So why do I keep stealing glances like some lovesick teenager?
Menlow ends his call and sets the phone down. “Everything all right?”
I jerk my attention back to my screen. “Fine. Just reviewing the Henderson account.”
“You’ve been on that page for ten minutes.”
Damn him. “It’s a complicated account.”
“It’s a straightforward vendor contract.” He sounds amused. “But take your time.”
I grit my teeth and force myself to actually process the document. The data is already stored in my head—I just need to make sense of it. But every time I try to focus, my thoughts drift back to him.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s affecting me.
Because he is affecting me. That’s the infuriating part.
I came into this arrangement fully prepared to hate him. And I do hate him. I hate what he did, how he did it, and the impossible situation he’s put me in.
But the more time I spend in this office, the harder it becomes to see him as a one-dimensional villain.
He works harder than anyone I’ve ever met. He arrives before me every morning and stays later every night. When employees come to him with problems, he listens. Actually listens. He remembers names. Asks follow-up questions. Treats the janitor with the same respect he shows the department heads.
Yesterday, a woman from accounting came in near tears. Something about a scheduling conflict with her daughter’s surgery and a project deadline. I expected Menlow to tell her to figure it out, the way every other boss I’ve had would have.
Instead, he rearranged the entire project timeline, reassigned her tasks to other team members, and told her to take as much time as she needed.
“Family comes first,” he said. “The project can wait.”
The woman left his office looking stunned. I felt pretty stunned myself.
And then there was last week. I overheard him on the phone with someone from legal. They were discussing a contract dispute, and instead of pushing for the most aggressive option, he chose the fairest option for both parties.
“We’re not in the business of destroying people,” he explained. “Find a solution that works for everyone.”
Not exactly what I expected from a Bratva boss.
I’ve also been doing my own digging. Quietly, of course. I’ve used my access to company files to piece together the bigger picture.
What I’ve found surprises me.
This company is legitimate. Actually, genuinely legitimate. The books are clean. The operations are above board. No hidden money laundering, no suspicious transactions, and no shell companies funneling cash to offshore accounts.
I would know. I’ve looked. Every document I’ve reviewed is permanently etched in my memory. I can cross-reference figures from reports I read three days ago without pulling them up again. If there were discrepancies, I would have found them by now.
There’s nothing here. Whatever Menlow’s family does in the shadows, it doesn’t touch this business. He’s built something real. Something honest.
It doesn’t change what he did to me. But it complicates my mental image of him as a monster.
“Kirsten.”
I look up. He’s watching me with those ice-blue eyes, the same way he has been for a week now.
“You’ve been staring at that screen without scrolling for five minutes,” he points out. “Either you’ve developed the ability to analyze data telepathically, or something’s on your mind.”
“Nothing’s on my mind.”
“Liar.”
