But the realization that I’ve never once coaxed a smile from her, that I never truly knew who she was, all while trying to manipulate her….
No. I won’t let this affect me.
There’s no room for guilt, foremotions, in my world. Not in this job.
I learned that difficult lesson when I was a kid and pain and loneliness severed the connection. Whatever churns my stomach when I look at Jordan… I can’t let it get in my way.
Once we reach a set of double doors, the clipboard woman starts babbling about the AV setup, chair count, and schedule, eager for approval. Jordan listens intently as she plays her part, walking away from me to her place in the spotlight.
I hang back, scanning the exits and reading the room for danger. Doing what I do.
But the drive persists, image of this fascinating woman burned in. That smile. That dimple. The person underneath all the layers.
I want to see her smile. At me. Her real, full smile, dimple and all.
Every bit of this desire is dangerous. The kind of thing that gets men like me erased.
I force the realization down and lock the yearning behind steel walls and stone doors. There’s no room for this. No margin for error. She’s a means to an end. A tool.
But even as the thought comes, I know it’s a lie.
Chapter 17
Kirill
The room’s a heat haze of delusion. At least two hundred bodies packed wall to wall. Essential oils hang heavy in the air, clogging my throat. Hope represented by every shade of the rainbow.
I sit in the back row, farthest from the stage, close to the main door leading to the lobby. The shadowy outlier in their sea of grins and chatter.
Two people beside me debate the benefits of candied ginger versus peppermint for homemade nausea remedies.
Why the fuck are we here again?
The whole setup grates on me.
Until the lights cut.
Clothed in my black dress and matching gloves, Jordan struts onto the stage.
Beneath that severe, sculpted silk, she’s a raven in a flock of hummingbirds.
Stamped and set apart. Unmistakable even in her element.
Mine.
The hot, unyielding thought takes root in my chest.
Jordan stands at center stage. No props. No notes. Just herself. Stark elegance above the casual, slovenly masses.
The overhead spotlight shines down, highlighting her face and complete confidence. Not a pretty mask, not desperate bravado pretending to be power. She exudes the absolute certainty of a professional.
“Take a breath with me.” Her hands rise with her inhalation and fall with her exhale. Bizarrely, everyone in the crowd follows her without question or thought.
Two hundred people breathing in tandem, shifting the room’s pressure in an instant, palpable way.
I don’t breathe with them. I don’t take orders from anyone but Roman.
Still, I can’t help but study how easily she commands them. How strangers bend to her rhythm.
