Kirill
This was day four.
To swallow that damn Italian shipping company's port shares, I'd holed up in this office reeking of coffee and printer ozone for ninety-six straight hours. My opponents were a pack of vulture-sharp old bastards, trying to snatch meat from the Orlov family's jaws.
Dream on.
"Boss."
Boris's voice came from behind, cautious like he wanted to shrink his bulk invisible. The big guy had caught my foul moods lately. No wonder he felt like hiding in the walls.
I turned, rubbing my temples. "Spit it. If it's bad news, jump out that window yourself."
Boris winced. "Not exactly bad, but... off-protocol. Front desk called—ma'am's downstairs."
Harper?
"What's she doing here?" I frowned, first hit not joy, but annoyed offense.
This was a warzone. Commercial, sure, but packed with bloodthirsty lawyers, greedy shareholders, rivals ready to stab. What wasshe pulling, showing up like some scorned trophy wife marking territory? Or because I hadn't been home, she felt neglected and staged this missing-husband drama?
No sense of boundaries.
I hated people without boundaries. Made her feel less like a quiet shield and more like trouble.
"She... said she's delivering dinner." Boris watched my face, voice fading.
Dinner? I sneered. Olga's idea, no doubt.
"Send her back." I spun to the files. "Tell her I'm busy. This isn't a playhouse. If she wants to act the perfect wife, do it at the manor."
Boris paused. "But boss, she's been waiting forever—"
"You deaf or itching to farm potatoes in Siberia?" I cut him cold.
Boris shut up. He knew my limit.
"Got it." He dipped his head and hurried out.
The door clicked shut, but my irritation grew like weeds. I yanked off my tie and tossed it on the couch.
Delivering dinner? Laughable—like Midtown couldn't order takeout?
If it was Genevie... I froze, her blonde image flashing unbidden. Genevie would've known I was slammed, waited quietly at home, no pointless stunts. She knew when to show, when to vanish.
I pressed my temples, irritated.
Damn it.
Dwelling on the past helped nothing. Genevie was history. Harper was my wife—however it started, she was mine now.
I dropped back at the desk, tried focusing on clauses. But the words danced, refusing to stick.
Ten minutes later, the door pushed open.
Boris returned, not empty-handed—a lunch bag in tow.
"I said send her away." I narrowed my eyes, tone lethal. "Not bring up trash."
