CHAPTER 1
GABBY
"You seem distracted, Miss Reese."
Sasha Orlov doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to.
When a man like him speaks, the world goes silent.
Of course I’m distracted. I'm running on three hours of sleep, stale coffee, and the kind of sleep deprivation that makes you wonder if you're hallucinating. My brain feels like it's been replaced with soggy cereal.
And it's allhisfault.
Mr. Perfect over there probably sleeps like a baby on Egyptian cotton and the crushed dreams of his employees. Meanwhile, I'm one minor inconvenience away from having a breakdown in the supply closet.
Across the polished mahogany table, he flips through my report with maddening calm. Those hands move like they know exactly how much pressure it takes to make something break.
Everything about Sasha Orlov screams power wrapped in Tom Ford.
He's tall, dark, and devastating. Silver threaded through dark hair in a way that makes him look distinguished instead of old. Sharp jawline. Storm-gray eyes that have seen too much and miss nothing.
“Do I have your undivided attention?”
"Completely, Mr. Orlov," I say, channeling every ounce of fake enthusiasm I can muster.
It’s barely six in the morning. Pale winter light bleeds across the office. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Chicago stretches awake.
Meanwhile, I’m trapped in what feels like a Russian billionaire’s interrogation chamber.
To be fair, I wasn’t paying attention.
I was daydreaming about "accidentally" dumping his precious black coffee down that crisp white shirt, watching it stain his billionaire perfection in payback for every sleepless night and ruined weekend he’s demanded.
“Good. I have concerns about this report, Miss Reese. I don’t pay you to hallucinate numbers.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I spent the last three nights building that model, eyes burning holes in spreadsheets. Fourteen hours of my life condensed into a twelve-page document he's been holding for exactly forty seconds.
“You’ll have to be more specific, Mr. Orlov.”
His obsidian eyes flick to mine. They do not blink. "The integration projection."
"That narrows it down to approximately twelve pages."
The words slip out before my sleep-deprived brain can stop them.
Shit. That was out loud, wasn't it?
He studies me for one measured beat. As if I am not just his strategist, but an investment he is deciding whether to liquidate.
"It's aggressive." His finger taps the page once. "You've made assumptions."
"Calculated assumptions based on the parameters you provided," I counter. "You told me to push the upside. The numbers are defensible."
His jaw tightens.
Just once.
A flicker. A fracture in marble.
