3

EMMA

“Auntie Em! Auntie Em, wake up.”

I come to with a start. The sun is slanting in through the blinds and I have absolutely no freaking idea what planet I’m on. I feel a sharp line of pain on my cheek. It takes me a long moment to realize that it’s because I have a shoelace plastered to my skin. I peel it off with a wince and look up to see Josh standing over me.

“Auntie Em, it’s 7:45. We’re late for school.”

“Shit!”

I leap to my feet—and promptly fall right back on my ass, because my legs are completely numb from sleeping in such a weird fetal position, curled up at the foot of Josh’s desk like a dead cockroach.

The next fifteen minutes are a blur. I get the girls up and dressed in the least coordinated outfits in the history of shitty parenting. I hurl random food into their lunchboxes with no regard for nutritional value. And then we’re all sprinting out the door.

Ben, needless to say, doesn’t so much as lift a finger to help.

I get the evil eye from the receptionist at the kids’ school when I drop them off well into first period, but she can shove her judgment up her ass. I just pop a kiss on each of their foreheads and then turn to haul ass to Bane.

I get another evil eye from the lobby receptionist there, too, but I don’t quite realize why until I’m in the elevator up to the thirtieth floor and I catch sight of my reflection in the polished bronze.

I look like an absolute shitshow. My hair is a rat’s nest on my head and my blouse is on backwards. The fashionable one-shoulder cutout is framing my frayed bra strap instead of a tasteful slice of bare arm.

Wet street dogs are more put-together than I am.

It’s way too late to go back now, though. I can already imagine Ruslan’s eyebrow. It’s probably halfway up his scalp by now. His voice is going to be absolutely frigid when he hears me come stumbling in. Something like:

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Wait. That wasn’t my imagination. That was actually his voice.

I open my eyes and turn around to realize that the elevator doors have opened—and who should be standing there but my beloved, benevolent boss?

Sure enough, his eyebrow is locked and loaded and that cruelly sharp jaw of his clenched so tight that I wonder idly if he has a good dentist on speed dial.

I open my mouth to defend myself, but what is there even to say? “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I fell asleep after—It was a long night and—I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

He doesn’t so much as blink. “I expect you to dress appropriately for your job, Ms. Carson,” he growls. “Not do the walk of shame through my building.”

I frown. “The walk of—? Hold on. No, that’s not what this is. I didn’t—”

“You’re wearing yesterday’s skirt and flaunting your undergarments like you think you can seduce your way out of being—” He checks his watch. “—two and a half hours late. I’m not sure if you think I’m stupid or easy. I’m also not sure which of those two would offend me more.”

One word snags my attention. “Seduce?” I parrot stupidly.

Out of nowhere, thoughts of what it would look like to seduce Ruslan Oryolov come prancing through my head.

Wrapping his tie around my fist and bringing that smirking snarl down to my lips for a taste.

Lying back on his desk, pencil skirt hiked above my hips, while he shoves my panties to the side and devours me like his last meal.

On my knees on his office carpet as he stands over me and—

“Ms. Carson, I’m not interested in your explanations. Go do your job. Before I find someone else to do it for you.”

With that, he brushes past me and gets on the elevator. I turn and look dumbly at him as the doors close on his face. The last thing I see is the arrogant slant of his mouth.

Then that, too, disappears.

My cheeks are burning red for the rest of the day. Luckily, I have an extra cardigan at my desk, so I’m able to cover up the worst of my wardrobe malfunction.

But my phone keeps pinging all day long with messages from Ruslan. Do this. Send that. Fax this. Email that. He’s as unbearable as ever. Everything from the expiration date on his coffee creamer to the status of the conference room chairs he’s so anal about merits yet another scathing comment from him. And after yesterday’s nightmare, I’m running on fumes.

My only saving grace is that he has a gala tonight, so he’s scheduled to leave the office at 5:00 P.M. sharp. I’m counting down the last ten seconds until the clock strikes five like I’m a Times Square partier on New Year’s Eve.

“Seven… Six… Five… Four… Three… Two… One…”

Ping. Another text. I groan and look down to see the devil’s name pop up on my phone.

RUSLAN: My office. Now.

Goddammit. I was so close.

Sighing, I get up and slink inside.

“Shut the door,” he orders. It’s dark in here. The curtains are sealed tight and the temperature is Arctic. He’s a mass of shadows behind his desk, huge and fragrant. The only thing I can see is the sharp light of his amber eyes.

“Sit.” A shadowy hand points at the chair across from his desk.

I perch at the edge of the seat in question. My nerves are buzzing and frayed. I’m so, so tired. But I can’t show him that. Matter of fact, I refuse to show him that.

I won’t give the smug bastard the satisfaction of thinking he’s outlasted me.

“I asked you yesterday if I had your full attention,” he begins. “I’m not so sure I do. So let me say this: if your priorities lie anywhere other than this company, then I will find a new assistant. I’m not a nice man, Ms. Carson. So believe me when I tell you that this is not the kind of place where you get three strikes before something bad happens. You mess up once—you’re gone. Am I making myself clear?” I swallow. “Yes, sir.”

He nods. “Good. Be here on time tomorrow. Dress like you intend to keep your job. Now, if you’ll excuse me… there’s the door.”

He looks down at his phone and poof, it’s like I don’t exist anymore.

But I. Am. Pissed.

He doesn’t know what I’m going through. He doesn’t know Ben is snoring and farting in my living room, or that three little kids are waiting on me to pick them up from after-school care. He doesn’t know that I buried my sister or that I’m barely keeping my head above water. He doesn’t know anything.

“No.” I blurt it before I can think better of it. “No. No. I’m not some little worm under your shoe, Mr. Oryolov. I’m a—I mean, fuck you, I’m a person! I have a life and hobbies and people who depend on me. I’m real! So I’d appreciate it very much if you’d pull your smug head out of your smug asshole and treat me with some damn respect for once.”

Ruslan blinks.

Blinks.

Blinks.

“Is there something else, Ms. Carson?”

That’s when I realize that my whole little tirade took place entirely in my head. It wasn’t real. All imagined. Just a pleasant little detour to a fantasy land where I give him my two cents and then some.

I swallow past the nasty taste in my throat and stand. “No, sir,” I say quietly. “Nothing at all.”