I blink, and the shadow disappears. Slava’s expression is unreadable again, but I know I saw the change no matter how quickly it came.
Not long enough to understand what I glimpsed, but long enough to know that I just saw a man behind the monster.
And that risks complicating everything.
A monster is easy to destroy. You don't hesitate. You don't second-guess. You plant your knife and you twist and you walk away clean. Even while you have the most inappropriate fantasies about him.
But a man?
I can't afford to see him as human. I can't afford to wonder who he was thinking about when my words carved that shadow into his face. I can’t allow myself to think of him as someone with feelings.
As someone who mightcare.
"And what if people start to dig into our neat little story?" He leans forward on both hands.
"They’ll find Vanessa's own history documented on her Instagram profile." My mouth is on autopilot now as theprofessional part of my brain moves while the rest of me short-circuits. "Let the public connect the dots. We just hand them the pen."
He stares at me, and in a desperate attempt to fill the silence, I add,
“Let me do my job, and I guarantee you that all of New York will be spitting on Clayton Ashford’s name before you’re balls deep in another trust fund princess."
And as soon as those words leave my mouth, that damn fantasy returns. Him walking around the desk. Me falling on my hands and knees. Me looking up at him as he unzips his pants.
Professional competence wars with sexual submission on parallel tracks. Both are aimed at the same man. And I want to tear the contradiction out of my own skin before it eats me alive.
"Acceptable," he says, voice dropping to a familiar low register. "Good job."
I shiver again.
Two simple little words. But they’re not the two I want to hear.
The gap between what he said and what I want him to say is a chasm I'm falling into. One is professional, appropriate, andsafe.
The other is wildly inappropriate, reckless, and disrespectful in all the best possible ways.
And right now, the last thing I want is safe.
Maybe that’s what happens when you’ve opened death’s door the night before, and the only thing dragging you back from walking in is standing in front of you.
"That's what you're paying me for," I manage.
His lip curls up and the gesture makes something warm unfurl in my chest. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of my ribcage.
"That will be all,” he says. “Ms.Creminelli."
And once again, he said my name with that terrifyingly intimate knowingness in his voice.
I spendthe rest of the morning doing what I do best: being professionally ruthless.
The first press release and the talking points practically write themselves. My threats last night to Vanessa worked.
Small victories, I guess.
By lunchtime, the first draft of the attack piece has been written. It's brutal, effective, and the exact kind of work that made Slava hire me in the first place.
And as I finish typing it up, I do my best to not let myself think about the fact that I'm still protecting the man I came here to destroy. Or about the shadow that crossed his face earlier. Or how badly I want him to ruin me.
“Jesus, Bella, maybe Lydia is right about you…” I mutter to no one in particular as I go over the first draft one more time, and then print it out so I can drop it on his desk for review.
