—a mix of cedar and leather, with a faint edge of smoked whiskey. I close my eyes and breathe it in, as though scent alone might conjure his presence. My body answers with a familiar warmth curling low, an ache I have no business indulging.
Focus.
I spot the brown folder, exactly where he said it would be, centered on the vast desk like it was waiting for me. I pick it up. It’s thick. Heavy.
A small, silly part of me wants to linger in here and trace the desk where his hands rested earlier, imagine those same hands braced on either side of my hips. Heat flares again. I shove the thought away, my cheeks burning in the empty room.
One thing’s for damn sure. I should not be having these kinds of thoughts about my boss.
I tuck the folder under my arm, turn off the desk lamp, and head out. The elevator bank is deserted, chrome doors reflecting my flushed face.
Heading down now,I text Vlad then slide my phone back in my pocket just as the doors whisper open.
