From: Rae Everett

To: [Drafts]

Subject: just one nice thing for my birthday. that’s all I wanted. guess not.

These days, devils don’t announce themselves with fire and brimstone.

They do it with Slack notifications.

The notification pops up at 4:59 P.M. on Friday afternoon.

I look at the message. Then at the clock. Then at the sad little cupcake Jillian had delivered to me this morning with a “25” candle stuck in it.

Well, happy birthday to me.

Sighing mournfully, I grab my tablet and head for my boss’s corner office. It’s a thirty-second death march that I do at least a hundred times a day, but it never gets any easier.

Kir doesn’t look up when I knock. He’s behind his massive desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark hair falling across his forehead. His gray eyes are locked on his laptop screen.

“Close the door.”

I do. Then I wait.

He keeps typing. Ten seconds. Twenty. Two minutes. Four. Then and only then does he finally deign to give me his attention. Why he called me in here when he did, I have no idea.

“The Shimizu paperwork,” he says impatiently, as if I’m the one who kept him waiting. “Legal found issues.”

“I reviewed that with them yesterday. They said everything was⁠—”

“Everything was not fine. Sit.”

I don’t sit. “It’s almost five.”

Now, he looks up. Those gray eyes pin me in place. “And?”

“And I have plans,” I protest feebly. “It’s my bir⁠—”

“Cancel them.”

My jaw flops open. “I can’t just⁠—”

“Ms. Everett.” He slouches back in his chair, as arrogant as the day is long. “Did I ask if you could? Or did I simply tell you to do it?”

I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t say any of the R-rated things I’d like to.

The thing about Kir Lazarev is that he’s not wrong. He’s never, ever wrong. The paperwork probably does have issues. Legal probably did miss something. And I probably will be here until midnight fixing it.

But it’s my birthday. Surely that counts for something, right?

Not that he knows. Or that he’d care if he did.

“The revisions are essential,” he continues. “I need them tonight. The Tokyo call is first thing Monday morning.“

“That’s two days from now.”

“Well done!” He applauds sarcastically. “Your math is improving.” He turns back to his laptop. “I’ve flagged the problem sections. Fix them.”

“Mr. Lazarev⁠—”

“Kir.” He says it without looking at me. “We’ve been over this.”

We have. Multiple times. He insists on first names, for some bizarre reason. Like we’re all friends here.

We are not friends.

“Kir,” I try again clumsily, “I really do have⁠—”

“Plans. Yes. You mentioned. I believe I told you what to do with them.” He gestures at the chair across from his desk. “Sit down. I’ll walk you through what needs to happen.”

I stay standing.

His jaw tightens. Just a fraction. “Problem, Ms. Everett?”

“I, uh…” I crumble, admitting defeat. “No. No problem.”

“Then sit.”

With no other choice, I sit.

He spins his laptop toward me and starts talking. It’s a rapid-fire stream about liability clauses and indemnification language and pointed questions about why the hell didn’t Legal catch this the first time. I take notes. I nod in the right places. I try not to think about the birthday dinner reservation I’m going to have to cancel, the one nice thing I said I was going to do for myself. I was dining for one, yeah, but it’s better than dining for none.

“Questions?” he asks when he’s done.

I have about fifty, starting with why does everything have to be an emergency? and ending with do you actually enjoy making my life difficult, or is it just a natural byproduct of the kind of asshole you are deep down in the marrow of your bones?

“No,” I say instead. “I’ve got it.”

“Good.” He rises and walks me out of his office, locking the door behind us. “Send me drafts as you finish them.”

Then he leaves me here all alone.

I spend the next four hours at my desk, picking apart contract language and trying to figure out what Legal missed, until my eyeballs feel like they’re bleeding. The sun sets. The office empties around me. The cleaning crew comes and goes. As darkness falls, the lights of Manhattan blink on outside the skyscraper’s windows. No one stops to ask if I’m okay or if I need help.

I eat two of the ham and cheese sandwiches left over from the team luncheon two days ago that nobody has bothered to throw away. They’re dry as sawdust, the bread is stale, and the mustard tastes like it was strained through a sewer grate, but I’m too hungry to care. Down the hatch they go.

At 9:28, I send Kir the first batch of revisions.

