Now is not the time to behave like a crush-struck-teenager.
I’ve spent the last ten years focused on work, on survival, on building something solid in an industry that eats people alive if they hesitate. I don’t notice men. Not like this. Not at all.
This feels… invasive. Unwelcome. Like my body has betrayed me.
His gaze sweeps the room once, detached, assessing. When it lands on me again, it doesn’t linger.
I force myself to breathe.
Get it together.
Jasmine catches my eye and smiles, crossing the room to greet me with a light touch to my arm. “Jessica, I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Of course,” I say smoothly. “Thank you for having me.”
“This,” she says, turning back toward the men, “is the designer I told you about.”
Introductions begin. Names pass around the table. I shake hands, meet eyes, keep my composure intact. When she introduces him, his name lands differently. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t offer anything but a brief, cool acknowledgment.
Great. This is all one sided. Maybe I’m ovulating or something… If I can just get through this meeting, I can leave, and probably have nothing to do with Rurik Korolyov ever again.
As I begin my presentation, I’m acutely aware of him watching me. I tell myself that everyone is looking at me, that’s the point of a presentation. Only there’s something different with him…as if he’s not just listening to what I’m saying, but taking everything about me and memorizing it.
I try to balance out the eye contact between everyone sitting around the table. Try to make it seem like I am unflustered and totally calm when my insides feel like an inferno and are only getting hotter under the steady gaze of his crystal blue eyes.
By the time I finish my presentation and take a small sip of water, I have to tell myself to lower my shoulders and relax my posture.
Then the questions begin.
First the construction company, with a question around timeframes and cost. Then the architect arguing about the clash between my style and his own. One of the accountants scoffsat the price of the carpets I’ve chosen; despite offering three different price points and then the hotel manager complains about the amount of time it would take to complete the work in stages, so the hotel doesn’t have to close.
I field every single question, one after the other, there’s nothing they can throw at me that I can’t handle. I’m beginning to slip into that feeling of success, I can see I’m winning each of them over. Excitement builds in my chest.
Then Rurik Korolyov says; “I don’t like it.”
Rurik
“I don’t like it.”
The words aren’t meant to be cruel, but the room stills instantly.
Every person at the table knows my voice well enough to recognize that tone. It isn’t irritation or negotiation. It’s assessment. The kind that ends conversations rather than opens them.
Jessica doesn’t flinch and that alone is impressive.
She turns her attention fully to me, calm and steady, hands folded neatly in front of her tablet. No defensive edge. No false confidence. Just readiness.
“Can you tell me why?” she asks.
I shouldn’t be looking at her mouth when she speaks, but I am. At the soft shape of it. At the way she doesn’t rush to fill the silence when I don’t answer immediately.
She isn’t afraid. She genuinely looks open to my feedback and ready to take it on board.
The truth is, I don’t dislike the work.
I dislike the way my focus has narrowed to her presence in the room. The way the cut of her skirt pulls my attention over the shape of her hips before I can stop myself. The way the silk blouse fits her like it was chosen for my personal torment. Theway her red hair is twisted up, exposing the fragile line of her neck like she has no idea how dangerous that is.
I don’t like the way my body has decided she matters.
