Page 24 of Ivory Ashes

Then I sprint out of the room.

As far as exits go, no one would call that smooth. But once I’m in the hallway, I don’t care. I can breathe again.

I fill and empty my lungs in deep, even breaths. Decisive and confident. I need to be decisive and confident.

I decisively, confidently swipe my phone off of my desk and make a confident decision to flee this building. The rest of the decisions, I’ll make on the train. Confidently.

But I’m only halfway to the bank of elevators when the door to the boardroom opens. Mikhail thunders towards me like a storm cloud. A force of nature. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter. Before I can even consider dodging him, he grabs my arm and yanks me into his office.

It still smells like Mr. Fredrickson. Like cheap aftershave and the honey mustard pretzels he kept stashed in his bottom drawer for a mid-afternoon snack.

Then the door closes and Mikhail is in front of me, close enough that all I smell is cedar and mint. All I can see is the broad expanse of his chest.

And all I can think is, I’ll never be free of him.

“Where were you going?” he demands coolly.

“I told you: I don’t feel well.”

“We were in a meeting.”

“If you’d like me to go back and throw up on the shareholders, say the word,” I snap. “I’ll be sure to make note of ‘violent puking’ in the minutes.”

Mikhail almost looks amused, but his face is incapable of joy. There is only scrutiny and self-assuredness.

“You don’t look like you’re going to be sick. How do I know you’re not lying about this, too?”

“Mr. Fredrickson trusted me.” That’s not true. He demanded a different doctor’s note every single day when I had the flu last year.

“That’s because he didn’t know who you really are.” Mikhail towers over me. “Viviana.”

My stomach flutters. I might actually be sick. My body isn’t sure how to handle my worst nightmare and most frequent fantasy coming true at the same time.

“My name is Margaret.”

He growls low in his chest. “I know who you are. I could never forget.”

He barely even spoke to me that night. I don’t know this man. And yet… he’s right. I never forgot the sound of his voice. His smell. This thing between us was—is—primal. It’s pheromones or chemistry. Every time I see Mikhail, my body goes into fight, flight, or fuck mode.

I turn away from him long enough to see a large bouquet on his desk. Two dozen red roses. A card with a heart scribbled in the corner is tied to the neck of the vase.

“Who are the flowers from?” I blurt.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not. I’m just curious.” Yes, curiosity. That’s what this pit yawning open in the bottom of my stomach is. Simple, innocent curiosity. “Are they from your wife?”

He snorts. “Jealous, Viviana?”

I wish he’d stop saying my name. It’s been too long since I heard it. It’s doing things to me.

“My name is Margaret,” I repeat with as much conviction as I can muster. “I have no reason to be jealous of my boss’s wife sending him flowers. I think it’s sweet.”

He takes another step towards me. “I think you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

I meant it. I think it’s sweet that some woman out there has seen him without his shirt on and gets to kiss his mouth whenever she wants. Maybe he even has kids with her by now and I’m happy for them, too. I’m thrilled that they get a father while Dante just has me.

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