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“Paige.”
I jump at the sound of my name. He hasn’t referred to me by my first name since the night we met.
Misha’s lip twitches in the tiniest suggestion of a smile. “As you might have guessed by my backup,” he says, gesturing at the army of men in suits, “this visit is meant to be a show of power. I can’t fully achieve that effect if my P.A. looks like she’s about to break down in tears.”
I gulp. “You didn’t exactly prepare me for this.”
“It’s not my job to prepare you for anything,” he retorts sharply. “It’s your job to be prepared. No matter what.”
With that, he heads off up the bajillion stairs that lead to the main entrance. I follow reluctantly. All thirty of his men accompany us up the steps. The whole time, I’m breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, trying not to look as intimidated as I feel.
The interior of the building is spartan and sparkling. More bronze and glass everywhere. I feel like leaving a single smudged fingerprint on any surface will get me beheaded.
An older man with a white mustache greets Misha at the door. “Welcome, Mr. Orlov. Mr. Ivanov is expecting you.”
“I would hope so, considering he asked for this meeting.”
The man leads us down a hallway before we’re shown into the largest meeting room I’ve ever been in. One hundred people could sit around the table without bumping elbows.
But there’s only one lone man standing at the far end. He’s younger than I expected a CEO to be. Mid-thirties, maybe, with a battle-ax of a face that frightens me even from here.
“Welcome, Misha. It’s been a long time. Please take a seat.”
“I’ll stand,” Misha responds, his tone far from civil. “I won’t be here long enough to justify sitting down.”
I glance at Misha. Not only are his knuckles white, but his expression is contorted into barely-contained rage.
Something is happening here. Something far above my pay grade.
“You came all this way to give me only five minutes?” Mr. Ivanov asks with a chuckle.
His dark eyes are set close together and his brows are pinched in suspicion. But whereas Misha radiates fury, this man exudes a slimy kind of calm.
“I came all this way so that I could look you in the eye when I say, ‘Fuck you, Petyr Ivanov.’”
I stifle a gasp and wait for Petyr’s reaction. When it comes, it’s understated. Just the subtlest, quarter-inch raise of an eyebrow.
I have this vague, nauseating feeling that all hell is about to break loose. Then, right as the feeling reaches its peak, Misha smiles. “I just wanted to get that out of the way first. You wanted to talk to me, Petyr. So talk.”
Now, it’s Petyr’s turn to burn with rage. “Polytech Incorporated.”
Misha looks amused. “What about it?”
“Cut the shit, Orlov,” Petyr hisses. “You’re the one trying to buy it out from underneath me, aren’t you?”
“That’s a big accusation to make. Do you have proof?”
Petyr’s jaw moves infinitesimally, but even I can tell he doesn’t have solid evidence.
“Ms. Masters,” Misha says unexpectedly. He turns to me pointedly. “Have I signed off on any documents to facilitate the acquisition of Polytech Incorporated?”
I swallow back my nerves. “Not to my knowledge, no.”
“There you go. From your mouth to Petyr’s ears.” Misha turns back to his enemy. “Is that all?”
“I know what you’re trying to do, Orlov.”
“Then maybe you can enlighten me, because I’m not quite sure myself.”
