I’m halfway through a rerun of The Great British Bake Off when someone knocks on my door.
Actually, “knocks” isn’t the right word. It’s more like a furious, impatient pounding that makes me nearly slosh my Solo cup full of boxed wine all over my threadbare couch.
Nobody visits me unannounced. Ever. Natalie always texts first, Mom’s in the hospital, and the building super only shows up when something’s been broken for a minimum of three weeks.
I mute the TV and tiptoe to the peephole, wine cup still clutched in my hand like a sad weapon.
My heart stops.
Vincent Akopov is standing in my hallway.
“I know you’re in there, Rowan,” he calls through the door. “I can hear you breathing.”
I glance down at my outfit in horror. Gray flannel pajama shorts with little cartoon sloths on them. A faded NYU t-shirt with a coffee stain right between my boobs. Hair piled on top of my head in a disgusting knot. Calling it a “filthy rat’s nest” would be an insult to filth, rats, and nests.
“One minute!” I call, my voice way too high-pitched, like a teakettle on helium.
I scramble around my tiny studio, looking for something—anything—more presentable to throw on. But there’s no time. He’s already seen the light under my door, already knows I’m home.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door just enough to peek out.
“Mr. Akopov,” I say, trying to sound professional despite my attire. “This is unexpected.”
He’s devastating in dark, tailored slacks and a charcoal cashmere sweater that looks like he tugged a cloud out of the night sky and molded it to his biceps. His hair is tousled, like he’s been running his fingers through it over and over again, and there’s a tightness to the clench of his jaw that makes my thighs do a clench of their own.
“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks, one eyebrow arched.
“I’m not exactly dressed for company.”
His eyes rake slowly down my body, taking in every embarrassing detail of my loungewear. “I don’t mind.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Um, okay. Just… it’s small. And messy. I wasn’t expecting—”
“Rowan,” he interrupts, “open the fucking door.”
I swallow hard and step back, pulling the door wider.
Vince strides in like he owns the place—which, given the number of Akopov Industries properties in the city, he actually might. His presence immediately makes my apartment feel ten times smaller.
He surveys my humble abode—the lumpy futon that converts to my bed, the kitchenette with peeling laminate countertops, the single window with its lovely view of the bird-shit-covered building next door.
“Charming,” he remarks. His tone suggests the exact opposite.
“It’s home,” I say defensively, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m suddenly, painfully aware that I’m not wearing a bra. Given how old and worn-through it is, this shirt is closer to tissue paper than to proper cotton, so the dark circles of my nipples would be blindingly obvious even if they weren’t standing on end.
Which they are.
Vince notices, too. His eyes linger for a heartbeat too long before returning to my face.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Something came up.” He walks to my small bookshelf, examining the titles. Something about the way his finger strokes down the spines one at a time is absurdly sexual. “I need to discuss it with you before tomorrow.”
“And it couldn’t wait until morning? Or, I don’t know, happen over the phone?”
He pivots to face me, his blue eyes smoldering. “Some conversations shouldn’t happen at the office. Or over unsecured lines.”
A chill runs down my spine. “Is this about what we discussed at the gala? Because I told you, I’m not going to say anything about—”
“No, Rowan, this isn’t about that. Not exactly.” He picks up my wine glass—er, wine cup—from the coffee table and sniffs it. His nose wrinkles and he sets it back down in a hurry. “Though we should probably revisit your understanding of discretion sometime soon.”
I reach for my cup, my fingers brushing against his as I reclaim it. The contact sends sparks of molten electricity dancing up my arm.
“Then what is it about?” I take a sip of wine for courage.
Vince moves closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne like a tide of things unspoken and unspeakable.
“My father has arranged a series of… meetings,” he says, watching my face carefully. “With potential brides.”
The wine turns sour in my mouth. “Oh.”
“‘Oh,’” he echoes. “Is that all you ever have to say?”
I shrug, trying to look nonchalant even as a cold and heavy dread settles in my stomach. “Uh, congratulations? I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“I want you to say you’ll accompany me.”
I blink at him. “To your dates?”
“They’re not dates,” he corrects sharply. “They’re business meetings. Potential alliances.”
“Right. Of course.” I take another sip of wine, not because it tastes good, since Lord knows it’s more like gasoline than a refreshing beverage now, but because I’m getting more and more certain that “blackout drunk” is the only way I’ll be able to tolerate this conversation. “And you need me there because…?”
“You’re my assistant. I need someone to keep track of my schedule, take notes if necessary, and ensure these meetings conclude efficiently.”
I laugh incredulously. “You want me to be your timekeeper? To make sure your dates with future Mrs. Akopov don’t run long?”
His jaw tightens. “As I said, they’re not dates.”
“Does your father know I’ll be there?”
“My father doesn’t dictate how I conduct my business.”
I raise an eyebrow. “From what I saw at the gala, he certainly tries to.”
Vince steps even closer, and I back up until I hit the wall. He plants one hand on the wall beside my head, caging me in. The world shrinks down to just those two dark pupils, swallowing me up without so much as a chance to scream.
“Careful, Rowan,” he says softly. “You’re overstepping.”
My heart hammers in my chest. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. So close that if I leaned forward just an inch, my lips would brush against his.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my mouth. “Are you?”
No. Yes. I don’t know.
“When is the first… meeting?” I ask instead of answering his question.
“Tomorrow night. Dinner at Per Se with Irina Petrov.” His fingers come up to brush a strand of hair from my face. “Wear something nice.”
I try to ignore the sting of his words, the casual way he’s informing me I’ll be watching him court another woman. “Define ‘nice.’”
“Like the dress from the gala.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “Green suits you.”
“I can’t wear the same dress,” I protest. “It’s too formal for a dinner, anyway.”
He waves a hand as if the mere thought of repeating an outfit is offensive to someone of his tax bracket. “I’ll have something delivered in the morning.”
Of course he will. Because I’m just a doll he can dress up and parade around, a prop in whatever game he’s playing with his father.
Let’s all pretend that I don’t like the sound of being an object for Vince to use.
“Fine,” I say, ducking under his arm to escape his proximity. “What time should I be ready?”
“Seven. Car will pick you up here.” He watches me retreat, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
Vince nods, then moves toward the door. But he pauses with his hand on the knob. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“These women—they’re from families like mine. Connected. Powerful.” His back is to me, but his voice has an edge I haven’t heard before. “Be careful what you say around them.”
“I always am.”
He turns, profile illuminated by the dim light of my apartment. “And Rowan? Remember who you work for.”
“You,” I say softly. “I work for you.”
His lips melt into that lethal half-smile. “That’s a very good girl.”
Then he’s gone, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of his cologne and the devastating knowledge that I’m going to spend tomorrow night watching the man I’m hopelessly attracted to woo someone else.
I slide down the wall to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. “What are you doing, Row?” I whisper to myself. “What the hell are you doing?”
But I already know. I’m playing with fire. Dancing too close to a flame that’s already scorched me once, scorched me twice, and has shone zero hesitation in doing it again.
Tomorrow, I get to watch that flame burn even brighter for someone else.
Someone worthy of him in a way I’ll never be.
