For someone with his reputation, Pavel Strakov is surprisingly fair. It’s one of the reasons I trust him completely, which may or may not make me a little crazy.
Actually, scratch that. I’m definitely a little crazy. Carrie Ann has been telling me that since we were fourteen years old, and I decided it would be a good idea to climb the old water tower outside our hometown of Manhattan, Kansas, just to see what the view looked like.
Carrie Ann stayed on the ground, yelling helpful advice like “You’re going to die!” while I waved down at her like the queen of poor decisions. Maybe I am.
When I told her years later that I was moving to the real Manhattan, she didn’t even pretend to be surprised. “Sweet but crazy,” she said over the phone before pausing and correcting herself. “Actually, just plain crazy.”
The memory makes me smile as I finish rearranging Pavel’s afternoon meeting. Carrie Ann always did have a gift for honesty.
A soft chime from my email pulls my attention back to the present, another request for Pavel’s time arriving from a shipping manager who clearly believes his problem is more important than the seven other people currently waiting for the same privilege.
At the end of the day, I finally shut down my computer, and the office has settled into the particular kind of quiet that only arrives late at night. It’s well past ten, which means nearly everyone has gone home for the evening. Working for Pavel Strakov has taught me that “nearly everyone” is usually the best you can hope for.
Pavel himself often works deep into the night when something complicated is unfolding in the organization. Considering the tension that rolled through the office earlier today, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were still somewhere in the building finishing whatever discussions he started with the captains.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and head out, already thinking about the quiet subway ride home and the leftover dim sum waiting in my refrigerator. The entire day carried an uneasy energy that never quite resolved itself, and the sooner I escape the building, the better. Halfway down the hallway, however, a small detail nudges the back of my memory and makes me stop mid-step.
Vladimir’s dock contract is still sitting on Pavel’s desk, and the supporting files I pulled from the cabinet are still sitting on mine. Fixing it now will save me a headache later. With a quiet sigh, I turn around and head back toward the outer office.
The overhead lights have been dimmed, leaving the space shadowed and calm compared to the controlled chaos of the workday. My heels click softly across the marble floor as I gather the forgotten files from my desk and make my way toward Pavel’s office door. The light inside is still on, which means Pavel is probably still working.
That realization makes me hesitate for a moment before knocking. It would be rude to interrupt him if he’s on an important call, but dropping the files on his desk will only take a second. I crack the door, and just before I speak to announce myself, I hear something odd.
At first, I assume it’s the quiet creak of a chair or the rustle of papers shifting across his desk. But no. Now that I’m concentrating, I hear it.
Pavel’s voice.
Not the calm, firm tone he always speaks in. The words are lower and rougher, as if they’re being pulled out of him. Closer to a grunt.
“… Molly, da, like that.”
Huh?
The voice comes again, and this time there is no possibility that I misunderstood what I heard. “… take it like a good girl.”
Curiosity has always been my greatest weakness.
Before I can convince myself to walk away, I ease the door open just enough to look inside. For several seconds, my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing.
Pavel is standing near the edge of his desk, the office lights casting long shadows across the floor behind him, and there is absolutely no one else in the room. That fact alone is confusing enough that it takes a moment for the rest of the scene to register. His head is tilted slightly forward, his broad shoulders straining against his shirt. Quick movements with his right hand.
The sound of his voice breaks the stillness again, my name, low and strained in a way that feels nothing like the calm authority he carries during the workday. It’s animal, this new tone. Hearing my own name spoken that way sends a jolt of shocked awareness through me.
My first instinct is to retreat immediately. Whatever is happening—he’s jerking off right here, right now, what the absolute fuck—in that room is clearly not something I was meant to witness. The polite thing to do would be to close the door and pretend the moment never occurred. I begin easing the door shut as carefully as I can, hoping I can slip away without making any noise. The files I’m holding feel strangely heavy in my hands as I step backward into the hallway.
Unfortunately, Pavel turns his head at exactly the wrong moment.
Our eyes meet through the narrow opening in the door before I can finish closing it. The shock on his face lasts only a fraction of a second, but it’s long enough to make my pulse spike in my ears. I freeze where I stand, caught halfway between entering the room and fleeing down the hallway. Mortification washes over me in a hot wave as I realize just how spectacularly awkward this situation has become.
“Oh my god,” I whisper under my breath, the words escaping before I can stop them. I reach for the door again, intending to close it fully this time, but Pavel speaks before I can move.
“Molly.”
The sound of my name in that firm, familiar tone stops me instantly. My body reacts before my brain has time to argue with the command, and I turn back toward the doorway even though every sensible instinct tells me to keep walking.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out before I can organize them properly. “I forgot these files earlier, and I thought you’d want them tonight instead of tomorrow, and I didn’t realize you were?—”
I stop talking because finishing that sentence would require me to acknowledge exactly what I just walked in on.
