"Stomach?" I froze. "Kirill's got stomach issues?"
"Bad ones." Olga rolled her eyes. "Severe ulcers, chronic gastritis. Doctor said to eat on time, cut the coffee and hard liquor. But him? When he's buried in work, forgets to eat, hell, even drink water. He'll keel over in that office one day from the pain."
"Doesn't anyone remind him?" I asked.
"Who'd dare?" Olga arched a brow. "Boris, that lug, just hands him cigars. Secretaries? Those little vixens drool over his face, couldn't care less about his gut."
The old lady paused, those sharp blue eyes locking onto me.
"Harper."
"Yeah." I straightened up instinctively.
"You're his wife," Olga stated it like a fact. "You handle it."
Just like that, my afternoon got planned out. You don't say no to Olga Orlov, especially when those gray-blue eyes crack your defenses like walnuts.
Truth be told, I had no right to refuse. My bag still held that heavy black card—Kirill's "advance payment."
Take the money, do the job. Or in this case, deliver the meal.
I packed the beef stew and borscht I'd learned from the cook into a thermos. And the walnut cookies I'd baked, split into two bags. One in a cute bear-patterned pouch for Aiden at the hospital later; the other...
I hesitated, then shoved them into a brown paper bag and tucked it in the side pocket.
What if Kirill had a sweet tooth?
Kirill's company towered in Midtown Manhattan, a glassskyscraper scraping the clouds. Standing at the massive revolving doors, craning my neck up, that familiar smallness hit me again.
This was the elite world. Everyone in razor-sharp suits, expensive shoes, talking fast as machine guns, faces screaming, "I make millions a minute."
I gripped my out-of-place lunch bag, took a deep breath, and stepped into the lobby.
The AC blasted cold, air thick with fancy perfume.
I headed straight for the front desk.
Two women sat there, makeup flawless like TV stars. The one on the left had big, wavy blonde hair, nails like artwork. She was on the phone, eyes flicking over me dismissively, then away like I was nothing.
I waited patiently for her to hang up.
"Hi." I flashed a polite smile. "I'm here to see Mr. Kirill Orlov."
The blonde finally looked at me properly. Her gaze lingered on my face for two seconds, then dropped to my homey lunch bag.
Her lips curled in a sneer.
"Appointment?" Her voice was sweet, but laced with blades.
"No," I admitted. "But I just need to get this to him, or if you could buzz him—"
"Sorry, miss." She cut me off, filing her nails. "This is Orlov Group headquarters, not a delivery spot. No appointment, no entry. Especially for... DoorDash."
She stressed "DoorDash" hard.
My face burned, but I wasn't quitting. "I'm not delivering takeout. I'm—I'm Kirill's wife."
The words hung in the air, everything going quiet for a beat.
