Without another word, she leads me down the hall, toward the office. Once there, she stops, nods, then sweeps her hand toward the open doors.
“She’s here?” calls a voice from inside.
“She’s here.”
“Send her in.”
The voice… that accent…
No.
I step through the doors and stop dead in my tracks.
He’s standing at the window, hands in his pockets. Tall. Broad. Wearing a perfectly tailored, deep navy suit that defines him perfectly.
He turns slowly. Gray eyes meet mine.
Oh my god.
My stomach drops, then flips, then twists into a knot so tight I forget how to breathe.
He’s no longer the stranger with a Russian accent and hands that made me forget my own name. He’s the CFO of Ivanov Holdings. Potentially my new boss.
And the father of my child.
What are the actual fucking odds?
He stares at me, expression unreadable. Something flickers across his face. Surprise? Good. At least we’re both feeling it.
He crosses the room in five slow, deliberate steps. He extends his hand. “Miss Jones,” he says, voice low and smooth. “Welcome.”
No flicker of recognition. Nothing. Just a perfectly polished greeting. My name sounds foreign coming from him. Like it doesn’t belong to me.
My hand slips into his before I can stop it. Electric is the only word to describe it. Our palms touch, and it’s like my body short-circuits, every nerve lighting up with memory.
His mouth. His hands. The way he made me come undone.
The way he got me pregnant.
He still says nothing. My stomach turns. Does he not remember? Did it mean that little to him? The father of my child. Is he the kind of man who can screw a woman in the sky then forget her by the time they land? The thought makes me sick.
Six weeks of replaying every second. Obsessing. Regretting. Wanting. And he might not have spared me a single thought.
I pull my hand back too quickly. He notices, but his face doesn’t change.
“Thank you,” I manage, barely above a whisper. I clear my throat. “I appreciate the opportunity to interview.”
He nods and gestures smoothly toward the office space behind him. “Before we begin, let me give you the tour.”
“This wing contains internal operations,” Yuri says, gesturing to a corridor flanked by smoked-glass offices. “Strategy, compliance, risk management. Nothing gets off this floor without passing through one of those doors.”
I follow him through the top floor like a soldier trailing her commanding officer.
Everything gleams—the glass, the marble, the people. The staff are dressed impeccably; sharp lines, crisp collars, stylish ensembles. A woman walks past in a pair of Louboutin’s. A man at a desk has the stillness of a sniper. No one slouches. No one smiles.
Yuri walks with silent confidence, one hand in his pocket, the other occasionally gesturing to rooms I barely glance into.
“Trading happens here,” he says, nodding at a floor-to-ceiling glass space where men in suits speak in low, urgent voices. “Family offices are next door, legal is down the hall. I’ll loop you in once you’re settled.”
