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So, Yulia’s his sister, not his kid.
Relief floods me, and I find myself wanting to do a happy dance.
God, why do I even give a damn? It’s not like I’m planning to date the guy… Not that he’d want to date me, but still.
I make an attempt to shake the cobwebs from my mind.
Yulia could be his sister, daughter, or hell, even his pet turtle, for all I care. It’s none of my business. But why does my heart flutter every time he looks at me? I mean, I’m here for a job, not to find a husband.
Or a lover.
Or a—
Stop, Sophia, stop!
This isn’t a romance novel. This is real life. And in real life, billionaire mafia lords don’t fall for their nannies. They just don’t.
He’s just fucking with you.
Taking a deep breath, I mutter to myself, “Take care of Yulia. Ignore the ridiculously attractive, maddeningly arrogant, incredibly sexy—” I stop myself short yet again. “Oh, shit! I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”
I really need to stop talking to myself. I shake my head, trying to clear all my thoughts. I need to focus, need to remember why I’m here. Luka Ivanov, with his devil-may-care attitude, smoldering eyes, and a body that should be illegal, is my enemy. Sent by his sworn enemy.
Fuck, I’m here to spy on him, for God’s sake!
If Luka ever sniffs out the truth, I’d be screwed six ways to Sunday.
Before I have a chance to gather my thoughts, the door swings open, and the head maid enters, her expression stern. She fixes me with an icy stare that seems to bore into my soul.
“I am Svetlana. You may address me as Ms. Svetlana. I am Luka’s chief of staff,” she declares. “You shall be working with me.” Her gaze lingers on me for a beat longer, the unspoken warning clear as day: Don’t you dare fuck around with me.
I swallow hard.
Whoopee. It’s going to be a blast.
But instead, I stammer as I reply, “Yes- ma’am. I mean, Ms. Svet-lana, ma’am.” My mind races with the realization that I’ve stepped into a real-life drama. As if to confirm my suspicions, two men in suits enter the room, looking like they’ve walked straight out of a high-stakes movie scene.
The first one extends his hand. “I am Mr. Abrams, Luka’s personal attorney,” he announces with a calculated smile that screams ‘I’ve done this a thousand times.’ His grip is firm, his demeanor as coldly professional as the words he speaks.
“And I am Mr. Thompson, his corporate lawyer,” the second man introduces himself, his voice as smooth as the pricy fabric of his suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent.
My mouth drops open in shock. Working for someone as devious and deceitful as Luka was bound to be difficult, but I wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of lawyers who greeted me on day one.
“I- I’m Soph—” I splutter, raising my hand in an attempt to shake his, but I’m abruptly cut off. Abrams walks right by me without so much as a glance. His cold, dismissive demeanor making it abundantly clear that my presence is inconsequential to him. It’s as if I’m nothing more than a piece of furniture, an insignificant part of the grand design of the Ivankov household.
Dick.
My hand, still suspended in midair, drops to my side as I fight the sudden humiliation.
Isn’t this just the very definition of a hearty welcome? Not.
It’s taking everything in me not to roll my eyes at the way he treats me like a tiny dot in his vast universe.
“Please take a seat, Ms. Williams,” Mr. Abrams says, gesturing to the chair before me. My knees wobble as I sink down, trying to maintain some sense of decorum, but when I lean back, the thick cushioning betrays me, sending me into an awkward semi-recline. I yank myself upright, praying no one caught that embarrassing moment.
Goddamn chair!
“Ahem,” Ms. Svetlana clears her throat, her lip curling. “Are you done playing musical chairs, Ms. Williams?”
