Ilya swears under his breath. “How the hell did we miss that?”
“I don’t think we did,” I say, pacing behind my desk. My fists tighten at my sides. “My father is a corrupt man. He’s been manipulating people for decades. You know what he’s capable of. I’d bet anything he found a way to alter the terms after my grandfather died.”
“So you think he changed the will?” Ilya’s voice is taut with anger and disbelief.
“I’m sure of it. The question is—how do we prove it?”
I hear him running his fingers through his hair, the familiar scratch of stubble. “Give me a day or two. I’ll talk to a few people, pull some records. If he bribed someone or forged a signature, I’ll find a trail.”
“Good,” I say, my voice dropping into something colder, harder. “Because if my father thinks I’m going to let him steal everything, he’s got another thing coming.”
Ilya’s voice is measured on the line, but I can hear the steel beneath it. “Listen, Aleksei. Even if we prove your father changed the will, it won’t matter if you don’t follow through. No heir, no inheritance. You can’t let your guard down. Keep looking for a bride. Play by the rules, at least for now.”
I stare out the window, Manhattan spread beneath me like a promise and a threat. The idea of letting the money go—of turning my back on everything my grandfather built—had almost tempted me. For a moment, it seemed easier. Cleaner.
But now? Now I see my father’s smug face in my office, see him sitting at my desk as if he already owns my life. The thought makes my blood boil.
I’m not letting that man win. I’m not letting him take what’s mine.
“Don’t worry,” I say, my voice low and certain. “I’m not quitting. I’ll find a wife. I’ll get the heir. Whatever it takes.”
I hang up, the decision burning in my chest like a fresh wound.
I lean back in my chair, letting the city blur beyond the window. Skyscrapers and streets mean nothing right now. All I see is her—Zatanna, the way she walked out, a little unsteady, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with everything she couldn’t say.
How the fuck am I supposed to marry someone else?I can’t even get her out of my head. Every time I try, every time I force myself to look at a new profile, scroll through databases full of eligible, flawless women, all I see is her: her mouth, parted in shock and want, her skin hot under my hands, her pulse fluttering at her throat when I pressed her to the wall.
I haven’t listened to any of her recordings since yesterday. I can’t. I know what will happen if I do. The temptation is almost unbearable—to slip in an earbud, close my eyes, and let her voice wash over me again. But now, the fantasy isn’t just her words, her low confessions or needy moans. Now all I can picture is what would’ve happened if I hadn’t stopped… if I’d let my restraint snap, just once.
If I’d ripped those panties right down the seam and tasted her—sweet and desperate, slick on my tongue, shaking for me. If I’d slid two fingers inside, working her until she was writhing, soaking my hand, begging me for more. I want to hear her say my name, want to fuck her with my fingers until she’s sobbing, then flip her over and claim her hard, fill her until she’s ruined for anyone else.
Just the thought of it has me hard as stone, cock straining in my trousers, every muscle tight with need.
I know I need a wife. I know I need an heir. But right now, all I want is her. Over my desk, against my window, on her knees with those pretty lips parted, my name tumbling out in that filthy, gorgeous voice.
God help me, if I lose control again—there won’t be any stopping.
I try to bury myself in work, running numbers, drafting emails, forcing myself to focus on anything but the ache in my body and the relentless spin of my thoughts. Eventually, it’s useless. I give up, rising from my chair, and step out to check on Zatanna.
But her desk is empty.
Actually, every desk on the floor is empty. The silence feels strange, unnatural. This place never goes quiet, not even for lunch. My annoyance spikes as I sweep through the rows of vacant workstations, looking for any sign of her, of anyone.
Finally, laughter and muffled voices lead me toward the rec room. I push open the door and the sight hits me in the gut.
There she is—Zatanna, perched on the edge of a sofa, grinning as Owen from accounts offers her a plate with a fat slice of cake. He leans in, a little too close, holding out a forkful of chocolate frosting. The rest of the team is gathered around, clapping and teasing, the air full of energy and warmth.
A jolt of jealousy surges through me, white-hot and blinding. I nearly slam my fist into the doorframe, barely catching myself at the last second. My hand stays curled into an unmoved fist instead, jaw clenched as I watch her accept a bite, laughing, cake smearing the corner of her mouth.
It shouldn’t matter. She’s just another employee. But the sight of her—so sweet, so open, letting someone else feed her—makes me want to drag her out of the room and remind her exactly who she belongs to.
The noise dims as people notice me in the doorway. Conversation stops. Owen freezes, fork in midair, his eyes wide. The others shuffle back, suddenly unsure, glancing between me and Zatanna like waiting for an explosion.
Lina is the first to recover. “We were just, um, throwing Zee a little welcome party. She’s been such a help already, we wanted to do something nice.”
I force a polite, measured smile, my voice calm but leaving no room for argument. “By all means. Don’t stop on my account.”
I linger in the doorway, watching Zatanna. Our eyes meet, and something passes between us—something electric, possessive, and absolutely impossible to hide.
