“Watch yourself,” I say evenly.
She raises a sculpted brow. “Don’t forget who I am, Yuri. I’m not some intern you can order around and forget about.”
Unfortunately, she’s right. Her family is still useful. For now.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I mutter. “Let’s get back to business.”
We head to my office and I gesture for her to go in first. She walks toward the desk, swaying like she’s on the runway. I ignore it and pull up the Abramov file on the shared drive.
We go over the logistics for next week’s off-site meeting—scheduling, security clearances, the Abramov wire transfer that needs to clear before the quarter closes. I flag two vendor contracts for review and confirm Luk’s request for the South Loop property audit. Tatiana jots everything down like a good soldier, clicking away on her tablet, perfectly poised.
When we finish, I close the file. “Find Astrid. Tell her to come back.”
Tatiana glances at me over the top of her tablet. “You want her alone with you again?”
I meet her gaze. “Yes. And don’t give her a hard time.”
Her smile widens. “Who, me?” She turns and walks out, deliberately slow. I know she wants me to watch.
I don’t. Not anymore. Not when my lips can still taste her and my hands can still feel the quiet way she trembled beneath them.
The door clicks shut behind Tatiana and I’m alone again. My thoughts slide back to the plane, uninvited but relentless. Almost two months, and I still can’t shake her.
The way she’d looked at me—eyes wide, lips parted, breath caught in her throat as I pressed her back against the bathroomwall. Her skirt bunched at her waist, thighs trembling beneath my hands. The heat of her skin. The quiet, desperate way she’d gasped when I slid inside her.
She was tight. Sweet. Utterly wrecked and entirely mine in that moment.
The memory hits like a punch to the gut. My cock stiffens against my slacks before I can stop it. I grit my teeth. No. Not now. Not here.
I shift in my chair and adjust myself, dragging my focus back to the present. I’m a grown man, not some hormone-wired teenager. Still, seeing her picture come across my desk after our tryst was a shock to the system.
I did my research on her. Her foster parents were clean. Kind. Middle class. Raised her well. Taking their name was an act of gratitude, of survival. Not cowardice.
She could’ve claimed Devereaux, but she chose Jones. And for that alone, I’ll respect her silence. I won’t force her to face the truth before she’s ready. I’ll wait. And when she tells me—ifshe tells me—it’ll be because she wants to. Not because I pushed.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. I sit up straight, adjusting my cuffs as the tension coils tighter in my chest.
She’s back.
“Come in,” I call out.
She steps in and waits for instruction.
“Sit,” I say, sharper than I intend.
She obeys immediately, crossing the room and lowering herself into one of the leather chairs opposite mine. Composed. Alert.Still a little flustered from earlier. I like that—rattled but refusing to break.
“Today was intended as a bit of a trial run,” I begin. “Orientation-by-fire. I wanted to see how you’d handle the pressure.”
She nods, folding her hands in her lap. “Understandable.”
“You’re sharp,” I continue. “You didn’t miss a step. From what I’ve seen so far, you know what you’re doing.”
She shifts in her seat, hesitating. She wants to say something. I can feel it. The itch in her thoughts.
“Speak your mind.”
Her eyes flash, and then the dam breaks. “I noticed some inconsistencies in the operating expense spreadsheets while I was in the break room,” she says. “Two entries for a consulting firm—Bradle & Co.—dated three days apart with different invoice numbers and overlapping descriptions. It could be a split contract, but the dollar amounts are too close. And one of them lists a vendor address that hasn’t been used in over a year.”
