I grin, relaxing into my chair like the world has just righted itself. "Of course. Whatever you need, I will provide. I'll send a car to pick you up..."
"Don't bother. I have a car now, remember? I'll be at your house tomorrow, so be ready. And also, wire me money for transportation."
"Done."
She hangs up without another word.
And there I am, staring at the screen like a fool with a grin splitting my face.
She's coming to my house. What am I going to wear I ponder, would wearing a suit be overkill or do I play it casual.
Chapter 9
?
IRIS
I wake up surprisingly refreshed, which is weird considering I spent half the night staring at the ceiling, obsessing over this meeting. He sent a new address, not his usual downtown spot. Tall gates line the streets, manicured lawns stretching toward houses that look more like museums than homes. Even the air smells different. I wouldn't be surprised if the local air freshener is Creed Aventus.
The GPS leads me through winding streets and past security checkpoints until I pull up to what I can only describe as a castle. Multiple bodyguards at the gate. Gardeners tending to flowers all around this estate. I have to admit, Ilay Ivanovich has bastard money.
I pull into the driveway and get out. A man in a sharp suit appears before I even close the door, nodding once as he reaches for my keys. I hand them over, and he gives a brief bow before slipping behind the wheel and disappearing down the drive. I walk toward the entrance, keeping my spine straight and my expression neutral. Confidence is half the battle in my line of work. Fake it well enough and people believe it.
His home assistant, Laura, meets me at the door and leads me through a long, quiet hallway. I take note of how different this place is from his office. For one, there’s actual art on the walls not plain empty hallways with zero personality. This is still weird though because it seems the pictures are arranged according to colours. It’s kind of creepy but who am I to judge the rich.
We stop in front of a heavy wooden door. She knocks twice and waits for the low, gruff "enter" that filters through. When she opens it, I realize the room isn't an office at all—it's a library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line most of the walls, rows of shelves in the middle of the hall, all packed with old leather-bound volumes.
Warm light spills from the windows as well as antique lamps, softening the shadows, and the whole place smells like cedar and aging paper. And there he is. Seated in an armchair by a window, a cream sweater draped over him and loose grey pants hanging comfortably on his frame. Glasses rest on the bridge of his nose, a few strands of blond hair slipping into his eyes. The tattoos at his collar peek out, dark against soft fabric. He's reading, completely absorbed, as if the rest of the world doesn't exist.
I clear my throat to let him know I'm here. He doesn't look up immediately, instead, he finishes the sentence he's reading, closes the book with a finger between the pages, then lifts his eyes and smiles at me.
He sets the book aside and crooks two fingers, calling me closer. I walk toward him but stop just short of his reach. It doesn't matter. He catches my wrist and pulls me down, kissing me before my brain catches up.
I shove him back, hard enough that the chair rocks.
"Are you out of your mind?" I snap.
He settles back, unruffled. "Good afternoon to you too."
"We're here to work."
"We will," he says, rising to his full height. He's broad, warm, and far too comfortable stepping into my space. "But first, tell me... do you like my collection?"
I blink. "What collection?" He removes his glasses and gestures lazily at the shelves. I glance around. "You have a lot of books."
"A lot," he repeats with a smirk. "That the best you can do?"
"I'm not here to stroke your ego."
"Good," he says quietly. "I'd rather you use your hands for other things." Before I can respond, he places his hand on the small of my back and starts guiding me toward the desk on the far side of the room.
I swat his hand away. "I can walk." He puts it right back. I swat again. "Stop touching me."
His hand returns, firmer this time, his palm warm through my blouse. We do this twice more before I give up.
"You really don't fear prison," I mutter.
"You’re welcome to sue me," he says quietly.
