The other turns toward the shadows.
I take it as my cue, even though every crime documentary I’ve ever half-watched is screaming, “Don’t follow the scary men into the dark hallway.”
Still, I follow. Not because I trust them, but because I trust myself.
Which is not always a winning strategy, but it’s all I’ve got.
The entry hall is huge. I could fit my entire apartment in it and still have room to pace.
Every few steps, another man in a tailored suit, another weapon glinting under the light, another pair of eyes tracking me like I might be hiding a bomb instead of a résumé.
Who are these people, and what kind of nanny job requires an arsenal?
The men escort me down a long, arched hallway lined with portraits and too much silence. Guards stand at intervals like chess pieces waiting for a move. The air smells faintly of leather and power.
At the far end waits another set of double doors, darker and heavier than the rest. One of the men steps forward and knocks once, the sound sharp enough to echo.
“Come in,” a voice answers. Low, definite, and commanding enough to steal the air from my lungs.
The guard opens the door slowly, revealing a study so gorgeous it feels almost obscene. Three tall windows frame a snow-dusted garden. Shelves stretch floor to ceiling, packed with books that look too old and expensive to touch. A fire glows behind an iron grate, throwing restless shadows across the room.
Behind the massive oak desk stands a man who radiates control.
Roman Barinov. The kind of man whose presence fills a room before he speaks, whose silence feels like a test you’re destined to fail.
The guards stop beside me, silent permission to step forward.
He turns, and the world seems to tilt around him.
Tall, easily over six foot, his frame built like authority carved in bone and muscle. His hair is black shot through with silver, not the kind that ages a man, but the kind that crowns him. The short beard is salt and pepper, precise and clean, sharpening the slash of his jaw.
The suit he wears is a dark pinstripe, tailored within an inch of his life, the black shirt beneath open at the collar. Silver cufflinks glint in the firelight. They look old, heirloom old, pieces that belonged to someone powerful before him.
He doesn’t just look wealthy. He looks inherited. Money, violence, and discipline passed down like a bloodline.
His eyes find me, and I can’t feel my legs beneath me.
It shouldn’t make my pulse jump, but my body didn’t get the memo.
Green, cold, assessing, with a heat beneath the surface that feels less like desire and more like a warning.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pretend.
Just studies me like I’m a question he already knows the answer to.
“You’re Amalie Denning.” The words are simple, but the certainty in them lands like a command.
His voice practically shakes me where I stand, his Russian accent making his words sound like a command.
I clear my throat and stand straighter. “I am. You must be Mr. Barinov.”
“Roman,” he says, leaning against the desk.
He dismisses the guards with a small nod. They disappear silently, like extremely muscular ghosts.
Now it’s just us.
My heart does a nervous little dance and my stomach tightens. The heat he seems to radiate grows more intense, but his expression remains cold, as if carved out of ice.
