I look down. My blood runs cold when I realize what it is—a photo of me leaving the building where Dr. Marquez’ office is located.
The mortification is quickly replaced by anger.
“You have no right to have Bogdan or whoever the hell, tail me and take pictures of where I’m going! What the hell, Sasha?” I’m not in a mood to mess around with his “Mr. Orlov” bullshit.
“I told you, he’s there to protect you. You and the work you’re doing is too valuable. Nothing you had been doing was worth commenting on, nothing out of the ordinary. But this—” he taps the photo, “this is different. You broke the pattern.”
“I broke the pattern? You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re monitoring my lunches?”
“I monitor risk. And you are a walking risk right now.”
“Why, because I like to go for a walk along the river now and then?”
He leans forward on both hands. “No. Because this quarter ends in a few days, and I can’t afford to have my most valuable employee sneaking around drinking during her lunch break.”
I feel the floor tilt. He’s off-base, of course. I barely drank before, and I haven’t had so much of a drop since the news about the baby. But I’m stuck. I either let him think I’mdrinking on the job, or I tell him the truth. Both are very, very bad options.
“I don’t owe you an explanation.” It’s weak but worth a shot.
“You owe me delivery,” he says. “And predictability.”
My jaw tightens. Time for a good, old-fashioned lie. “Alright, yes. I go to that bar. I go there for lunch, and I haven’t had a drop of alcohol while I’m there. But I do happen to know thatyoulike the occasional double whiskey over client lunches.”
He says nothing.
I go on. “Delivery is what I’m giving you. Tomorrow morning, if you stop wasting my time scolding me for spending my goddamn lunch hour however I see fit.”
He keeps his eyes on me for a few more long moments. “Tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, if you stop monitoring my steps like you’re a damn FitBit or something. I’m not your prisoner.”
He raises a finger. “Don’t mistake my protection for imprisonment. There’s a difference—one you’ll appreciate when someone decides you’re the easiest way to reach me.”
“So that’s it. I’m a liability. An asset on legs.”
He shakes his head. “No. You’re indispensable.”
My laugh is a short, ugly thing. “You’re right. I am.”
He slowly eases into his chair, the leather creaking slightly. “I expect what I believe my people to be capable of. Therefore, I have high expectations for you.”
“I’m on track. If you trusted me at all, you’d listen.”
“I trust results, not promises.”
The last little bit of pride I carried into the office breaks. “Stop treating me like a flight risk.”
“You’re my employee. When you’re on the clock, you’re mine.”
Mine. The way he said it that night comes to mind, the way he said it, as if he were claiming me. It sends a shiver through me, one that feels almost good.
“I told you why I was out. And I could’ve told you, too, if you’d asked instead of spying.”
“Spying.” He spits out the word like it’s totally ridiculous. “You’re an asset.”
“Anasset,” I repeat. “I wish you could hear yourself.”
He leans forward just a bit. “Don’t play dumb, Gabriella. You know what you are to me.”
