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Leaving my phone on the recliner, I head to the en suite bathroom in the master. I strip off my boxers and get into the shower, cranking the water as cold as possible. I force myself to freeze beneath the hailstorm for ten long minutes, until my erection finally gives up the fight and eases.
There’s no way I can avoid addressing this little slip-up tomorrow morning. Which leaves me with only two options: fire her or fuck her.
My cock likes the second option a little too much. “Down, boy,” I growl, unwilling to endure another fifteen-minute ice bath.
Ignoring my bed, I sit down at the sleek black desk. The light from my personal laptop illuminates the room with an eerie silver glow. A quick search is all it takes to find Emma’s file in my employee database. Her photo gleams at the top of the page. Innocent-looking. White blouse, red lipstick, a self-conscious smile.
But it’s impossible to look at her and see her the same way anymore.
Not when I know how it sounds when she comes undone.
Each file includes a full background check on all my employees. Everyone has skeletons in their closet; I just prefer to know how many before I put them on the payroll.
As it turns out, Emma Carson was practically a Girl Scout up until about three and a half years ago, when she abruptly inherited a ton of debt. I give the file a quick scan. The debt is innocent enough, just run-of-the-mill life bullshit. Mortgage. Student loans. Inflation. Funeral home. The kind of shit normal people have to deal with if they don’t have rich spouses or rich daddies.
But it gives me an idea.
After all, there’s nothing sexier than the air-tight boundaries of a mutually beneficial arrangement. It’s like Sergey’s lab—nothing can go wrong if you keep it contained. Bottle dangerous shit up in a test tube and it becomes a tool, a weapon, a product.
It’s when you let the chemistry explode on its own that shit goes wrong.
I pick up my phone once again and scroll through the contacts. My lawyer Isay’s voice is cracked with sleep when he picks up. “Boss?”
I don’t bother apologizing for waking him up. I pay my people enough to be able to demand twenty-four-hour attention whenever I need it.
“I need you to draw up a contract for me. Immediately.”
6
EMMA
“It’s over. My life as I know it is over. R.I.P. to me.”
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
“Pheebs!”
She chuckles while I stare at my reflection in the mirror and try not to throw up. My phone is lying on the bathroom counter on speakerphone, mostly because my palms have been sweating since I saw the meeting invite in my calendar for today.
9:00 A.M. – 09:07:32 A.M.: Emma Carson 1-on-1 with Ruslan Oryolov.
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist. Anyway, rewind, take a deep breath, then tell me what’s going on in your big girl voice. Unburden yourself. Take all the time you need. Just make it quick because I have a 9 o’clock appointment.”
I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet now, the same way that Reagan does when she needs to pee really bad. “Yeah, so do I. Withhim.”
“Ah. Oh, wait—oh.”
I first called Phoebe last night right after realizing what I’d done. Her reaction was a dizzying mixture of pride and horror. I believe her exact words were, “Sure, it’s mortifying, but I’m glad you got your rocks off. Knew you had it in you.”
She’s a little more reassuring now that things are escalating out of control. “That doesn’t necessarily mean he heard the voicemail, Em. Maybe this is just a standard, no-big-deal, super-boring-business-stuff Thursday morning meeting.”
“It’s scheduled for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. Precisely.”
“Hm.” There’s a beat of silence. “Doesn’t look good, does it?”
“Seriously? That’s all you’ve got for me? I’m gonna lose my job, Phoebe!”
“You don’t know that for sure. Just take a deep breath and go in there, see what he wants. Play it cool, y’know?”
