Chapter 8

The wink—wham!

My head is about to fly off my spine if he says one more thing out of left field.

“You want me to be your assistant?” I can barely form the words.

“Not just any assistant. My right hand.”

He stands, sauntering around the desk and coming to rest on the edge directly in front of me, arms folded across his chest.

He shaved, I notice. I think I prefer the beard. Easier to imagine how that feels between my thighs.

“Triple your current salary. Benefits. Direct access to the executive level.”

Triple my salary? That would mean… my God. Mom’s medical bills. A better apartment. Maybe even some savings. What a concept that is.

It sounds too good to be true.

… which means it probably is.

“Why me?” I ask, finding a sudden wellspring of courage I didn’t know I possessed. “Is this because of what I saw? Because if you’re offering me this position to keep me quiet⁠—”

“Are you questioning my motives, Ms. St. Clair?”

“Actually, yes.” I surprise myself with my directness. “Is this a proposition, Mr. Akopov?”

His eyes narrow, and all I can think is, You’re an idiot, Row.

This is why you’re poor and sad and lonely—because you don’t know how to take a good thing without shredding it to pieces in search of the catch.

What if it’s a real offer and you just ruined it, huh?

What if he meant it and you scoffed, hm?

What if the world plopped a happy ending—no pun intended—right in your lap, and you turned your nose up at it like you’re just so rich with options that this one didn’t even matter?

My pity party is raging like a frat kegger—and then, unexpectedly, he laughs.

Laughs. Actually laughs. A rich, genuine chuckle that makes my stomach start jumping rope with my bowels.

“You have more backbone than I gave you credit for.” He cracks his knuckles, then recrosses his arms. “No, this is not a proposition. This is a business opportunity. One that could change your life.”

I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly.

And yet self-sabotage is what I do best.

Without that, who even am I?

“I’ve never been an E.A. before.”

Vincent shrugs. “You have five years of experience watching this company operate. You know our products, our campaigns, our strategy.” He undoes the clasp of his watch and rubs at the skin of his wrist beneath it. “And you notice things. You pay attention to details most people miss.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’ve had a crush on me for five years, and I never noticed until now.”

My heart stops. Just seizes up completely.

Dead. I’m dead. This is what death feels like.

“I—I don’t—that’s not—” I stammer, mortified.

He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s flattering, but irrelevant. What matters is your work ethic and your discretion. Both of which I believe you possess in abundance.”

I try to regain my composure, but it’s like trying to gather spilled water with my bare hands.

He knows it, too. Those eyes miss nothing. I meet them—just for a second—and I want to laugh miserably at the realization that all my efforts to come in here composed, well-dressed, with a plan… they’re all for nothing.

He. Sees. Everything.

And he knows exactly what to do with it.

“Do we have a deal, Ms. St. Clair?” he asks softly.

My mind races. This is insane. Completely insane. I should protect myself from whatever game he’s playing because there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that I come out on top.

But then I think of Mom. That stack of bills isn’t getting any smaller, and if I could get her better meds, better healthcare, maybe a nurse to come share the burden of caring for her every once in a while…

How could I say no?

“When would I start?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel, mostly because “how I feel” is the emotional equivalent of Jim putting Dwight’s stapler in a Jell-O mold in The Office: pink, wobbly, and useless.

“Immediately.” He extends his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

I look at his outstretched hand, then back at his face. Those blue eyes reveal nothing.

I take his hand. His palm is warm, his grip firm. A current seems to pass between us, and I wonder if he feels it, too.

“We have a deal, Mr. Akopov.”

He smiles, and it transforms his face. It’s that smile that makes it hard for me to breathe, that makes my heart race like I’ve just run a marathon.

More than anything else, it’s that smile that spells danger.

More than anything else, it’s that smile that means I can’t say no.

“Excellent,” he says, releasing my hand. “Diane will familiarize you with the workstation and brief you on your duties.”

“Thank you,” I say, still not quite believing this is real. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t.” His voice takes on an edge I can’t quite decipher. “Because failure is not an option in my world, Ms. St. Clair.”

I gulp. Nod. Rise on shaky knees and start to stumble toward the door.

“Oh, and Rowan?” he adds as I turn to leave. The sound of my first name on his lips makes me freeze.

“Yes?”

“That dress suits you. Green is your color.” Then he nods and the moment is severed. “You may go now.”

I stumble out of his office like a newborn calf, all shaky knees and fuzzy brain.

Green is my color.

He noticed my dress.

He knows I’ve had a crush on him for five years.

Everything is both worse and better than I could have imagined, and I’m not sure which terrifies me more.

The elderly drill sergeant—Diane, apparently—waits for me at her desk, her face impassive as marble. I wonder if she’s witnessed this scene before. How many women has Vince Akopov pulled into his orbit, only to spit them out when he’s done? How many has he looked at like they’re something he wants to devour, bite by bloody bite?

“Your desk is here,” she says, gesturing to a sleek setup positioned directly outside his office. “You’ll need to clear out your things from the marketing department today. I’ve prepared a handbook with your duties.”

The book she forks over to me is thick enough to stop a bullet. Maybe that’s the point.

“Thank you,” I manage.

“The last five assistants lasted less than three months each,” she says, voice flat as week-old soda. “Mr. Akopov has… exacting standards.”

My stomach plummets. “And Vanessa?”

Her eyes flick to his closed door, then back to me. “Transferred to the Singapore office this morning.”

Jesus Christ. He shipped her to another continent.

The message couldn’t be clearer if he’d written it in my blood: Don’t fuck up. Don’t disobey. Don’t disappoint.

“I see,” I whisper.

But I don’t see. Not really. I’ve just agreed to be the right hand to a man who discards people like used tissues, who can banish someone to the other side of the planet with a snap of his fingers, who watched me for five years while I thought I was invisible.

And the sickest part? As I sink into my new chair—the leather so buttery-soft it feels obscene—there’s a dark, twisted part of me that’s thrilled by all of it.

I’ve just handed the devil my leash…

… and God help me, I can’t wait to feel the first tug.