Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

A my Whitaker

“What do you see?”

His question pulled me from my thoughts, slicing through the quiet of the gallery.

I turned, startled, to find a man standing close—closer than anyone should be when you’ve only just met. He was tall, his frame lean yet powerful. His dark suit was so impeccably tailored that it hinted at unmistakable wealth. The sharp lines of his jaw and the calculating glint in his eyes made my pulse skip for reasons I couldn’t quite name.

I knew who he was.

Aleksei Morozov.

Art dealer, enigmatic power player, and if the rumors were true, a man who lived with one foot firmly planted in the criminal underworld.

And now, he was here. Watching me. Waiting.

This was a job interview, I reminded myself. A stepping stone into the career I’d always dreamed of. I swallowed against the flicker of nerves billowing up from my toes and forced myself to hold his gaze.

I’d nail this.

“An interesting choice for an opener,” I said, keeping my voice steady, even as his dark eyes seemed to strip away every layer of composure I had.

His lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.

“It tells me more than a résumé ever could,” he replied, his voice as smooth as butter.

I turned back to the painting before he could see the flush rising in my cheeks. It was a bold, abstract piece—a riot of shadows and streaks of crimson that felt as though they were clawing their way out of the canvas.

“It’s commanding,” I said finally, choosing my words carefully. “The use of shadow feels deliberate, calculated, almost predatory. It pulls you in and makes you wonder—makes you uncomfortable almost.”

A low hum of approval came from beside me, and I caught the faintest hint of a smirk when I glanced at him again. His eyes lingered on me, his silence somehow seeming louder than words.

I studied him a bit more closely, trying to figure him out.

Aleksei Morozov looked like someone who had no reason to be intimidated by anyone. But more than that, he looked like someone who would gladly welcome the challenge if anyone tried.

His dark hair was carefully styled, short but just a little unruly, as if he’d run his hand through it more than once today. A well-groomed beard framed his sharp features, accentuating the strong line of his jaw and lending him a look that was both refined and rugged.

High cheekbones cast shadows that made his gaze even more intense, his eyes a shade of steel gray that seemed to gleam in the soft lighting of the gallery. They were piercing, unblinking, as if he were dissecting every thought I might have, every move I might make. And right now, he was focused on me as though I were the only person in the room.

It was unnerving to say the least, but I didn’t back down. I was the type of individual that rose to the challenge.

If I could land this job, it might mean my first big break in the art world. This position would open doors that had been closed to me my whole life. I wasn’t naive—I knew the art world had its inner circles and its exclusive clubs. I knew I was an outsider, but I was determined to find a way in, no matter the cost.

Growing up, I’d always straddled a line. I’d been lucky enough to attend a good prep school on a modest trust fund from my grandfather who’d built a small business from scratch. But unlike many of my classmates, I hadn’t come from ‘old money’ or generations of family wealth. My parents were the type who knew the value of every dollar, who chose practical vacations over flashy ones, who’d insisted I apply for scholarships to make my private education possible. My upbringing was comfortable, yes, but the reality was there was no endless well of resources to fall back on.

I had to make my own way.

Landing this job could mean just that. From what little I knew of Aleksei Morozov, he had an eye for art that wasn’t defined by one’s pedigree or conventional taste. He valued boldness, and that was something I could deliver. The question was whether I could convince him of that, and if I was ready for what working with him might entail.

I lifted my chin, confident I could succeed on both counts.

“So, what about you?” I asked, folding my arms. “Are you always like this in your interviews?”

The hint of a smile tugged at his mouth, as though he were amused by the idea of being questioned by me. “I find that the most interesting candidates answer questions no one thought to ask.”

Then he extended a hand toward a hallway. “Walk with me, Miss Whitaker.”

I hesitated just long enough to keep him guessing before I stepped forward, matching his pace. He was watching me, testing me, maybe even waiting for me to flinch. Instead, I forced myself to look right back, letting him know I wasn’t intimidated.

That just seemed to amuse him further.

We moved into a private viewing room, and he stopped by a canvas draped in dark cloth. “Since we’re questioning each other,” he said, his voice smooth and even, “what makes you think you’re suited for the job?”

