Page 8 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
The excuse sounds pathetic even to my own ears. A complete and utter lie. I couldn't help myself. I had to hear her voice, had to imagine it was the last thing I heard before I fell asleep. A dangerously weak thought.
"Oh." She sounds surprised. "Yes. Yes, sir, I did. Thank you. The car service was... thank you."
A pause. The line is dead air, but I hear her breathing. It’s almost enough.
"Are you alone?" The question is out before I can stop it. It’s too raw, too possessive.
"Sir?"
"Your background check," I lie, trying to cover. "It's standard. I'm asking again, Talia. Are you seeing anyone?"
"No, sir." Her reply is quick, just like it was in my office. "I'm not."
"Why?"
"Why... what, sir?"
"Why aren't you?" I say, leaning my forehead against the cold penthouse glass. "A woman like you."
There's a beat of silence, so long I think she might have hung up. When she speaks, her voice is small, brittle with a truth that costs her.
"No one's... interested in me like that, sir. I’m not the kind of woman men... look at."
My grip on the phone tightens. The sheer, unfathomable ignorance of the men she’s known. The blindness.
"They're fools," I say, my voice low and guttural. "They don't know what they're looking at. You’re beautiful, Talia."
A tiny, choked sound, like a gasp she swallowed.
"I... I don't..." she stammers, her voice unsteady.
"I believe you," I cut in, steamrolling her. "I believe you're alone. Because if you had a man—arealman—he would never let you walk around with a broken boot in a snowstorm. He'd make sure you weren't working for the holidays, that you had every gift you ever wanted."
"Sir..." she says, and her voice is suddenly stronger. Sharper. "Stop."
I pause, intrigued.
"All I ever wanted... it can't be bought, Mr. Ismailov."
The words land between us. A challenge. An admission. And just like that, the hook sets deeper. Talia doesn't want money. She doesn't like gifts. She wants something real.
Good.
I will give her that. I will give her an entire world, and I will own every part of it.
"Get some sleep, Talia," I say, the command soft but absolute. "You'll need it. I'll see you tomorrow."
I hang up before she can answer.
I stare out at my city, but I don't see the snow. I see her.It can't be bought.Maybe not.
But it can be claimed.
3
Talia
The party is surreal. A word I never use, but it's the only option. I've been to office Christmas parties before, but this is on a whole different level—much like Anton Ismailov, himself.
