I narrow my eyes. “Are you questioning my abilities?”
He shrugs, holding up his hands. “Not me, boss. Just… Last time, you shot your own monitor.”
“One time. And the monitor deserved it.”
He laughs, the sound echoing in my office—too loud, too comfortable. Sometimes I wonder if I should have hired someone less familiar with my temper.
Yuri runs me through the platform anyway, showing me how to open the applications, skim the attachments, and flag the ones I like. The system pings every time someone new applies, the list growing longer by the hour. He clicks through a few profiles, reading snippets aloud with that annoying, singsong voice.
“‘Experienced, motivated, team player…’ blah blah blah. Here’s one who’s a ‘people person’—good luck with that.”
I grab the tablet from him. “Go.”
He raises both brows. “You want me to leave you alone with all this paperwork?”
“I want quiet. And coffee. Now.”
He grins again, clearly amused. “As you wish, Mr. Vasiliev. If you break anything, just call IT. Or… don’t.”
He disappears, sneakers squeaking down the hall, leaving me with the soft blue glow of the screen and the endless scroll of names, faces, promises. For a moment, the office is blessedly silent.
I let out a slow breath, rubbing the bridge of my nose. This shouldn’t be hard. Pick an assistant, marry a woman, make a child. Collect my inheritance. Simple.
But the names blur, voices blend, and everyone starts to look the same. I tap the next application open, not expecting much.
And then, in the next stack, I see it: an audio file. Something labeled “Interview Transcript – Z.D.”
I almost skip it, ready to dismiss another hopeful, but curiosity gets the better of me. I hit play.
A woman’s voice pours out of the speakers—rich, low, every word confident and hot enough to stop my heart.
I freeze, staring at the screen, unable to move. For the first time all morning, I forget everything else.
The first word out of her mouth sinks straight into my gut.
“Relax,” she says softly, like she already knows I’m tense.
“They don’t rush,” she reads. Not breathy. Not exaggerated. Calm. Assured. “They stand there for a moment, just breathing each other in. The air between them feels charged, like something waiting to snap.”
Something tightens low in my stomach.
It isn’t the words. It’s the way shepacesthem. The quiet confidence. The way her consonants land soft but precise, like she knows exactly where to linger and where not to.
“When he finally touches her, it’s almost reverent,” she continues. “His hand slides along her waist, slow enough that it makes her shiver. She turns into him without thinking, lips parting, already needy.”
My chest feels strange. Heavy. I shift in my chair, irritation flickering—this shouldn’t matter. I’ve heard women talk before. I’ve fucked half of Europe.
But this… this is different.
Her voice doesn’t seduce. Itinhabits.
“She gasps when his mouth finds hers,” she says quietly. “Not because it’s rough, but because it’s thorough. Like he’s memorizing her.”
My cock stirs, just a little. Enough to be noticeable. Enough to irritate me.
I tell myself it’s nothing. A physiological response. Stress. Lack of sleep.
“His hands travel over her body, sliding beneath her dress, greedy, impatient. She moans when his lips brush the side of her neck, arching up into his touch. ‘You’re so wet for me,’ he whispers, and she gasps, her thighs parting, desperate for more.”
