Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

A my

It was quarter to eight in the morning, and I was already at the gallery.

After a brief introduction of my job responsibilities, Aleksei left me to my duties, and I took to it like a fish to water because that’s what he expected and that’s what I excelled at.

I was going to do a damn good job on my very first day.

I had no intention of letting him think I’d take this job any less seriously than he did. I was here to show off exactly why he’d hired me, and that meant being on top of everything—art appraisals, guest preferences, the finest details of each piece in the upcoming auction tonight and whatever else needed to be done to prepare for this evening’s event.

I’d done my homework, and I was ready.

I swept through the space, organizing catalog sheets, making notes for the auction, and reviewing each piece on display. These were exquisite works, and I noted that each had a history and a story all its own. My job was to make sure they not only sold, but that they sold for top dollar. And I knew I could do it.

I was deep in planning when I felt him behind me. His presence was unmistakable, a quiet intensity that made the air feel thicker, made my breath come quicker. I didn’t let myself turn around right away; I wanted him to see me immersed in my work.

“Amy,” he said, his voice smooth, drawing my attention at last.

I turned, offering a polite nod. “I’ve sorted the catalog sheets by valuation and placed notes on each piece that might need a closer look. There’s a piece by Ignatyev that might attract lower bids, and I’d recommend a better spot on the floor to ensure maximum visibility.”

Aleksei’s eyes lingered on me with a faint glint of approval, but he merely nodded, folding his arms as he moved alongside me.

“Good work,” he said. “Though I’d consider shifting the Ignatyev to later in the lineup—sometimes pieces that seem like background set the tone more effectively from behind.”

I bit back a frown. He wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t want to let him see me hesitate.

“It’s a sound strategy, for sure,” I replied, keeping my tone steady. “But I think it would draw a higher bid with a little extra emphasis.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, a subtle challenge in his gaze. “How much do you think it would fetch?”

“Twenty-five thousand, if not higher,” I said, confident in my estimate. I’d seen works like Ignatyev’s attract far more than expected if they were handled correctly.

Aleksei studied me for a long moment, then shook his head. “Ten, maybe fifteen, tops.”

“Ten?” I scoffed. “That’s absurd. I’ve seen pieces by Ignatyev go for twice that.”

“Yes,” he replied with a half-smile, “but not when they lack provenance. This one’s a guess at best.”

His calm certainty sent a wave of irritation through me. Of course, I knew what I was talking about. But he just waited, calm and unbothered, as though he knew I’d reach the same conclusion he had.

I held my ground.

“It’ll still sell higher than you think,” I said, the words coming out sharper than I’d intended. My cheeks warmed as I felt him watching me, the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes.

“We’ll have to see how it turns out then, won’t we?”

The auction took place later that day.

The auctioneer took his place at the podium, tapping the microphone with seasoned authority as the crowd settled into their seats. I stood to the side of the room, clipboard in hand, checking and re-checking the catalog while the room slowly descended into silence.

Aleksei leaned casually against the far wall, his gaze trained on the room with a cool detachment, his dark eyes absorbing every detail. His stillness was striking in contrast to the subtle stir of movement around him. He almost seemed as much a part of the scene as any of the art on display.

I pulled my shoulders back as the auction began and everything fell into place.

The first pieces were modest, aimed at warming up the crowd. Bids climbed in increments as paddles rose in smooth, practiced motions, one bidder after another raising the stakes. Each sale brought a satisfied nod from Aleksei, and I hoped that things were progressing just as he’d anticipated.

And that I was impressing him.

When the stars of the show came up—the ones I’d meticulously selected for prime visibility—the energy of the room shifted. A large, dynamic piece by a French postmodernist sparked the first real bidding war of the evening as two collectors went toe to toe in a fierce exchange that sent the final bid soaring well past the price I’d estimated that it would go for.

I couldn’t help a small smile of satisfaction when the bidding finally ended, and the auctioneer declared it sold.

I held my breath when Ignatyev’s painting came up.

Aleksei hadn’t been shy about his opinion on it, and I was determined to prove him wrong. The painting had a rich, earthy palette and layered textures, as well as a complexity that I knew would capture the right bidder’s eye. Positioned strategically, it was framed in the spotlight, demanding attention.

As the auctioneer introduced it, I held my breath, watching the faces in the crowd.

The opening bid came in lower than I’d anticipated. My heart sank just a little, but I brushed it off, keeping my composure. The auctioneer’s rhythmic call continued, each pause stretched as he waited for another paddle to rise. Bids moved up in small increments, climbing slowly rather than the fervor I’d expected to come with such a beautiful piece.

Ten thousand. A little more. Then a little more. And then… silence.

The auctioneer looked around, hopeful for another hand in the air, but the crowd had stilled. No one seemed inclined to move it any higher.

The final bid came in at a disappointing twelve thousand.

