The limousine glides through Manhattan traffic like a shark through dark water. Rowan sits across from me, the green dress clinging to her curves exactly as I’d imagined when I ordered it. It’s fucking torture to have it here and now in front of me, to watch my dream take on the precise shape I wanted it to—and to stop myself from touching it. I’ve got my hands tucked in my pockets just so I don’t do something fucking rash.
But it’s tempting. Very tempting. Her eyes, her scent, all of it is calling to me, trying to drag me across a distance that shouldn’t be crossed. Even the emerald at her throat catches the passing streetlights, winking at me like a co-conspirator.
Cheeky piece of fucking jewelry.
And yet I can’t stop thinking about how good it would look if it was the only thing she had on.
“You clean up well, Ms. St. Clair,” I murmur, breaking the silence.
Her eyes snap to mine. “Thank you, Mr. Akopov.”
“Vince,” I correct her. “When we’re in public tonight, you’ll call me Vince.”
“Is that appropriate? I’m your assistant.”
“Wrong. Tonight, you’re whatever I need you to be.”
A flush creeps up her neck, spreading across her cheeks. It’s becoming my favorite thing to watch.
“And what exactly do you need me to be?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Observant. Attentive.” I lean forward and capture her eyes. “Mine.”
Her breath catches. “I don’t understand.”
“You will.” I sit back, straightening my cuffs. “Tonight, you’ll meet some of my most important business associates. People who matter to my world. Pay attention to names, faces, connections. Take mental notes. I’ll quiz you later.”
“Is this a test?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Tests can be failed. This cannot.”
The car pulls up to the glittering entrance of the Plaza Hotel. Cameras flash as celebrities and high society figures strut the red carpet into the Pediatric Cancer Foundation gala.
“Ready?” I ask as the driver opens my door.
Rowan nods, though her eyes betray her nervousness.
I exit first, then extend my hand to help her out. Her fingers tremble in mine, but her face shows none of that fear. She steps onto the carpet with surprising grace, as if she’s done this a thousand times before.
I place my hand at the small of her back, guiding her forward.
“Smile,” I order into her ear. “Everyone is watching.”
And they are. Heads turn as we pass. I’m used to the attention—the Akopov name carries weight in this city. But tonight, it’s Rowan who draws the second glances.
She holds herself with unexpected poise. Back straight. Chin high. Steps measured and confident. The frightened little doe from my office has transformed into something else entirely.
Something that makes my blood run hotter than it should.
“Mr. Akopov!” A reporter steps into our path. “Who’s your date tonight?”
I smile for the cameras. “This is Ms. St. Clair, my executive assistant.”
“She’s gorgeous,” the reporter gushes. “Are you two—?”
“We’re here to support the foundation,” I interrupt smoothly. “My family has been a proud sponsor for years.”
Rowan follows my lead perfectly, adding, “The work they do for pediatric cancer research is truly inspiring.”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost say she sounds sincere.
I guide her past the reporters and into the opulent ballroom. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the silk-covered tables and floral arrangements.
“You handled that well,” I tell her.
“Thank you, Mr. A—er, Vince.” She tests my name carefully, like she’s afraid it might burn her tongue.
I like that. In fact, I think I like that too fucking much. My name coming out of Rowan’s mouth, soaked in fear and tinged with desire… I’m hard at the single syllable.
Say it again, I want to demand. Whisper it. Breathe it. Beg it. Pray to it. Say it from your back and your knees, from above me and below me. Scream it.
Fuck, this is a disaster in the making.
I shake my head and spot our first target across the room. “Come with me.”
Grigor Petrov stands by the bar, nursing a scotch. To everyone else, he’s just another wealthy businessman with a taste for charity events. To me, he’s the head of the Petrov Bratva. As of late, they’ve been some of our strongest allies in the city. But as with all things Bratva, allies become enemies in the blink of an eye. It’s best to keep them all under close watch.
“Grigor,” I call out, approaching with Rowan at my side.
He turns, his weathered face breaking into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, young Vincent! It’s been too long.”
We clasp hands. The tattoos across his knuckles are faded with scars and age, whereas mine are still bright and black.