At 10:19, he sends them back with more notes.

At 11:03, I fix those and send them again.

At 11:41, he has suddenly found more things to address.

I’m on the verge of tears when my phone buzzes.

I look at the cupcake. The candle has fallen over. The frosting is melted. I haven’t had time to take so much as a single bite.

Just because I’m suffering doesn’t mean my best friend has to suffer with me, right? There’s no point in demanding more attendees to my pity party. Jillian already felt guilty enough that she couldn’t hang out tonight.

I’m refilling my water bottle when I hear footsteps.

I don’t think much of it. It’s just night security doing rounds, most likely. They’re used to seeing me here, so they won’t even stop to make sure I’m not about to lose my mind; they know that’s a losing battle. But then the footsteps cross the empty floor with purpose, and they’re clearly not the soft shuffle of someone idly vacuuming or the measured pace of a guard.

They’re heading straight for me.

I look up. Kir, of all people, is striding toward my desk. His tie is loosened, his jacket gone. There’s a frenzied, manic light in his eye.

He stops at the edge of my desk. Strangely close. “I was hoping you’d still be here.”

My stomach churns at the roughness threading through his voice. I can’t explain why, but I have this creeping feeling that it doesn’t bode well for me.

“The revisions are almost done,” I say. “I just need another hour, maybe two, and then⁠—”

“I don’t care about the revisions anymore.”

I blink. “What?”

“I said I don’t care.” He comes around the desk. I push my chair back, but there’s nowhere to go. The window is behind me. He’s in front. I’m trapped. “That’s not why I came back.”

“Kir—”

“I came back because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

“I’ve tried,” he continues. He’s so close now I can smell his cologne. It’s cinnamon-y. Makes my head swim. “God knows I’ve tried. You work for me. It’s inappropriate. It’s wrong. But I can’t…” He reaches out and brushes a strand of dirty blonde hair away from my face. “I can’t help it.”

His fingers graze my cheek. I jerk away.

“Rae…”

I’m on my feet now. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. “You can’t just— I mean, you’re my boss.”

“I know.”

I start to ramble incoherently, feeling like confused steam is pouring out of every orifice I possess. “It’s just, you’re my boss and I’m your— your— I mean, you had me working here until midnight, even though— For God’s sake, it’s my— Your assistant! My boss! On my birthday?!”

“It’s your birthday…?” To my surprise, he actually has the decency to look guilty. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I wanted an excuse to keep you close.”

I hold up my hands, putting space between us. “Whatever this is, whatever you think is happening, it’s not. Okay? It’s really, really not.”

He doesn’t move. “You feel nothing?”

“I feel tired,” I insist. “And hungry. I just want to go home.”

But nothing I say seems to be dissuading him.

He’s beautiful. That’s the problem. Beautiful people never get told no.

Despite the lettering on his office door that says CEO—Lazarev Global and a paycheck with enough zeroes to make me nauseous, Kir is barely thirty, and his face has this sharp, almost cruel perfection to it, like he just got carved out of marble yesterday. High cheekbones, strong jaw, and a mouth that looks like it was designed specifically to say cutting things.

His eyes are the worst part. They’re a piercing gray. Just like his famous father’s, everyone says, though I’ve never met Lukas Lazarev in person, so I wouldn’t know. Gray like storm clouds. Gray like steel. Gray like the kind of bitter cold that gets into your bones and doesn’t leave.

His dark hair is usually perfect, but tonight, it’s mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it. There’s stubble along his jaw. Just enough to make him look less polished. More human.

But I know better than to believe he’s human. I’ve been working for him too long to believe that.

Without warning, his hand finds my waist and pulls me closer. I stumble against him. “Kir…!”

I should say more than just his name, because from a certain angle, it almost sounds like I’m kinda moaning it. Like, Come on, Kir; I’ve been waiting for you, baby.

I’m aware that there are more forceful words in the English language. Words like “hell no” and “I don’t want this” and “please go fuck yourself with the wrong end of a stapler, you birthday-ruining bastard.” But my brain is fritting out, and his hand is moving lower, pawing at my hip, and I don’t understand what’s happening.

“I’ve watched you for months,” he murmurs against my hair.

His fingers find the hem of my blouse and slip underneath. Warm skin against warm skin.

