Timur finally intervenes, clamping a heavy hand on Arseny’s shoulder. “Come on.”
“Hold on—”
Timur shoves him toward the door.
Arseny sighs dramatically as he’s dragged away. “I’m just saying, we’ve all seen men fall before, but this? This is some next-level simping, boss. This is—”
The door slams shut behind them.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly, trying to reel myself in.
But it doesn’t fucking work.
I rise from my chair and cross to the bar cart. I don’t pour a drink—not yet—but my fingers drift over the crystal decanters. The meeting with her is in fifteen minutes. Punctuality is non-negotiable.
She’s early.
I like that.
I catch the thought, scowl, and shove it right back where it came from. We’re not doing that.
We are not liking anything.
I return to my chair, stretching my legs under the desk as I glance toward the glass wall.
She shifts slightly, adjusting the way she crosses her legs, and—Suka blyad.That skirt.
Is this an interview for a private secretary position at a high-end escort service? Because it sure as hell isn’t the attire of a woman who came here to talk legal terms and business arrangements. It’s a distraction.
And it’s working.
Then she moves again—nothing dramatic, just a slight tilt of her head as she finally looks up, her gaze catching mine through the glass. Slow. Unhurried. Like she had all the time in the world before acknowledging me.
And then those lips.
She presses them together—red, fucking perfect, just enough gloss to catch the light, enough to make me wonder how soft they’d feel. There’s no challenge in her expression, no calculated play, no attempt at being coy. Just her. Looking at me. Pretty as sin.
Which annoys the hell out of me.
My grip tightens on the armrest, exhaling slowly through my nose as I drag my eyes back to hers.
She’s not supposed to look like this. I didn’t account for this. My plan was for a practical arrangement with a capable woman, not… this visceral pull that makes me grip the armrests of my chair a little tighter.
Damn it. That lipstick is a problem. A deliberate warning sign or a challenge, I can’t decide which. But it makes me think about how it would look smeared across her mouth after I—
I break eye contact first. I never break eye contact first.
Pressing the intercom, I instruct my assistant, “Send Ms. Marquez in.”
The second the door clicks open, I see the slight rise of her chin, the way she steps inside like she owns the room. Like shedidn’t just spend the last two minutes seeing how far she could push my restraint.
I stand, motioning to the chair across from my desk. “Sit.”
She does, her back perfectly straight, hands resting lightly on the table in front of her.
“Before we begin,” she says, “I want to be absolutely clear on something.”