“Allow me to introduce Rowan St. Clair, my new executive assistant,” I say in Russian, before switching to English. “Rowan, this is Grigor Petrov, CEO of Petrov Logistics.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Petrov,” she says, extending her hand.
Grigor takes Rowan’s hand, but instead of shaking it, he brings it to his lips for a kiss. His eyes never leave mine, the old fox testing boundaries as always.
I don’t trust him for a fucking second.
“Enchanting,” he says, his Russian accent thickening as he examines her. “Vincent, you’ve been holding out on us.”
I maintain my polite smile, but my hand finds the small of Rowan’s back again, a subtle gesture of possession that isn’t lost on Grigor.
“She’s new,” I tell him, keeping my tone light. “But promising.”
Rowan stands perfectly still under his scrutiny, neither cowering nor challenging. Good. She has instincts.
“Tell me, Ms. St. Clair,” Grigor says, “how do you find working for our young friend here? Is he as demanding as his father?”
“I wouldn’t know about Mr. Akopov Senior,” Rowan answers smoothly. “But Vince expects excellence. I appreciate that in an employer.”
Grigor barks a laugh. “She has spirit! I like this one, Vincent.”
“So do I,” I admit, giving Rowan a look that makes her cheeks flush again.
A waiter passes with champagne. I take two glasses, handing one to Rowan. Our fingers brush, and I let the contact linger.
“To new partnerships,” Grigor toasts, raising his half-drained scotch.
“New partnerships,” I echo, clinking my glass against his, though my gaze flits toward Rowan as I say it.
Her pulse visibly quickens at the base of her throat. I find myself wanting to press my lips there, to feel that racing heartbeat against my tongue.
Instead, I force myself to turn back to Grigor. “How is Irina?”
Irina Petrov. Grigor’s daughter. One of the few my father keeps suggesting as a suitable bride candidate. The thought of her—cold, calculating, bred from birth for the Bratva life—makes me appreciate the warm, living woman at my side even more.
“Asking about you, as always,” Grigor says with a meaningful look. “Perhaps you should call her.”
“Perhaps,” I reply noncommittally.
I feel Rowan stiffen beside me. Interesting. Is that jealousy?
Rowan presents as so meek and demure. I call her doe for a reason—she looks like she’d run for her life at the first sight of something with fangs. But the simplest mention of Grigor’s daughter and I can feel her bristling. Through the tiniest brush of shoulder-to-shoulder contact, her boiling jealousy heats me up.
The funniest part?
I fucking like it.
I like knowing that perhaps, in the middle of all this pomp and bullshit, she’s thinking of me and Irina. Or is it me and Vanessa still occupying her thoughts? Some sick part of me is putting myself in her head, inventing fantasies for her.
Rowan snatching Vanessa by her hair, throwing her aside, and taking that spot on the spot for herself.
Rowan punching Irina in the face and claiming a place on the altar next to me.
Rowan wanting what she knows she can never have. Rowan burning up with the need for it.
Rowan, Rowan, always fucking Rowan.
“If you’ll excuse us,” I say to Grigor, “I see the Nakamuras have arrived. We have business to discuss.”
Grigor nods, understanding the real meaning behind my words. The Japanese shipment. The routes we discussed in that meeting Rowan attended.
“Of course. A pleasure to meet you, Ms. St. Clair,” he says, kissing her hand again. “I suspect we’ll be seeing much more of each other.”
I guide Rowan away, my hand still at the small of her back. The silk of her dress is warm beneath my palm.
“Was that okay?” she whispers once we’re out of earshot. “I wasn’t sure what to say.”
“You were perfect,” I tell her. “Grigor Petrov is an important business associate. His approval matters.”
“He seemed to like me.”
“He did. Too much, maybe.” The possessive edge in my voice surprises even me.
Her eyes widen as she reads into my reaction for all the wrong reasons. “Is he dangerous?”
I laugh softly. “Everyone here is dangerous in their own way, Rowan. That’s the first lesson you need to learn.”
