Slava is behind his desk,reviewing something on his phone when I enter his office for a second time.
He doesn't look up as I approach him, and I hate—hate—how my eyes immediately go to trace the line of his jaw. The bobbing motion of his Adam’s apple. The light scruff that’s starting to decorate his face. And the way his long fingers drum absently against the desk in the same rhythm every time like he’s playing a song only he knows.
But I know exactly what he’s playing.
Tchaikovsky.Swan Lake.
I noticed that on my first week of working for him, and I've been noticing it ever since. I can't stop cataloging these details about him like they matter even if you pressed a gun to my head and told me to stop.
Stop staring at his hands.
"The press release and talking points." I hold out the folder, keeping my voice professional. Steady.Normal."Just need your approval, Mr. Romanov."
Finally, he looks up at me, and my stomach loops the moment his winter-gray eyes turn to me. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll smile or say something. But he does neither.
Just reaches out and takes the folder from my hand.
And in the process, our fingers brush.
Heat surges up my arm like an electric shock. It burrows its way straight towards my heart before wrapping around it and giving it a squeeze that drives the breath out of my throat. I almost gasp from the intensity of the contact.
No!
I yank my hand back too fast. The folder transfers, but my clumsy retreat is obvious. Neither of us could’ve missed the movement of a woman who just got caught thinking something she shouldn't.
Slava's head tilts ever so slightly. A curious eyebrow rises a fraction of an inch. But instead of commenting about what just happened, he opens the folder and starts to read.
I cast my eyes down and fight to keep my breathing steady even as my mind wonders just what the hell just happened.
And that’s when my gaze catches sight of something on his desk. A sticky note half-hidden beneath a stack of papers. But there’s something about it that calls me towards it.
I sneak a glance at Slava to make sure he’s not looking, and then lean forward surreptitiously to read the sticky note.
That’s when I see it.
A seven-pointed star exactly like the pendant on the necklace that Luca gave me. And there’s a few words written in Slava’s sharp, angular script:
Call De Savoie.
My heart starts hammering in my chest, and two things become immediately clear: one, he’s definitely still thinking about mynecklace. Two, there’s something else going on that I can’t tell for certain.
I look back up quickly and see that Slava is still reading the documents. But there’s a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.Did he see me looking at the note?Does he know I read it?
Was this a trap I accidentally walked into?
I sit back and press my hands flat against my skirt, doing my best to breathe as evenly as possible and ignore just how sweaty my palms are turning.
Then, Slava lifts his eyes back at me, and the smirk widens.
"This is good work," he says.
"That's what you pay me for." The same repeated statement comes out like I spend my days practicing it in front of a mirror.
"So you keep reminding me.”
But I can practically hear his voice rumbling in my head:I know what you’re doing, Bella. And I can see everything you're trying to hide.
He hands the folder back to me and I accept it with a trembling hand. His expression changes subtly again, eyes narrowing at my reaction.
