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1
CLAIRE
“Hey Claire, wait up!”Friday yells in her southern accented voice from behind me. When I turn to wait, I’m greeted by the sight of my wild, red-headed best friend ripping her pointe shoes off. She grimaces, taking in her bloody toes but shoves them into her beat up pair of TOMS without much more than a quick wipe down.
“You going home?” I ask as she steps up beside me. We just finished a grueling day of practice at James Modern Ballet Company where we are both about to audition for a principal slot for the upcoming show. Pushing open the door of the industrial studio, we’re hit with a cool spring rain.
“Yeah, I’m meeting up with Donovan tonight,” she says ducking down under an awning to avoid the rain above us.
“Donovan as in the guy you met on Tinder who ghosted you three times?” I raise an eyebrow at her. “Donovan who has three cell phones? Donovan who asked out one of your roommates?”
“Donovan who has a horse dick.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
“I thought southern belles were supposed to be demure and charming,” I lace my voice with sarcasm. Friday is bisexual and goes through phases of dating nice girls or complete fuck boys. When we met last year, she’d just broken up with her boyfriend of two years and decided to try dating only women. Her taste in women is far superior to her taste in men.
“I thought billionaire heiresses were supposed to be wild party girls, guess we’re both fucked.” She lays her head on my shoulder, and we both dissolve into a fit of laughter. We’ve been best friends since our first day at the James Dance Academy. “Besides, you know my spirit animal is a bull, the way I charge toward all those red flags.” She puts her fingers up at the crown of her head pretending to be a bull.
I shake my head at her antics until my ride pulls up. “I’ll talk to you later,” I say over my shoulder darting past my driver, Marco, and diving into the back seat of the Range Rover.
“I need to make a quick pit spot before we go back home.” I live in a penthouse in the building my family’s corporation, Volkov Industries, owns. My brother, Connor, and his wife, Lilith, live there part of the time on the same floor as me. “We need to stop at NNC Tower. I shouldn’t be too long.”
“No problem, Miss Volkov.” He pulls out into thick Friday afternoon NYC traffic.
For a second I worry about whether Griffin will still be at work this late or not, but I quickly shake that idea off. Griffin Potter is the literal epitome of a workaholic. I doubt he goes home before ten p.m. any day of the week.
I haven’t seen him since I fell asleep beside him early in the morning following Connor and Lilith’s wedding four months ago. I had always had a crush on him growing up; he’s so focused and smart. I never thought it was ever going to be anything other than a silly crush on my older brother’s best friend though. Until we were dancing and drinking, his hand sliding from my ribs to my hip. The way he pulled me closer as I leaned into him. The hesitation we both had just outside the door to my room and the way we crashed into each other all night. He was uninhibited and dominant, so different than any other guy I’ve ever been with.
I look down at myself and realize I’m not really dressed for what I’m about to do. I’ll be lucky to get past security looking like this. The black leggings I pulled over my pink leotard are skin-tight, and I just had a cropped, off-the-shoulder sweatshirt to pull over my head. I use the rearview mirror to check my hair which has pieces of my long, raven hair that have come loose from the bun they were secured in this morning. I don’t ever wear much makeup, and today is no exception.
Marco pulls up to the building and starts to climb out when I reach over and squeeze his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Stay in and dry.” Before he can argue, I’m darting out onto the sidewalk in front of the massive glass and steel building.
I let out a sigh of relief when I see the guard standing in front of the elevator to the executive offices. He’s worked at NNC for years and knows my family well, I shouldn’t have any trouble getting up to the top floors.
“Good afternoon, Miss Volkov. You just missed your brother,” Jerome says.
“Good, I see that mean mug of his every day.” I give him a wink. “Is Griff still up in his office?”
“At almost six p.m. on a Friday?” He gives a good-natured eye roll, “Of course he is. Go on up.”
“Thank you,” I treat him to the full charm of a rare Volkov smile before passing his kiosk and hitting the up button on the elevator. I step on when the doors open, and thankfully no one steps on behind me. It gives me a whole minute or two to focus on how to spin the favor I need to ask of him. My stomach knots as I step off the elevator straight into a reception area.
A receptionist who can’t be more than two or three years older than me is sitting behind a glass desk. Her skirt just borders on too short for a work environment, and her bra is peeking out of the top of her unbuttoned blouse. When her eyes meet mine, I see a quick dismissal before she speaks.
“Hello, how can I help you?” She manages to sound sincere.
“I need to speak with Griffin.”
“Did you have an appointment? I don’t see anything on his schedule.” Her long fake nails tap on the keyboard.
“No. I don’t need an appointment. I’m a friend.”
She gives me another slow up and down, judging me based on my appearance. “Sorry, he’s not to be disturbed unless someone has an appointment.”
I lean against her desk, “Listen, honey, I am a family friend, and I need to speak with him.” I infuse my voice with all the ice of the generations of Russian aristocrats I descend from.
“What is your name?” She glares back at me.
“Claire Volkov.”
