Page 86
What a fucking joke, right?
THIRTY-TWO
Ethan
“You need to appoint a manager for the event company, Ethan,” Irina says, sitting across from my desk.
I don’t even glance at her, scrolling instead through an email from Theo, packed with details about the construction of the new hotel chain.
“If it keeps running without a manager, they’ll lose all the events they’ve got. Five clients have already dropped their services this week.”
“I don’t have time for this nonsense, Irina,” I reply flatly, my eyes still on the screen. “Find a manager yourself. That person reports directly to you. I’m not getting involved. I have far more important things to deal with.” I gesture toward the stack of documents on my desk—the same ones she brought in herself.
“Okay, but I need to move them out. They can’t all stay on the fifth floor, in the archive, Ethan,” she says, her tone edged with amusement.
“Irina,” I answer without looking up, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. “That company doesn’t mean anything to me. I bought it only because it’s easier to organize our internal events, and those for all our partners, with our own firm. Believe me, I don’t care what happens to it. Handle the reorganization yourself.”
She rises from her chair and comes around behind me, resting her hands lightly on my shoulders. The warmth of her touch contrasts with the air in the room.
“Okay, Ethan, I’ll take care of it right now,” she says, leaning over my shoulder to glance at Theo’s updates. She taps my back a few times, playful, almost conciliatory, then steps back and leaves my office.
It’s been a month—or maybe more—since I returned from Zanzibar. Since then, I’ve been flying across three continents, losing track of the countries I’ve set foot in.
I landed in London on Friday night. The weekend was consumed by endless calls with partners. And now, Monday finds me buried in new projects demanding my approval.
I’ve seen Serena no more than three times since returning from vacation, and I’ve been home just as seldom. The rest of the time, I’m either in my apartment here in Hartho or staying in some hotel somewhere in the world.
Halfway through reviewing a contract, there’s a knock at the door. Nick walks in without waiting for an answer.
I know immediately it’s him—or one of the guys—because only they can bypass the fingerprint scanner while the privacy system is active, as it has been since this morning.
“What’s all the madness on this floor?” he asks, laughing, dropping into the chair Irina vacated ten minutes ago.
I raise an eyebrow, pausing mid-read, letting my eyes sweep over him—his casual grin, the effortless way he leans back.
“Maybe you should disable the privacy system and see for yourself,” he says, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Groaning, I run a hand over my face and lean back in my chair.
“I don’t have time for this,” I reply. “Privacy off.” The command is clipped, precise. Instantly, the door unlocks, the windows turn transparent. The floor erupts—desks being moved, new ones brought in, people carrying things, shouting instructions, colliding mid-step.
“What the fuck is going on?” I ask, baffled, taking in the chaos.
Nick bursts out laughing, clearly savoring my reaction. He knows how much I value silence and order, and outside my office there is neither.
Ignoring him, I get up and walk to the door. As I open it, silence falls. People pause mid-action, objects frozen in hand, conversations hanging in midair, even coffee suspended mid-sip.
“Irina?” I say, letting my eyes sweep across the organized mess, trying to make sense of it all.
“Ethan,” she replies, amusement lacing her voice.
Why is everyone so happy today?
I wait, letting her explanation come.
“I brought up two people from the fifth floor—HR for the events company—a lawyer, and…” She stops as the elevator chimes.
“Ah, she’s here,” Irina says, gesturing toward it. “Their manager, appointed today, as we agreed,” she adds, irony curling her tone. “She and her assistant will have their desks here, on our floor, along with the three people I just mentioned.”
