Page 5 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
What the hell is happening to me.
Then he's speaking rapid Russian into the phone, and Elena appears at my elbow, guiding me out. My heart hammers againstmy ribs for reasons that have nothing to do with relief over getting the job.
The elevator ride down feels longer than the one up. My reflection stares back—eyes too wide, lips parted like I've been running. Like I've been kissed.
I press my fingers to my mouth, trying to calm my breathing. Just a job. Two weeks, maybe three. Good pay, long hours, and a boss who looks at me like he's deciding whether to fire me or devour me.
And God help me, I'm not sure which one I want more.
I handle this. I have to handle this.
The lobby is busier now, people in expensive coats hurrying through, arms full of shopping bags and wrapped gifts. Music plays softly through hidden speakers, classical and beautiful. I pause near the tree, staring up at the lights, trying to ground myself.
My phone buzzes. A text from the temp agency.
Mr. Ismailov called. You're approved. He's requested an advance be sent to your account—first week's pay. Rate is $85/hour. Congratulations.
I read it three times. Four. The numbers don't change.
Eighty-five dollars an hour. Triple my normal agency rate. For a temporary position. For two weeks of work that should pay maybe fifteen, twenty an hour tops.
My hands shake as I do the math. Forty hours a week at that rate is—
No. That can't be right.
I pull up my banking app, and there it is. A deposit. Three thousand, four hundred dollars. One week's pay, sitting in my account like it's nothing. Like it's normal for a temp to make more in a week than I usually make in two months.
My stomach twists.
Why?
I remember the way his gaze dropped to my legs when I mentioned my broken boot. The way he stared at my mouth like he was deciding whether to kiss me or fire me. The heat in his eyes when I called him "sir."
The way my body responded. The way it still responds, pulse jumping at the memory.
What exactly does he think he's paying for?
I want to feel grateful. Want to feel relieved. But all I feel is suspicious, and I hate it. Hate that foster care taught me to question every kindness, to look for the angle, to never trust anything that seems too good to be true.
People have motives. Hidden ones. And men like Anton Ismailov—powerful, dangerous men who look at you like they own you—they always want things.
I just don't know what yet.
My phone buzzes again. Another text.
Tomorrow. 8 a.m. Don't be late.
Not from the agency. From him. Which means he has my number now, pulled from my file, and the thought makes my pulse jump for reasons I don't want to examine.
I shove my phone in my pocket and head for the doors, limping on my broken boot, trying to ignore the way my hands still shake.
Three thousand dollars. Enough to pay rent, buy groceries, maybe even fix my heat. Enough to take three classes next semester instead of one.
Enough to make me wonder what I just sold.
I step out into the snow, and the cold bites through my coat, sharp and clean. I pull it tighter and start walking, my uneven gait making every step a reminder of how this day started. How it's ending.
With a job I desperately need and a man I can't stop thinking about.
