“Sure. See you back there.”
We hug, and she’s on her way. I can only sit still for a little while longer before the itch starts. I throw back the rest ofmy latte and head out, pulling my coat and scarf tight against cold winter wind that smacks me in the face as soon as I step outside.
I stand outside the coffee shop for a moment, feeling lost in a way I haven’t since Mom died. What’s going on with me? Maybe impending motherhood is making me think of all the ways that my own childhood didn’t quite hit the mark. Mom was amazing, as wonderful a parent as anyone could ask for. But the foster years that followed…
Something prickles at the back of my neck as I stand there. I know that feeling—the sensation of being watched. I glance up at the AngelCorp tower, all glass and steel, wondering if Sasha has a telescope trained on me.
Nah, that’s not his style.
But someone’s looking.
I glance around, and sure enough, across the street, leaning against a lamp post like he’s part of the scenery, is Bogdan. Bogdan—no idea if that’s his first name or last name or what—is Sasha’s body man, the guy who gets him whatever he needs to go. He’s part security, part assistant, and in this moment, part stalker.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, dressed like the former Russian military man he’s rumored to be. His hair is buzzed short, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, his body clad in a long, black trench coat. He’s smoking, each drag taken with mechanical precision—drag, flick, exhale—like they’re all timed out.
I can’t see his eyes behind those sunglasses, but I can tell he’s watching me. He flicks his cigarette away, the thingflying off in a momentary orange arc, then slips his gloved hands into his pockets. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave. Just nods.
My stomach knots. Heat creeps up my throat. Whatever it is, I don’t like it. I slip my phone out of my inner coat pocket, pull up Sasha’s name, and prepare a text.
Why is Bogdan staring at me like a creeper.
It takes all of ten seconds for him to reply.He’s there for your protection. To keep you safe. Don’t worry about him.
I almost laugh right there on the sidewalk. Protection? From what? Paper cuts? Static electricity from my laptop? Oh, maybe a caffeine overdose.
Or maybe one of Sasha’s rivals, those criminal men he’s rumored to associate with.
That idea makes me stand up a little straighter.
I tuck my phone away, turning back toward the building and moving into a steady stride. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals that Bogdan is now following me a little behind and across the street.
I want to be furious with Sasha, to really give him a piece of my mind for spying on me. But what if he’s right?
“To keep you safe”
Safe fromwhat?
By the time I’m back at the office, my world is reduced to spreadsheets and decaf again. It’s beginning to dawn onme that this job is a million times harder when you don’t have caffeine to help. I run my hand through my hair and focus. Stock charts, crypto holdings, projected revenue streams—each one a fuse burning toward the end of the quarter.
But as hard as it is to believe, the merger proposal is nearly finished. The math is tough, however. If Johan Morozov doesn’t accept and put this all into motion before the SEC deadline hits, then AngelCorp won’t be able to shift the crypto assets we’ve been sitting on into Dandelion’s networks. And if we don’t have access to those assets, AngelCorp is going to be in major trouble.
If we miss that window, the hungry wolves start circling.
I scroll through the proposal one more time, fingers flying, formulas snapping into place. As I work, it dawns on me that what I’m really doing is holding the pressure valve for the whole company. If this merger collapses, I don’t know what would happen. Maybe I’ll be out of a job right on the verge of motherhood. And how easy would it be to get another one with a rep as the woman who botched the AngelCorp-Dandelion merger? I’d be the woman who couldn’t pull it off, the woman who cracked under the pressure.
But if it lands? I’d be the one who made Sasha Orlov untouchable.
I rub my temples, trying to focus on the little bit of work in front of me, and not the overwhelming big picture.
No pressure, Resse. Just your job, your reputation, and possibly staying in the good graces of a man who may or may not have connections to the Russian mob.
By midnight, I’m back at my apartment, the place a total war zone of crumpled drafts and empty coffee mugs. Sure, the coffee might be decaf, but it’s a damn psychological crutch at this point. My coffee table’s littered with printouts, my hair’s pulled into a messy knot, and my eyes are starting to burn from all of the blue light I’ve been blasting them with.
The faint hum of Chicago nightlife seeps in through my cracked window, but in here, it’s just me, my laptop, and several towering piles of documents.
“God, this is insane.” I mutter the words out loud to myself as I slap another sticky note onto a printed-out spreadsheet. “Normal people my age are vegging out to Netflix or swiping right, or at the very least, getting a good night’s sleep. They’re not chained to their desk trying to save a multinational empire.”
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, and it’s all there, vivid as hell: the sight of Sasha that night I walked in, unraveling, those silver streaks in his hair catching the lamplight, his eyes burning into mine, like he knew I was already his for the taking.
