Page 1 of His Demands

Chapter 1

Julie

"Do I have your undivided attention, Ms. Goodacre?"

I snap my focus back to my boss, Ivan Stepanov, who's giving me that trademark look of his—not that I've messed up, but because that's just his default setting.

Truely, he's the living proof of the cautionary tale parents tell their children about the risk of a face freezing in a permanent scowl if they're not careful.

I suppose his annoyance is somewhat justified. Not that he knows it.

He just caught me in the middle of a vivid daydream, where I'm wielding a magical remote with the power to silence his endless chatter at the press of a button. My fantasy escalates to the point where I hit the fast-forward button, zipping him through his lavish office's panoramic windows and into a comedic dive onto the bustling streets of Manhattan.

It's hard to fault my daydream; the day has stretched my patience to its limits, and I can feel my stomach growling.

I am thoroughly DONE with jumping through hoops for him today.

I've been at Stepanov Holdings since an ungodly hour this morning, after leaving the office last night at 10:00 P.M. For fuck sake, I even missed the Season Finale of the Bachelor.

I haven't had a moment's peace today, and now, without having had my lunch at 3:00 P.M., I'm just about ready to call it quits on this devil in an Armani suit.

Without my trusty sidekick—aka four shots of espresso—I'd be a goner for sure.

Yet, even fueled by caffeine, I'm a hot mess express.

I'm mentally face-palming for convincing myself that buying these ultra-skinny work trousers on sale was a savvy decision.

Right now, my legs are on the brink of rebellion, decidedly unhappy about being crammed into what I thought was a steal of a deal. I had to wear an extra long dress shirt to mask my camel toe.

Ivan, meanwhile, is the picture of unbothered elegance.

It's actually unfair how he manages to look like he's stepped out of a magazine, despite being on the go as much as he is.

His suit, his stubble, those piercing eyes—nothing's out of place.

"Ms. Goodacre, you haven't answered my question."

"Oh, right," I manage to say. "Yes, you have my full attention." My eyes dart to my notebook. "The financial report is due to be reviewed by Mr. Thompson in Compliance first thing. Also, new ergonomic chairs for the executive conference room have been ordered, and I'll follow up on the delivery. Your 10:00 A.M. tomorrow is now at 11:30, the 11:30 has moved to 2:15. And for next Thursday's meeting, I've left a note saying—they can, um, 'go fuck off.' Did I miss anything?"

Ivan raises an eyebrow, a gesture that could mean anything from ‘I’m impressed’ to ‘you're on thin ice.’

"Is there a hint of sarcasm I detect?"

Keeping my expression as blank as possible, I reply, "Not at all, sir. After the incident with the incorrect financial forecast last month, you wanted 'zero sass'. I remember."

"Hm."

That sound, coming from Ivan Stepanov, the enigmatic CEO of Stepanov Holdings, is enough to send shivers down the spine of anyone. I've seen it—a supplier once came in to negotiate a contract and left looking like they needed a stretcher, all because of a single "Hm" from Ivan.

He's not just formidable to outsiders; even I've been on the verge of tears more times than I can count since starting here. And yet, here I am, plotting his remote control demise as a form of twisted self therapy. What has my life come to?

"And the email I asked for?"

I hand a printed email to the corporate lion.

He looks at me, his gaze as penetrating as a laser.

"I asked for this to be emailed, Miss Goodacre," he says with a voice smoother than a whiskey on the rocks.

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