The calmness in his tone makes it easier. I slide into the chair, fidgeting with the hem of my skirt, waiting for the axe to fall.
Before he can say anything, it bursts out of me. “Why did you want to see me? Please don’t fire me. I know I was late and the party was probably inappropriate, but?—”
He holds up a hand, a faint smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Relax. I’m not firing you.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I probably look half-crazed, but I don’t even care.
He turns to his desk, picks up a tablet, and slides it across the table toward me. “Here. Take a look at this.”
I hesitate, then pick it up, the screen flickering to life in my hands.
Andwow. There are rows and rows—no, pages—of women. Headshots, bios, LinkedIn links, Instagram feeds. Like someone had merged the alumni databases of every Ivy League school with the cast list for The Bachelor, and then dumped them all into a spreadsheet. Some are smiling, some are not, some looklike they could run for Congress, and at least one looks like she could bench-press Aleksei.
I blink, scrolling. For a split second, a ridiculous thought pops into my head—what if he’s a serial killer and these are all his potential victims? Am I next? Is this a test? Should I run?
Or maybe this is some kind of ultra-exclusive dating app for billionaires, with a side of supervillain recruitment.
“What… is this?” I finally ask, my voice strangled somewhere between a giggle and a shriek.
He gives me that look, amused and annoyed in equal measure. “It’s the database. Of eligible women. You said you wanted to get started.”
For a split second, my brain lurches into the absurd.Oh my god. He’s a serial killer. This is how it starts. He’s going to make me choose his next victim and then he’ll start monologuing about his tragic childhood and there will be plastic sheeting and?—
“Um,” I manage, fighting a grin at my own mental spiral, “what is this? Am I picking a contestant for a reality show, or… are you planning to murder these women, because if so, I need a head start.”
He almost smiles—almost—and I see something soften around his eyes. “No. No reality show. No murder. Those are the most eligible women in Manhattan. You’ll be reviewing their profiles, arranging introductions, and narrowing the list.”
“Narrowing the list for what?” I ask, hoping maybe I’m reading this all wrong. Maybe he’s looking for a secretary for his secretary. Or starting a modeling agency. Or, honestly,anythingother than the insane reality I suspect.
He just watches me for a long moment, like he’s waiting for me to catch up. Then, with that maddening calm, he says, “Well, to find me a wife, of course.”
My mouth drops open. I stare down at the glowing parade of Manhattan’s finest, then back at him, incredulous. “You’re serious.”
He nods once, not a flicker of humor. “Deadly.”
I glance back at the tablet, then at his face, trying to decide if this is some sort of elaborate test or if he really expects me to play Cupid for a man who looks like he’s never even needed to ask for a date in his life.
“You’re serious,” I say, waiting for the punchline that never comes. He doesn’t even blink.
“This is why I hired you,” he replies, his gaze steady on mine. “You’re smart, discreet. I need someone who can do this well.”
I look down at the tablet, then back up at him, heat creeping up my neck. “You want me to find you a wife… after what happened yesterday?”
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his desk, eyes locked on mine with a challenge that’s impossible to ignore. “And what happened yesterday, Zatanna?”
His voice is smooth, but I can see it in his eyes—the dare, the spark, the memory of every forbidden thing I saw and heard and felt. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
For a moment, the office seems to shrink, the air between us thick and electric. I can’t look away, even though I know I should.
I swallow, caught between embarrassment and something deeper, darker, that makes me ache. “You know what happened,” I whisper.
His lips curl, the hint of a smile both dangerous and inviting. “I want to hear you say it.”
My heart thuds in my chest, louder than ever. The heat of his gaze pins me to the spot, every nerve tingling, every inch of me on edge. I try to steady myself, but my voice wavers, softer than I’d like.
“I… walked in on you,” I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes, “in a moment that was—private.”
He leans back just enough to draw in a slow breath, never taking his eyes off me. “That’s one way to put it.”
