Just confirming dietary restrictions. Also, does Mr. Vasiliev smile? My mother asked.
I stare at that for a long moment before typing back:
No known allergies. Smiling status to be determined in the field.
Then I delete that, because apparently, I do still value my employment.
I settle on:
No dietary restrictions. Looking forward to seeing you both this afternoon.
Sienna’s text is somehow worse.
Would he prefer a more intellectual tone or a flirtier one?
What?I blink at my screen. Then, before I can stop myself, I mutter, “Is there a drop-down menu for this?”
I type:
I’d recommend being yourself.
Then I add:
He tends to appreciate directness.
That feels true enough. It also feels like I just handed another woman a loaded weapon.
Camille, meanwhile, is sending me photos of two dresses with the caption:
Too much? Be honest.
I actually put my head in my hands for a second.Why am I a stylist now?
After an internal debate that lasts too long, I type back:
The black one. Elegant, understated, impossible to ignore.
Then I pause, reread it, and think,Wow, Zee, way to help another woman seduce your terrifying billionaire crime boss. Very emotionally healthy of you.
Before I can spiral further, a shadow falls across my desk.
I look up.Aleksei.
He’s standing there in a dark suit, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folder he clearly doesn’t need just so he has an excuse to be at my desk. His gaze drifts over me once—quick, assessing, impossible not to feel.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
I blink. “Working?”
His jaw tightens slightly. “I told you to take the day off.”
“I did,” I say. “For half of it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I lift my chin. “I was bored.”
He looks like he wants to say at least six things to that and discards all of them. Then his eyes drop to my screen.
