I stand there for a moment, my heart still racing.
That last look wasn’t just intimidation.
It was heat.
Dark. Dangerous. Completely inappropriate.
I force a slow breath and straighten my spine.
Focus, Gabriella.
You have one day to save your career.
Or watch it burn.
CHAPTER 2
GABBY
Istretch in my chair, my back popping.
But it doesn’t relieve the real tension, the tension caused by the fact that tonight, I decided I’ve had enough.
I glance at my phone—11:59 p.m. Just about midnight. I cannot believe I’ve been here all damn day and night, no break, working on this report. I’ve been typing until my fingers are numb.
It’s been endless work, rewriting financial models, running risk assessments, reformatting graphics. There’s a damn good chance that when this is all said and done, we’ll be on the verge of one of the biggest corporate mergers in Chicago history.
I still can’t believe Sasha dropped this on me, like it was a casual request for a latte from Starbucks or something. An outline like this would need a week in itself just to get started. And he wants it in aday? What the hell is wrong with him?
I should’ve told him to fuck off right then and there. Instead, I took it, like I always do, getting to it like the good, little worker bee I am.
Three years of this. Three years of ruined weekends. Three years of canceled dinners, dates I’ve had to flake on at the last minute, plans blown up, all becauseMr. Orlov needs you, Miss Reese. He has a freaking gift for timing. It’s like he somehow knows when I’m about to pour myself a glass of wine or slip into my PJs before calling and telling me he has another urgent matter, immediate priority, no excuses.
It’s like I’m his favorite little game, like one of the perks of the job for him is watching me squirm.
And I let him do it.
Why? Because it’s my job, one I was lucky enough to get right out of college. Because AngelCorp looks amazing on a resume. Because the pay iscrazy. Because I’ve convinced myself that if I can survive Sasha Orlov, I can survive anything.
But no more. Tonight, I’m done.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the words on my laptop screen. They blur into nothing. My head is pounding and my back is killing me. I’m not even sure if the work I’ve been doing for the last hour makes sense. My brain is so fried, it could be nothing but gibberish.
I take a slow, deep breath, letting calmness and Zen wash over me. I’m done being angry, done cursing him under my breath. I close my eyes, rehearsing the speech I’m finally ready to give him.
Iquit, Mr. Orlov. Three years of this crap, three years of power games and deadlines designed to break me. I’m done. Take this job and shove it into whatever dark, Russian hole you crawled out of.
It’s almost enough to make me smile. Part of me still doesn’t think I’ll ever say anything like that to him. Another part of me, the worse part, is addicted to this insane, toxic dynamic between us. Part of me loves that low, commanding voice of his, loves the way he fills out his suit, loves the way he makes my heart race just by walking past.
But I shouldn’t love anything about this. I should hate it. I should hatehim.
Instead, I want him. If I had a therapist (no time for that with my work schedule, of course), no doubt she’d have a field day with me.
No. This needs to end.
I slam my laptop shut and shove my chair back. I rise, my legs wobbly from sitting for so many hours. To my left, I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the darkened windows of the office. I look like a stranger, my hair flat, my makeup long gone, my blouse wrinkled.
I look tired.
