Except my brain refused to shut up.
I slept badly, waking late with that strange awareness still humming under my skin. The memory of Rurik Korolyov’s gaze seems to follow me everywhere. In the shower. In the mirror. In the quiet moments when I should be thinking about materials and lighting schemes.
I tell myself it’s pressure. He’s powerful. He’s difficult. He’s the final obstacle between me and a career-changing contract.
That’s all.
The private elevator feels slower today, every second ticking by like it’s aware I’m anxious. I smooth my skirt and force my shoulders back, checking my reflection in the mirrored wall. I look exactly how I want to look. Calm and professional.
No one would guess my pulse is skidding.
When the doors open onto the executive floor, the air feels different. The receptionist almost glowers at me when I explain I’m here to see Mr Rurik Korloyov.
He points down the hall with pursed lips and judgemental eyes. “Mr Korolyov’s office is at the end of the hall. Though he may not have time to see you now.”
The clock behind him tells me I’m only ten minutes late. A miracle really. Surely ten minutes wouldn’t be long enough for him to cancel this completely?
The dark wood door is understated, and guarded by a man who barely glances at me before stepping aside. I thank him and knock.
“Come in,” comes a voice that’s unmistakably his, and I ignore the way my knees respond by wobbling slightly. I take a quick breath and walk in without giving myself time to hesitate.
Rurik Korolyov standing by the window, phone in hand, his back to me. The city sprawls beneath him in sparkling glass and flashing light, and for one disorienting second, he looks like he belongs to it. Like Vegas grew around his presence rather than the other way around.
He turns when the door closes.
The look in his eyes is sharper than yesterday. Focused. Intent. It lands on me and stays there, stripping away the space between us inch by inch.
“You’re late,” he says.
I blink. “Yes,” I agree as smoothly as possible, hoping I’m not flushed from my sprint from the taxi. “I apologize.” I place my portfolio of designs onto his desk.
I’m not about to tell him I was up all night thinking about him instead of catching some well-earned rest, and subsequently slept through my alarm making me late for absolutely everythingtoday. I’m actually quite pleased I managed to claw back some time by skipping lunch.
Something flickers across his face. His eyes narrow as they skim over me. Like he appreciates honesty even when it’s inconvenient.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.
The word hits lower than it should.
“I’d prefer to stand, if you don’t mind?” I counter. “It just makes it easier to go through the designs and samples.”
My hands are steady as I pull my tablet out of my purse and unzip the large binder. I make sure of it. He doesn’t sit. He remains standing too, resting one hand on the edge of the desk as if he’s deciding how close he wants to get.
Too close, my body answers immediately.
I clear my throat. “I brought revised concepts. Three directions, each with alternative palettes and layouts.”
“Good,” he says, and I ignore the tingle that alights between my legs.
Not now, Jessica. I tell myself, clenching my jaw at my own idiocy.
I open the binder to the first set and begin explaining my choices, grounding myself in familiar territory. Design is logic. Design is intention. Every decision has a reason. I talk about flow, about atmosphere, about how the spaces will make people feel without them ever understanding why. I drop Jasmine’s name into the mix, so he knows I’ve taken direction from his actual family, and not just made up any old random shit.
He listens without interrupting. His eyes don’t drift. They don’t soften. They stay locked on me, only leaving me to sweep across the mood boards, and my sketches. I feel that same awareness build again, hot and unwelcome. Every time I shift,trying to make my movements look comfortable and normal, I’m conscious of my body. The way the fabric pulls. The way his gaze follows without apology.
When I finish, the silence stretches and I have to fight the urge to fill it.
Finally, he speaks. “You’re thorough.”