“I’m not afraid of a challenge.” I held his gaze, feeling his scrutiny like heat on my skin. “And I don’t need every answer handed to me. I’m more than capable of figuring things out myself.”

A glint of something dark and approving flashed in his eyes.

“Good.”

He pulled back the cloth to reveal a painting thick with dark strokes, a chaotic scene that seemed to pulse with life. The longer I looked, the more unsettled I felt, as if it wanted me to confront something I’d rather not see.

“Go on, Miss Whitaker,” he said quietly. “What do you see?”

I hesitated. “It’s raw,” I managed, surprised at the feeling in my voice. “Complicated. It doesn’t want to be understood.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching me with interest. “And yet you tried.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “You’re an achiever. A perfectionist. You think if you can understand something, you can control it.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I fought the urge to break eye contact.

“Isn’t that why people like you hire people like me?” I replied, raising an eyebrow.

His gaze flickered with a hint of approval, though it was far from warm.

“People like me,” he repeated, as though tasting the words. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

I met his eyes, unyielding. “People who don’t need the answers because they make the rules.”

This time, his smile was real, though it was edged in something unreadable.

“Interesting answer, Miss Whitaker. But if you’re right, that means the only answer that matters is mine. Are you sure you’re comfortable with that?”

He stepped closer, and despite the tension, or maybe because of it, I felt a thrill run down my spine.

“I’m here for the job, Mr. Morozov. Nothing else,” I countered.

He studied me for a beat, his gaze heavy. Then he turned back to the painting. “The art world needs people who see what others miss. If you think you’re one of them, then I have a proposition.”

The intensity in his gaze said this job was not at all what I thought. And for reasons I couldn’t quite understand, I felt the urge to rise to his challenge, whatever it might be.

“Good,” I said, letting the weight of his words settle. “I think I’ll surprise you.”

And judging by the look in his eyes, I could tell he wanted me to try.

I squared my shoulders, refusing to let him see the effect he was having on me. I wasn’t some girl to be intimidated. I had spent too many years learning how to be formidable myself.

“So, Miss Whitaker,” he said, his voice low and steady, “tell me about your education. Where did you study?”

“Wilmington Academy,” I replied, my tone cool. “Then St. Anne’s for undergrad. Art history, with a minor in business management. And after that, I earned my master’s in modern art at Parsons. I focused on underrepresented artists in postmodernism—more specifically, female artists.”

His eyebrows lifted, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips, as though he’d heard an unintended layer to my answer.

“Impressive,” he said, though the word carried a slightly mocking undertone. “So, you appreciate those who are… commonly overlooked.”

I bit back a retort. “I believe that everyone should be given an equal chance to be heard,” I said, my voice firmer than I intended.

“And yet you sought me out,” he replied, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall, watching me like a cat sizing up its prey. “If I’m not mistaken, I’m not exactly known for my inclusivity.” His gaze was sharp, challenging, as if daring me to disagree.

A flicker of suspicion went through me. He wasn’t the kind of polished professional I’d expected, though he wore the suit well enough to make you think he was. The whole situation felt oddly secretive, almost… dangerous.

“It’s true,” I said, lifting my chin. “But I also believe in going where I’ll be challenged. You value art, and you’re not afraid of unconventional opinions. That’s a combination I rarely see.”

“Mm,” he murmured, his dark eyes narrowing with interest. “And why, exactly, are you drawn to… challenge?” The way he said it made the word sound personal, like he knew it wasn’t just art that drew me to situations that tested me.

I hesitated, feeling his gaze pierce deeper than I liked. I wanted to sidestep the question, but something in his expression made it clear that he’d notice my evasion and press harder.

“Because,” I began slowly, “I’ve learned that if I don’t push myself, no one else will. Men rarely see women as competition. At least, not real competition.” I smiled tightly, watching him for a reaction. “I’ve had to fight my way in. The art world can be exclusive, to put it lightly.”

“Indeed, it can be,” he said, his voice calm, though his expression turned thoughtful. “You’re the ambitious type, then.” His words were measured, but there was something else in his tone—a subtle hint of approval.