A subtle ache of frustration settled in my chest. I’d been so sure about it. But Aleksei had been right. He had known the pulse of this crowd before they’d even stepped through the door. He’d sensed something that I’d overlooked.

I hated that I’d been wrong, and I hated that he knew it even more.

As the auction wound down, I moved through the room, checking details and making sure every last arrangement was handled smoothly. Finally, as the last of the guests left, Aleksei made his way over to me. I steadied myself, refusing to let my embarrassment over the Ignatyev final sales number show.

“Well done today, Amy,” he said, his voice calm and low, though his eyes held a trace of amusement. “Even if the Ignatyev didn’t quite fetch what you’d expected.”

My cheeks flushed as I forced a smile. His words stung more than I cared to admit.

“I thought it would attract higher bids,” I replied quietly, keeping my tone professional.

He studied me, his expression thoughtful. Then, without warning, he closed the distance between us, his fingers reaching to tilt my chin up. My breath caught, and I stared up at him, unable to ignore the way his touch sent an unexpected sense of heat spiraling through me. His eyes held mine, dark and intense, and I felt pinned in place, as though he could see exactly how flustered I was, that I couldn’t hide it.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, “I didn’t come here to rub it in. I know that you’re probably right most of the time. But…” His thumb brushed against my chin, his gaze unwavering. “Daddy is right some of the time.”

Heat rose in my face, and I resisted the urge to jerk my chin from his hold. It took every bit of resolve not to pull away, to simply hold his gaze without faltering, even as my pulse sped up.

The warmth in my cheeks spread, and I swallowed, refusing to look away.

Daddy?

What the fuck did he mean by that?

Aleksei’s hand lingered on my chin, his touch firm yet maddeningly gentle. I was keenly aware of the way he looked at me—like he could see straight through the calm facade I was working so hard to maintain.

I hated that.

His gaze dropped to my lips, lingering there, and before I could register the thought, he closed the space between us, pressing his mouth to mine in a kiss that was anything but restrained.

For a heartbeat, I froze, but then my pulse quickened, and I found myself kissing him back, unable to resist. His hand slid into my hair, gripping it tightly, pulling me closer until I felt his body pressing against mine.

The kiss deepened, powerful and unyielding, his grip on my hair a reminder that he was in control, and I felt my breath quicken, my pulse pounding with something dangerously close to surrender.

It infuriated me.

Breaking free, I slapped him, my hand connecting with his cheek in a swift, sharp strike. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he looked down at me, his mouth lifting in the faintest hint of a smile, as though he’d known all along that I’d respond this way.

“I guess I had that coming,” he murmured, his voice low, almost amused. His fingers stayed tangled in my hair, keeping my head angled up, his gaze steady and unyielding as he looked down at me, his powerfully seductive presence filling the space between us.

He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear.

“When you’re ready to beg for it,” he whispered, his voice like a dark promise, “I want you to know that I’m going to have to punish you for that.”

A shiver ran through me, the mix of his words and the fire in his eyes setting off a thrill that I couldn’t quite tamp down. The room felt smaller, the distance between us vanishing as he held me there, his grip on my hair a quiet warning that he wasn’t about to let me go that easily.

But I held my ground, forcing myself to meet his gaze, to steady my breathing even as my heart raced.

I wasn’t about to give in without a fight.

Aleksei’s eyes held mine for a beat longer, his grip still firm in my hair, his words hanging in the air, heavy with meaning. Then, slowly, he loosened his hold, his fingers releasing me with a gentleness that only heightened the tension crackling between us. He stepped back, giving me space, though his gaze stayed locked on me, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect that he’d had on me.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

Instead, I turned quickly on my heel and walked out, my heart pounding as I forced myself to keep my steps steady and composed, every inch of me bristling with rage—and something else I wasn’t quite ready to name.

Outside, the cool air hit my face, but it did nothing to calm me down. I was seething, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, my pulse still racing from his words, from his touch, from his kiss…

“When you’re ready to beg for it…”

The memory of his low, dark voice wouldn’t leave me, his face close to mine, that knowing, infuriating look in his eyes, the promise that he would punish me for slapping him. It all felt like too much.

And then there was the Daddy thing.

The word echoed in my mind, sending a flush through me that I couldn’t explain and didn’t want to think about. I tried to shake it off, to clear my mind, but the image of him—standing there, holding me, completely in control of me—kept resurfacing, heating my skin even as anger tightened in my chest.

My pussy clenched just thinking about it.

How was I supposed to go back to work tomorrow? To walk into that gallery and pretend I hadn’t just been kissed by the man that was supposed to be my boss?

I was furious—furious that I was still thinking about it, furious at myself for responding. And even more furious at how much I wanted to walk back in there and kiss him again.

But I kept walking.

Tomorrow, I’d have to face him again. But tonight, I needed to figure out a way to shake it all off. Because I wasn’t about to let Aleksei Morozov get the best of me.

Not again.