I stumble back to my desk on legs that feel like they’re made of Jello rather than flesh and bone. My hand is shaking so badly I can barely grasp my mouse.
“This didn’t just happen,” I whisper to myself, touching the spot on my neck where his lips burned against my skin just moments ago. “That absolutely did not just happen.”
But it did.
My boss threatened me with a gun. Then nearly kissed me. Then dismissed me like I was nothing.
I glance at the closed door of his office. What’s he doing in there now? Is he calling someone to “take care of me”? Is he putting the gun back in its hiding place? Is he laughing at how pathetically I melted under his touch?
My phone buzzes with a text from Natalie: Lunch today? Need ALL the details about working for V-Card Vinny
I type back: Can’t today. Swamped. Tomorrow?
What I don’t say: Also, I might be dead by tomorrow if he decides I’m too much of a liability.
I gather my purse and my jacket. I need air. Space. Time to think.
“I’m stepping out for coffee,” I call toward his closed door, somehow keeping my voice steady. “Can I bring you anything?”
No response.
Fine by me.
I practically run to the elevator, jabbing the button repeatedly as if that will make it arrive faster. When the doors finally open, I collapse against the back wall.
“Get it together,” I mutter. “Think this through.”
My options are limited:
One: Quit. Walk away. Never look back.
Two: Go to the police. Tell them everything I saw and heard.
Three: Stay and keep my mouth shut. Pretend I never saw the gun, the cash, or anything else.
Option One means no more triple salary. That’s a non-starter.
Option Two? Well, that’s basically suicide. If Vincent really is involved in criminal activities, I’d be painting a target on my back. And that’s assuming the police would even believe me or do anything. Men like the Akopovs probably have half the NYPD in their pocket.
Which leaves Option Three: Stay. Look the other way. Keep the money flowing.
And try desperately to ignore whatever the hell just happened between us in his office.
By the time I’ve bought my coffee and returned to the building, I’ve made my decision. I wish I could say it was a noble one, or even a smart one. But it’s the only one I can live with.
I’ll stay. I’ll keep his secrets. I’ll do my job.
And I’ll pray I haven’t made a deal that will cost me more than just my professional ethics.
Back at my desk, I throw myself into work with a frantic energy. Answering emails. Organizing files. Rescheduling a meeting that conflicts with one of those mysterious “OFFSITE” appointments.
Vincent emerges from his office around noon, looking as polished and controlled as ever. As if he didn’t just hold a gun while threatening me. As if he didn’t almost kiss me senseless.
“Ms. St. Clair,” he says, nodding curtly as he passes my desk.
“Mr. Akopov.” I keep my eyes on my computer screen, afraid of what might happen if I look at him directly. Afraid I might see that hunger in his eyes again. If I do, I might beg him to finish what he started.
The rest of the day goes by at warp speed. Vincent is in and out of meetings. I take notes, forward calls, manage his calendar. We interact with cool professionalism, as if this morning never happened.
But I feel his eyes on me every time his office door opens. I sense his presence like an electric current in the air around me.
At five o’clock, Diane returns from whatever mysterious errand kept her away all day. “You’re still here,” she observes, sounding almost surprised.
“Where else would I be?” I ask, attempting a smile.
Her eyes narrow, assessing me. “Most don’t last after they see what’s in the drawer.”
My blood runs cold. “You know about—”
“I know everything, Ms. St. Clair.” She starts packing up her things. “I’ve worked for the Akopov family for thirty years. There are no secrets from me.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
She pauses, fixing me with a look that’s almost sympathetic. “Because you made the right choice by staying. But don’t mistake that for safety.” She leans closer, her voice dropping. “Keep your head down. Do your job. Forget what you saw. That’s how you survive in this world.”
With that cryptic advice, she leaves, the rat-a-tat of her sensible heels fading down the hallway.
I sit in stunned silence for a long moment, processing her words. So I’m not the first assistant to discover Vince’s secrets. And apparently, not all of them survived the discovery.
Yet here I am, still at my desk. Still alive. Still employed.
For now.
As if sensing my thoughts, Vince’s door opens. He stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from his office. “Going home, Ms. St. Clair?”
I nod, gathering my things with hands that refuse to be steady. “Yes, sir.”
“Goodnight, then.” He watches me for a beat too long, his eyes unreadable. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It sounds more like a command than a statement.
“Tomorrow,” I confirm, slinging my purse over my shoulder.
As I wait for the elevator, I make a promise to myself. I will do exactly as Diane suggested. Keep my head down. Do my job. Forget what I saw.
I will not ask questions about the gun, the mysterious appointments, or the phone calls about shipments at docks.
I will not think about the way his fingers felt tangled in my hair, or the heat of his breath against my neck, or the impossible blue of his eyes as he asked me what I wanted.
I will survive this job. One day at a time. For Mom. For her medical bills. For our future.
And if surviving means ignoring the fact that my boss might be a criminal—and that I might be stupidly, dangerously attracted to him anyway—then that’s what I’ll do.
After all, I’m good at turning a blind eye. I’ve been doing it my whole life.
Why stop now?