I make a feeble squeak.

He presses closer. I can feel him against my stomach. “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this? About you⁠—”

“S-stop…” It comes out weak and breathy. “This is… I don’t…”

But I’m not pushing him away. Why am I not pushing him away? Is it just that, despite him being an asshole, there’s no denying he’s a very good-looking asshole? Can it really be as simple as that plus the fact that I haven’t yet had a man take me all the way, so I’m desperate for any scrap of his attention? Am I truly that pathetic?

His lips brush my neck. His hand sneaks higher, fingers tracing my ribs.

“Kir.” I try again, firmer this time, channeling my best Bulldog Jillian impression. “We can’t.”

“We can.” His mouth drags along my jaw, hot and open. “We already are.”

His other hand comes up to cup my face and tilts it toward him. His lips hover over mine. Close enough that I can feel his breath. That’s cinnamon-y, too.

Say it, dammit! screams the voice in my head. Say literally anything that doesn’t sound like an eager invitation or a porn star’s come-on!

This is all new territory. I’m simply not the girl this happens to. I’m no willowy supermodel; I’m five-foot-four on a good day. My dirty blonde hair can never decide if it wants to be tropical-breeze-tousled wavy or just damn it’s humid frizzy. My eyes are brown, plain as mud, nothing special. I have a face that gets described as “cute” by people who are being generous and “forgettable” by people who aren’t.

Add all that up and you get a twenty-five-year-old executive assistant who’s never had sex.

Not for lack of opportunity, exactly. More like lack of… I don’t know. Confidence? Interest? Both? Neither? Some unfortunate combination of choice and circumstance that left me perpetually single while everyone around me figured out what all the fuss was about, what happens when X goes in Y and babies and/or orgasms come out.

So riddle me this: Why is Kir Lazarev’s hand up my shirt right now?

Is this a power thing? A conquest thing? Does he actually find me attractive, or does he just think I’m pathetic enough to say yes?

“See?” His thumb traces my lower lip. “You can’t say it.”

As I’m trying to figure out what I can say, he walks me backward until I hit the window. I almost scream when I touch it, because the glass is freezing through the sheer silk of my shabby, sweat-stained blouse. November in New York City is “cold as a witch’s tit”—that’s what my little brother Gideon would say. But Gideon is in a rehab facility two hours north, so the things he might say or do are completely irrelevant right now. Though I sure wouldn’t mind if he was here right now.

Kir’s knee wedges itself between my thighs. His hand is still under my shirt, still in the relatively chaste territory of my belly, but climbing higher and higher toward something more intimate. His fingertips brush the underwire of my bra.

I break away, gasping. “Wait⁠—!”

“No. No more waiting.” He dips his head to my neck again. Teeth scrape and nip until I almost shriek out loud. “I’m done fucking waiting.”

My head falls back against the glass. The city glitters fifty floors below us. Anyone could see. If they looked up, if they had binoculars or a telescope or⁠—

That’s a good point, actually. I try that on for size. “Kir, someone could see!”

“I hope they do. Let them watch.”

Well, shit.

His hand covers my breast through the thin lace of my bra. He squeezes and I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.

This is so surreal. This is my boss. This is happening at my desk, in an empty office, at almost midnight on my birthday.

But the train is full steam ahead and I don’t know how to stop it.

“I’ve imagined you like this so many times,” he murmurs. “Flushed and breathless, saying my name.”

His hand abandons its trek upward and slides down instead. Over my stomach. Toward the waistband of my skirt.

I grab his wrist. “Kir, I really think we need to⁠—”

“Stop.”

We both freeze. That wasn’t me who said that.

It wasn’t Kir, either.

And if it wasn’t him and it wasn’t me…

In unison, Kir and I look up at the pool of darkness in the mouth of the hallway. It’s not as empty as it was a minute ago. On the contrary, it’s filled almost unbelievably.

There’s a man standing there. A huge man. Impossibly broad shoulders, gray hair swept straight backward. He’s in a midnight-black suit, white shirt, no tie, and the puff of chest hair I can see in the deep V of his unbuttoned collar is as thick and silver as his beard.

I’ve never laid eyes on him before, but I know at once:

It’s Lukas Lazarev…

… Kir’s father.

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