He tilted his head. “I’m not your brother’s chef.”
“Oh.”
“And I’m not naked,” he said, gesturing to the apron like it counted as full clothing.
I looked him over one more time—just to be sure.
Yeah, I was doomed.
2 ♥?Manav
“Justin… talk,” I repeated, swirling the amber liquid in the glass as if it could somehow untangle the chaos in my head.
“Sir, it’s about the Russian deal,” Justin began hesitantly. “There’s a rumor circulating that we’ve cut corners during the renovation. It’s causing a bit of a stir online.”
I slammed the glass down on the counter, the echo reverberating through the silence. “Rumor? Or fact?”
“Rumor,” Justin quickly clarified. “But the timing couldn’t be worse with the upcoming international conference. We’ve got to address it before it gains more traction, or we’ll lose ‘The Palace Project.’”
“Deny it. Deploy a team. Fix everything if even one tile is off,” I muttered, rubbing my temples.
“Yes, sir. Also… your father’s worried about the fire incident.”
“I’ll handle it. Remind him to take his meds and stick to yoga.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And schedule a meeting with the legal team first thing in the morning. I want every detail about this project on my desk before we begin.”
“Understood, sir. Have a good night,” he replied before the line clicked off.
I sighed, leaning back in my chair. This wasn’t just about the deal. It was everything—this constant pressure, to control every moving piece in an empire that felt like it could crumble if I looked away for even a second. And then there was Sasha, my nosy cousin who also happens to be my PR manager and a constant source of my headaches.
She’d been calling nonstop, texting even more, each message more insistent than the last. Something about updating my public image, aligning with some new trend, or God knows what. Barely a second passed before my phone buzzed again. A message lit up the screen:
We need to discuss the PR strategy for the fire incident ASAP. Call me.
I groaned inwardly. Sasha and her relentless obsession with branding—it was a never-ending loop of debates, spreadsheets, and hypothetical PR disasters.
My headaches didn’t stand a chance.
Dealing with her meant diving into another battle over optics and damage control, the last thing I wanted tonight.
Of course, she couldn’t just leave me alone. This incredibly impatient woman decided to video call me. At one in the damn morning. Perfect timing, as always.
“It’s 1 am, Sasha,” I grumbled, trying—and failing—to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“I missed you, too, Hothead.” Taking a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee, she narrowed her piercing gaze at me through the screen. “Now tell me, why do you look absolutely batshit?”
“Don’t you have a life other than pestering me with rhetorical nonsense in the middle of the night?” I shot back, running a hand through my disheveled hair.
There she was—perched in her ridiculous, town-sized corner office, likely in a designer suit worth more than my driver’s annual salary. And that pen she was twirling between her fingers? Probably encrusted with enough gold and diamonds to fund a small country.
And no, none of this luxury was on my tab. Sasha could easily be crowned the richest young woman in the world without touching a single cent from me. She’d never cashed even one check from my company, despite her insistence on handling all my PR. She was, technically, a self-appointed, unpaid “employee” whose sole mission in life seemed to be ensuring that no article, interview, or social media post dared to mention even a hypothetical gray hair on my head.
“You need to fire your mirror. It’s lying to you.”
“And you need a hobby that doesn’t involve harassing me at midnight.What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait till morning?” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose.
