He’s staring out of the floor-to-ceiling window of his Manhattan office, but his eyes are locked on mine through the ghostly reflection in the window as he talks.
But most frustratingly, he’s all business.
Nothing at all about my necklace, like his curiosity last night was nothing more than a badly-remembered dream.
"If we aren’t careful, then he’ll find a way to lay the blame on my head. I can’t have that happen, Ms.Creminelli."
My heartbeats crash into each other at the way my name rolls off his tongue.
There’s a terrifyingly intimate knowingness in his voice that wasn’t there before last night, like he’s tasting the syllables for how false they really are.
A hot shiver runs down my spine, and I can't tell if it’s from excitement or dread.
"No," I agree. “You can’t.”
“So how do you intend on handling this?”
My mind is already spinning through angles, looking for the thread that will unravel this mess in our favor.
Our favor. God, listen to me—ourfavor, like I'm actually on his team instead of embedded here to destroy him.
He turns around to face me, and my heart skids again in my chest. It’s almost unfair how good and perfect he looks this morning. Not a single hair is out of place. His suit fits him like a second skin.
You almost can’t tell that he took a bullet in the shoulder last night. My eyes drift towards the single undone button of his perfectly pressed shirt, recalling the rumble of his voice under my fingertips.
Focus, I tell myself.
"We make sure no one listens to him."
Slava crosses his arms and the movement pulls his shirt taut across his arms, and I swear I can feel his heat on my skin again, furnace-hot.
Stop it.
"Go on," he says.
I take a breath. Armor up, Bella. Be the good little PR agent that he thinks you are. This is the version of myself I can control.
"We let him flounder and look for a way out," I say. "But we feed the gossip rags what they want and turn him into thevillain of the story."
The words tumble from my lips, fast and sharp.
"We play up his angle as the neglectful father, too consumed with his own legal troubles to notice his daughter spiraling. We present Vanessa as a young woman seeking refuge in the arts because she couldn't find warmth at home."
Slava's expression doesn't change, but his posture shifts subtly as he listens.
"We don’t defend you," I continue. "We don’t even mention you. As far as the story foryouis concerned, you were at the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like her. If you want, I can have the first pre-emptive attack piece written by lunch, the talking points before four, and the social media message out to influencers by the time people start heading home from work.”
A wry smirk ghosts his face and he moves toward his desk.
The motion shouldn't matter. He's just walking across his own office. But I feel it like a change in the seasons, and the spacious office suddenly feels like it’s not big enough for us.
"And if he accuses us of libel?"
“Then we respond with a PR agent’s three best friends.” I meet his eyes and my voice manages to remain even and steady. "Hearsay, speculation, and anonymous sources close to the family. Make it a tragedy about how Clayton Ashford was so focused on his legal defense that he couldn’t even see his daughter spiraling. Play up the heartbreaking angle of Vanessaturning to the art world in search of meaning that she could never find at home, and dying because of it."
A new shadow flickers across Slava's face.
His jaw clenches almost imperceptibly, and for a moment—just a moment—he looks like he's somewhere else entirely. Somewhere painful. His gray eyes go distant, and I could swear I see old grief surfacing like a body from deep water.
