The words surprise both of us.
Her breath catches. “Then why are you treating me like this?”
I turn away from her and press the button on my desk phone. “Cancel the rest of my day,” I tell the receptionist calmly. “I’m not taking calls.”
There’s a pause on the other end. Then, “Yes, Mr. Korolyov.”
The line goes dead.
Jessica stares at me. “You can’t just keep me here.”
“I can,” I reply evenly. I face her again, forcing myself to keep some distance between us. “Your mother stole from my family. From men whose money and power were tied to very delicate arrangements. When she vanished, she left a cut that never stopped bleeding.”
“I’m not her,” Jessica says fiercely. “I was barely a teenager when she left me with nothing. No money. No explanation. No one to look after me.”
I believe her.
That’s the problem.
“Then you understand why this puts you in a difficult position,” I say.
She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No. I really don’t. Because I don’t know what she did. I certainly didn’t benefit from it. And I sure as hell didn’t plan my career around ending up in your office. If I had any inclination that you were somehow tied to my mother I would never have agreed to meet Jasmine in the first place.”
Her chest rises and falls quickly now. Anger and pride sharpen the air in the room.
She’s magnificent like this. Flushed in her fury and breathing deep enough that the buttons on her spouse strain with every inhale.
“I earned this job,” she continues. “I earned every inch of my reputation without her name, without her help. And you don’t get to take that away from me because of blood I didn’t choose.”
The words hit something deep and unwelcome.
I step closer before I can stop myself. “Do you know what your mother cost my family?”
“No,” she says, voice breaking just slightly. Her eyes dart around now, looking for a way out, for signs of danger. “I should have left this place,” she says, more to herself than me. “I should have known that she would somehow catch up with me, no matter what I did.” Her breath racks from her in such a way it sounds physically painful.
“Look at me,” I say.
She does. Her green eyes are wide with a mixture of resentment and sadness and resignation. It makes her look vulnerable. Like the abandoned teenager is still right therebeneath this professional armour she wears whenever she leaves the comfort of her own home. Like the shadow of her mother is never far away no matter what she does to brighten her world.
The air between us hums.
“This ends one of two ways,” I tell her quietly. “Either you walk out that door and everything you’ve worked for becomes collateral damage in a war you don’t even know you’re standing in. Or you stay, and we figure out exactly where you fit in all of this.”
Her eyes search my face, like she’s trying to decide whether I’m a monster or a man holding the only line between her and something much worse. I feel her gaze like a weight against my skin and I want to feel it every-fucking-where.
“I don’t know anything,” she finally says, and for the first time in this exchange, she looks defeated, and I hate myself for making her feel that way.
My hand lifts and I brush my thumb along her jaw, testing the line of it, giving her every chance to pull away.
Her breath hitches. Her eyes darken. And when I lean in, it’s not a demand. It’s a question. She answers by rising onto her toes and closing the distance herself.
The kiss is slow and controlled, as curious as it is electric. And it’s definitely a mistake.
A mistake I’ve wanted to make since the first moment I saw her.
When we pull apart, her lips are parted, her expression stunned and hungry all at once.
This changes everything.