I lead her through the crowd, nodding at acquaintances, stopping occasionally to exchange pleasantries. I introduce her to each person we meet—some legitimate businesspeople, others with connections to my world that she couldn’t begin to imagine.
She handles each introduction flawlessly. Takes mental notes, as instructed. Smiles at the right moments. Speaks when spoken to, but never overreaches.
It’s like watching a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis.
“You’re a natural at this,” I tell her as we make our way toward the bar.
“I’m just following your lead,” she demurs.
“No. You’re adapting. Learning. Most people can’t do that so quickly.”
Her smile is genuine this time. “Thank you.”
I order us fresh drinks, studying her profile as she surveys the room. She has a nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask.
“I’m trying to make sense of it all,” she admits. “Who knows who. Who matters to you.”
“And?”
“And I think I’m starting to see patterns.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Such as?”
She leans closer, her voice dropping. “The Russians cluster together. The Japanese and Koreans stay on opposite sides of the room. The Italians by the far wall keep watching you whenever they think you’re not looking.”
My pulse quickens. She’s observant. Dangerously so.
“Go on,” I encourage.
“The man in the gray suit by the auction table—he’s been talking to the police commissioner all evening, even though they’re pretending not to know each other.”
I smile, impressed despite myself. “Very good. What else?”
She turns to face me fully, those green eyes bright with intelligence. “Everyone here treats you with respect. Some with fear. But all of them want something from you.”
“Including you?”
The air between us crackles with tension. I step closer, drawn to her like a magnet. All the thoughts that have been occupying my head since the moment Rowan stepped into my car at the beginning of the evening reach a fever pitch. I’m throbbing with hot blood, this insatiable desire to sweep all the glassware of the nearest table and replace it with Rowan.
I can already see where I’d grab hold of that green gown. It’d rip right down the middle, parting her for me like a fucking flower. And in the middle, brimming with nectar—
“Vincent.”
A hand claps my shoulder. I turn, irritated by the interruption.
Andrei Akopov stands there, resplendent in his tuxedo, silver hair slicked back as always, eyes sharp as ever.
“Father,” I greet him, automatically straightening my posture. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
“Clearly,” he says dryly, his gaze moving to Rowan. “And who is this lovely creature?”
I make the introduction, watching as my father takes Rowan’s measure with a single glance.
“My new executive assistant,” I explain.
“Executive assistant,” he repeats. “How… convenient.”
Rowan extends her hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Akopov. Your son speaks very highly of you.”
A lie, but a good one. My father almost smiles as he shakes her hand.
“Does he now? How refreshing.” He turns back to me. “Vincent, a word in private?”
I nod to Rowan. “Wait for me here. I won’t be long.”
“Of course,” she says. Her perfect professionalism masks whatever she might be feeling.
I follow my father to a quiet corner of the ballroom. He doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Is this the one you mentioned? The solution to your marriage problem?”
I keep my face neutral. “Perhaps.”
“A secretary?” His disgust is palpable. “You could have any woman from any family. The Petrovs. The Kuznetsovs. Women raised in our world, who understand what it means to be Bratva. And you choose—”
“Times change, Father. Old alliances aren’t the only path to power.”
He scoffs. “She’s nothing. A nobody.”
“She’s what I want.” The words come out before I can stop them.
My father’s eyes narrow. “Be careful, Vincent. Want is a dangerous thing in our world. I taught you better than that.”
“You taught me to recognize value where others don’t look,” I counter. “To see opportunities where others see obstacles.”
He studies me for a long moment, then glances back at Rowan, who stands alone at the bar, her posture straight, her eyes scanning the room like she’s memorizing faces.
“She’s pretty, I’ll grant you that,” he finally says. “But pretty fades. Loyalty is what lasts.”
“I’m working on that part,” I tell him.
He sighs heavily. “Don’t make me regret giving you control, son. Some mistakes can’t be undone.”
With that warning, he walks away, leaving me to consider his words.
I turn back to look at Rowan, catching her eye across the crowded room. She smiles, tentative but genuine, and something unnamed shifts inside me.
My father is right about one thing: wanting is dangerous.
But so am I.
