I stand there for a long moment staring at the place she was.
I told myself distance was for her own good.
But as the silence spreads through the room, all I can think is that I may have just traded danger for something worse.
20
ZATANNA
I spendthe rest of the evening trying not to think about him.
Which is impossible, obviously.
Because apparently Aleksei Vasiliev can put his mouth between my legs in a restaurant bathroom, rescue me from being shoved into a car by armed strangers, wrap me in his coat like I matter, and then walk into the office the next morning and act like I’m a spreadsheet he already signed off on.
It’s deranged. Actually deranged.
And the worst part is that I’m supposed to be the angry one.
I’m the one who should be ignoringhim. I’m the one who should be avoiding eye contact, avoiding his office, avoiding every dark thought that begins with his mouth and ends with me doing something very stupid on a desk.
Instead, he’s the one pretending nothing happened.
And it’s torture.
Because every time he passes my desk without looking at me, I want to grab him by his expensive tie and ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing. Every time he routes something through Vivian instead of speaking to me directly, I feel this stupid little sting in my chest that I absolutely resent.
I should not be emotionally affected by a man who literally told me I complicate things.
And yet here I am. Acting complicated.
By noon, the hurt has curdled into something sharper: curiosity.
Because the more I replay last night, the less sense any of it makes.
Men with guns. A dark sedan. Aleksei moving like violence lives in his bloodstream. And then that line in his office, all cold and devastating:my enemies are paying attention.
What kind of billionaire has enemies like that?
Not the normal kind.
Not the tech-bro-on-a-magazine-cover kind. Not the private-jet-and-charity-gala kind.
Something else. Something… darker.
I try to focus on work, but my brain keeps circling back to that question, chewing on it like a loose thread. Finally, after the third time I mistype the same email, I give up and open my browser instead.
Aleksei Vasiliev.
The search results flood in instantly.
Business articles. Photos from formal events. Interviews where he says almost nothing and somehow still looks dangerous. One headline calls himthe elusive kingmaker of Manhattan real estate. Another describes him asfamously private. There are mentions of his grandfather’s empire, vague references to “international ties,” rumors of family conflict, whispers of acquisitions that sound less like mergers and more like hostile takeovers with excellent tailoring.
Nothing concrete. Nothing useful.
A whole lot of expensive words saying absolutely nothing.
I scroll deeper.
