“What would I be hiding?” I meet his gaze. “Everything relevant is on my résumé. My personal life doesn’t affect my work.”
His eyes hold mine for one long, silent beat. It feels like contact. Intimate in a way that words could never justify.
The phone buzzes.
He answers, voice switching fluidly to Russian.
I don’t understand the words, but his tone gives me goosebumps. The kind that live somewhere between fascination and trouble.
When he hangs up, he studies me again. The silence stretches to the point of awareness.
“Apologies,” he says, his tone smooth but unmistakably firm. “Work doesn’t wait.”
“I understand.”
Silence fills the space between us, heavy but alive. It feels like a contest neither of us agreed to play but both intend to win.
“So, you’ve worked with children and claim experience with art.”
“I didn’t claim it,” I say, refusing to look away. “It’s true.”
He takes a step closer, quiet and measured. His scent reaches me first, the blend of smoke and cedar that feels like control built into fragrance. His presence hums with restraint, and I can almost feel him watching the effect he has on me.
“My son, Sasha, loves art,” he says. “His drawings surpass his age.”
His gaze lingers, deliberate, curious, as if he is testing how close he can get before my confidence falters. It doesn’t.
“Would you like to see one?”
The question lands low and smooth, carrying weight that feels more personal than professional.
I nod, and he retrieves a sketch from his desk drawer. His movements are calm and deliberate, the kind of grace that belongs to a man accustomed to authority. The care he takes with the paper shows a kind of devotion that should not make my breath catch, yet it does.
“He did this?”
“Yes. That is Andrei, my bodyguard.”
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“He is gifted,” Roman says quietly. “But gifts without control have a way of turning destructive.”
“Then he needs someone who can offer both,” I say.
His gaze drifts over my face. The approval there is faint but unmistakable.
“If you work for me, you will do what I say.”
I meet his eyes without flinching. “Not if it compromises the child’s growth.”
Something shifts in his expression. Interest sharpened by respect. The air between us feels heavier now, edged with challenge and something too charged to name.
“You don’t intimidate easily,” he observes.
“I get nervous like everyone else. I just stopped letting it make decisions for me,” I reply.
His expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a glimmer of amusement touching his mouth before it disappears. The tension between us shifts from static to magnetic, steady and deliberate.
“You have the job,” he says finally.