Or maybe it was admiration. I didn’t know, but I thought it felt like a good thing.

“Isn’t that what you’re looking for?” I countered, folding my arms across my chest. “Someone who’ll see things others miss? Someone who doesn’t need to be told what to do?”

It was a bit forward, but I wasn’t here to play coy.

Aleksei’s mouth lifted, a darkly amused smile. “I prefer employees who don’t waste my time, yes. But there is a fine line between confidence and… arrogance.” His voice dipped as he leaned closer. “And sometimes it takes a strong hand to keep it in check.”

What the hell did he mean by that?

“I wouldn’t describe myself as arrogant,” I replied, though the heat of his gaze made me feel exposed. “I’d say… competitive.”

He chuckled, a low sound that stirred something in me, and then he turned back to me, his gaze stormy and tumultuous.

“I’ve found that most people compete for control. But what are you willing to do to keep it?”

His gaze was challenging, as though he’d already guessed that answer about me.

I forced myself to hold his gaze. “I don’t believe in control for its own sake. I believe in merit. If I earn my place, I expect to be treated accordingly.”

The words were firm, but inside, I felt a flash of unease. His questions were digging past the defenses I’d spent years building.

And to top things off, he seemed to know he was doing it.

Even worse than that, he seemed to be enjoying it.

Aleksei’s eyes glinted, a look that made it clear he understood exactly what I was feeling. “I like that you’re direct. But tell me, Amy… are you as honest about everything else?”

The question threw me off guard, and I hesitated, trying to read his expression. I could feel him closing in, his gaze steady and unwavering, and I could sense that he was testing me—not just my skills, but my resolve. It was strange, but I felt as if he could see every part of me down to the very depths of my soul.

It was unnerving to say the least.

I took a deep breath, meeting his eyes, refusing to be intimidated. “If you’re asking if I’m here for anything other than the job, the answer is no.” I gave him a pointed look. “And you can trust that my motives are entirely professional .”

His smile turned slightly predatory, his eyes darkening. “Oh, Miss Whitaker, trust is earned, not given.”

He took a step back, and I realized I’d been holding my breath.

“Then let me earn it,” I replied, my voice soft but sure.

I was letting him know I could rise to whatever challenge he presented, but even as I said the words, I realized they were more than just an answer.

They were a dare.

And from the gleam in his eyes, he knew it too.

Aleksei’s eyes lingered on me, and I could feel the weight of his scrutiny, as though he was carefully deciding if I was worth the risk. Finally, he gave a slight nod, his lips curling in a way that was both approving and unsettling.

“Very well, Miss Whitaker,” he said, his tone rich with finality. “You’ll begin tomorrow. We have an auction to prepare for, and I expect you to be here early.”

I let out a breath, relief and excitement mixing in my chest. “What time would you like me to arrive?”

“Eight a.m. Sharp,” he replied, his eyes narrowing, as if testing whether I’d hesitate. “We’ll be organizing the last of the catalog entries and finalizing the guest list. And I trust you know that punctuality matters to me.”

I felt a rush of anticipation. “Understood.”

He leaned in, close enough that I could catch the faint, clean scent of his cologne, something smoky, dark, and citrusy with a hint of cinnamon.

“And, Miss Whitaker,” he said quietly, his gaze as intense as ever, “know this: I don’t tolerate mistakes. If you work for me, you will be precise. You will be thorough. And you will deliver.” His voice dropped lower, with a hint of something sharp beneath it. “Can you do that?”

“Absolutely.” My voice came out steady, even though my pulse was racing. I’d worked too hard to get here to let anything faze me now.

“Good.” He pulled back, the momentary closeness vanishing, leaving me almost unsteady in its wake. “And one last thing,” he added, his gaze cool and assessing, “be ready for anything. Working for me isn’t going to be a walk in the park.”

A shadow flickered across his face, a hint of something darker, and I swallowed hard.

“I’ll be ready,” I replied softly.

“I look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” he said, offering his hand. I shook it, feeling the firm, almost possessive grip of his fingers, and I had the strangest sensation that I’d just entered into something I didn’t fully understand.