Chapter 1

"Iasked for this to be emailed, Miss Goodacre."

His eyebrow lifts.

That trademark, enigmatic expression of his that cuts straight to the core.

Ivan Stepanov"s endless demands have finally tipped the scales.

Since the break of day, I"ve been twisting myself into knots to meet his needs, especially after dragging myself out of the office at 10:00 P.M. the previous evening.

I haven"t had a moment"s peace today, and now, without having had my lunch at 3:00 PM I"m just about ready to call it quits. Hangry is an understatement at this point.

"Oh, it's been sent," I retort, sprinkling just the right amount of sass into my words. "But given its vanishing act last time, I thought a hard copy might stick around longer."

The devil in an Armani suit looks at me, his gaze as penetrating as a laser.

He lifts his eyebrow again.

I'd bet a million dollars he popped out of the womb with that intimating expression.

Intimidating and sexy.

It"s in fleeting moments like this I find myself admiring just how unforgivably handsome Ivan Stepanov is. Despite my best efforts.

It's unfair really.

His perfectly tailored suit, the smattering of gray in this stubble, those piercing eyes—nothing"s out of place.

The tall, dark, and brooding thing really works for him. If only his personality matched the exterior.

Wishful thinking.

With the elegance of a maestro, Ivan navigates to his inbox, spots the email, and dives into a reply. All business, no pleasantries.

Then, without missing a beat, he"s onto his next demand. "I'll be having a late lunch from that Mediterranean place on 5th. They"re always swamped, just so you know. Please tend to the paperwork on your desk when you return."

Being an assistant to a man who thinks the world revolves around his wants requires a particular brand of insanity.

If I didn't need this job so badly, I might just have the courage to tell him where to shove his five star meal.

"Thank you, Miss Goodacre."

Clearly, my time"s up.

As I make my way to Medina, the city"s rhythm pulsates through the streets, a symphony of honking taxis, chattering pedestrians, and the ever-present tune of sirens in the distance.

Navigating Manhattan Financial District is akin to playing a real-life game of Tetris, where I dart and weave through an obstacle course of tourists mesmerized by skyscrapers stopping to snap a photo of literally everything.

It's a dance of waiting, smiling politely, and gently nudging the staff with a reminder that I am there to pick up an urgent business lunch for Stepanov Holdings to get the order expedited.

Upon securing the culinary treasure, I return to Stepanov Holdings Headquarters. The building, much like Ivan, stands tall, imposing, and unapologetically opulent.

By the time I return, holding Ivan"s gourmet lunch and my modest salad, he"s vanished.

Typical.

As I settle down to tackle the mountain of paperwork he"s generously left behind, my desk phone starts ringing off the hook.

My phone becomes a hot potato, passing from one crisis to another with the skill of a seasoned diplomat promising that Mr. Stepanov will indeed return all calls, knowing fully well he won"t.

Between bites of my salad and sips of coffee that"s already gone cold, I navigate the treacherous waters of high finance by soothing egos and making promises I can only hope Ivan will keep.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

A smidgen of recognition from Ivan wouldn't hurt.

Some acknowledgment of the tireless effort behind making his life run as smoothly as a well-oiled machine.

As I glance at his untouched lunch, a part of me wants so badly to dump it over his head. I'll have to save that vision for my next daydream.

Ivan sweeps back into the office like a stormfront.

"The paperwork, Miss Goodacre," he says, his voice cutting through the air like a knife.

My eyes dart between the semi-conquered paper mountain and him. "I didn"t forget." I start, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. "Your clients have been calling nonstop, and I've been doing my best to keep them from losing their cool."

He fixes me with a look that could freeze lava. "Ten minutes."

I open my mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes stops me—the unyielding demand, the expectation of perfection.

In his world, there"s no room for excuses, no space for the human element.

He leans in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I hired you because I thought you could handle the pressure. Don"t prove me wrong."

With that parting shot, he strides away, leaving me feeling about two inches tall.

It"s moments like these that I question my life choices.

Anger and frustration bubble up inside me like a shaken soda bottle, threatening to explode. But I refuse to cry, refuse to show any weakness in this high-stakes game of corporate chess.

Instead, I channel all that emotion into finishing the paperwork, my fingers flying over the keyboard like a pianist in the midst of a frenzied solo.

Feeling like I could blow up any minute.

Finally, with the printouts in hand, I march to Ivan"s office.

I drop the papers onto his desk with a deliberate thump, watching them scatter forcefully.

He looks up, his expression unreadable as the papers flutter across his desk.

"That's everything you asked for," I announce, my voice quivering with a storm of suppressed fury. "Now if you don't mind, I'm clocking out for the rest of the day." The words hang between us, a bold line drawn after a day where every ounce of my patience was tested.

For a moment, Ivan only watches me, his dark eyes giving nothing away.

It"s infuriating, like shouting into a void and waiting for an echo that never comes.

Ivan finally breaks the tense silence, his voice as steady and composed as ever, betraying no sign of irritation or amusement. "Miss Goodacre, you're free to leave," he says, his tone embodying the very essence of professional detachment he has practically made as his signature.

I quietly leave his office, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest.

I gather my things, pretending to be calm, my hands shaking as I shove my laptop into my bag.

I could totally be fired tomorrow. Fuck it.

I don"t look back as I leave, the doors closing behind me with a finality that feels oddly satisfying.

The cool air hits my face, and I take a deep breath, trying to let go of the anger and the frustration.

As I walk, my mind keeps replaying the scene in Ivan"s office.

That unreadable look in his eyes, was it indifference or something else?