Page 80 of Cruel Demands

“And have the caterer prepare a reception menu,” I add. “Cold service. No kitchen.”

Viktoriya looks at Taylor, then back at me. “Of course.” She walks away toward the conference room where Olga has been working.

Taylor remains seated, still looking at the screen rather than celebrating.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“The conservatory may say no.”

“They will say yes.”

“You seem very confident.”

“I am the governor.”

Her mouth twitches. “That did occur to me.”

I should return to my office. Instead, I stay beside her desk. “Well done, Miss Hayes.”

“Thank you.” Her lips part as though she has prepared several other responses and forgotten all of them.

“You handled that well.”

“I’m glad you approve.” The words are dry, but her voice is not steady.

I take a step closer. She grips the pen in her hand. Praise is dangerous.

“You are good at this,” I tell her.

Her face changes. The sarcasm disappears first. Then the suspicion. For one unguarded moment, she looks pleased. Not flattered. Not victorious. Proud. The expression strikes me with unexpected force.

Then she lowers her gaze to the papers on her desk. “Careful. I might start thinking you want me here for my qualifications.”

I lean one hand against the edge of her desk. Her breathing changes. “I do,” I say.

It is not entirely a lie.

Her green eyes lift slowly to mine. The office continues around us—phones ringing, keys clicking, Dima arguing with someone in the corridor—but the space between Taylor and me becomes unnaturally still.

She looks at my hand on her desk. Then at my face. “That almost sounded convincing.”

I straighten. Her mouth curves, but the flush has spread down her throat. She knows I saw her succeed. For some reason, this unsettles her more than my anger ever has.

Across the room, Olga stands in the conference-room doorway with her tablet against her chest. Her gaze moves from Taylor to me, then to my hand as I remove it from the desk. She says nothing. She doesn’t need to.

I return to my office before I allow myself to ask why Taylor’s pride affects me more than her embarrassment. Behind the darkened glass, Viktoriya begins making calls, and Taylor sits still for a moment, looking pleased with herself and flustered. She takes a deep, steadying breath before returning to her work.

The conservatory will work. Not merely as a substitute. It will be memorable. And when Taylor attends the benefit next month, every light, table, and piece of music in that room will exist there because she imagined it first.

My phone vibrates again. Arkady. I open the message this time.

The number on the second phone belongs to one of Orlov’s logistics companies. We need to speak now.

I look down at the briefing document in front of me, then back through the glass. Taylor is different when she’s occupied. The uncertainty disappears. So does the cautious defiance she wears around me. There’s no space left for self-consciousness. She becomes direct, composed, almost severe.

Beautiful, certainly. But beauty is common enough.

Competence is rare. People mistake confidence for it constantly, particularly in politics. They speak loudly, move quickly, and create the illusion of control while someone quieter repairs the damage behind them. Taylor doesn’t create the illusion of control. She finds the damage and repairs it.