Page 2 of Preferential Treatment

When they were out of sight, she sank back down into her chair, staring blankly at her computer screens. She was fucked. Completely and totally. She was already struggling to make rent after her roommate up and ditched her two months ago. Now she was going to be out of work, forced to get by on whatever measly sum unemployment insurance amounted to, applying for new jobs without being able to provide a good reference from her previous workplace.

In the hour she spent waiting to go up to the CEO’s office, she got absolutely zero work done. What was the point? Her thoughts circled frantically as she tried to put together a contingency plan for being fired. She’d have to file for unemployment right away—if she even qualified for it. And if she did, would it be enough to keep her from getting evicted? She was already living paycheck-to-paycheck, paying for groceries and smaller necessities with a credit card so that she’d have enough left in checking to pay rent and utilities at the end of the month.

By the time she got up from her desk, her hands were sweaty and her heart was pounding. She gathered her things so that she wouldn’t have to do the walk of shame back to her cubicle afterward. Her purse was lumpy and heavy on her shoulder, stuffed near to bursting with her favorite mug, a framed photo of her and her best friend Anna on girls trip in Door County, the pretty glazed cup she used as a pen holder, and all of the snacks she kept in her bottom desk drawer. She had to drape the multitude of vines from her pothos over her shoulders so they wouldn’t drag on the floor while she carried the pot.

A few people cast wary glances at her as she passed their cubicles, quickly looking away as soon as she made eye contact with them. Cowards, she sneered inwardly, even as her own knees trembled with each step. She went to the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

At the top, the elevator opened into a space that made the rest of the building look like a prison. No low-pile gray carpeting here. No sterile white walls, or speckled drop-panel ceilings, or fluorescent tube lighting. It was all glossy wood floors and textured wallpaper and elegant brass light sconces and big, bright windows overlooking the downtown.

A receptionist’s desk dominated the space, backed by a long wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. The receptionist was a middle-aged woman with a sleek Domovoy earpiece in one ear, her attention focused on a Domovoy ultra-slim monitor. She looked up as Kate stepped out of the elevator, her gaze dropping briefly to the potted plant in Kate’s hands. A brief flash of confusion crossed her face, but she quickly smoothed it away with a professional, unassuming smile.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m here to see Mr. Volkov. He’s expecting me.” Kate’s voice came out impressively steady.

The receptionist looked at her monitor, clicking a couple of times. “Kate Pasternak?”

“Yes.”

“He’s ready for you. Right this way.”

The receptionist led her down a hall past a glass-enclosed conference room and several offices with brass placards and frosted-glass doors. The door at the very end was ajar. The receptionist knocked lightly on it, peeking her head into the office.

“Mr. Volkov? Ms. Pasternak is here to see you.”

“Thank you. Send her in,” that deep, Russian-accented voice drifted from the office, ominously soft.

Tightening her sweaty grip on her potted plant, Kate nodded her thanks to the receptionist and stepped inside. The door shut crisply behind her—the seal on her demise.

Mikhail Volkov’s office was just as elegant as the rest of the top floor. A broad wooden desk sat in front of an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, out of which the CEO could look across the rooftops of neighboring downtown buildings to a gorgeous view of the lake.

To the right of the desk, highly polished burled wood cabinets and shelves lined one wall, filled with books and random decor. To the left of the desk, there was a sitting area with a leather chesterfield sofa and two green velvet club chairs arranged around a transparent pedestal coffee table with swirls of golden mica suspended in its surface. The eclecticism could’ve looked like a cheap attempt to cobble together thrift store furniture, but even to Kate’s broke ass, it looked outrageously expensive. Not only the price of the furniture, but also the undoubtedly exorbitant fee charged by the interior designer who’d put it all together.

Standing amidst all this wealth in a thrifted DKNY dress that she’d had to dye black to hide the stain that had come with it, and Target-brand black pumps with a wobbly left heel, Kate felt every dollar of her inferiority piling on top of her. Millions and millions of dollars—billions—crushing down on her until she could barely breathe.

“Ms. Pasternak,” Mikhail Volkov greeted her in that deep, soft, Russian-inflected voice. His gaze landed on the potted plant in her hands and the vines wrapped around her neck like some bizarre kind of scarf. His thick, dark brows drew together. “Er… please make yourself comfortable.” He gestured at the chairs in front of his desk.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Kate said coldly. She couldn’t help herself. She was choking on the unfairness of it all, and she couldn’t find it in herself to be sensible and tactful. Her pride wouldn’t allow it. “I know why I’m here. Why don’t we just get it over with?”

Volkov’s brows rose. “Get what over with?”

It was then that Kate realized it was only the two of them in the room. Her direct supervisor wasn’t there. Nor was there a human resources representative. She’d have expected both those people present while she was being personally fired by the CEO.

So… maybe she wasn’t being fired?

“I suppose you want an apology from me,” she said, wincing internally at the venom in her tone. Jesus Christ, who needed enemies when she was this good at self-sabotage?

A small, private smile quirked the firm line of his mouth. “On the contrary, I never want to hear an apology from you.”

“You… what?” Kate frowned. “Then why am I here?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, fingers steepled together. He was a big man, and the way his suit stretched across his broad shoulders felt like a threat. Through the windows behind him, the rising sun backlit him like an operatic villain. He exuded the cold charisma that came with absurd wealth and unchecked power.

Kate couldn’t help but curl her lip at the sight.

His cold, dark eyes gleamed, for the first time, with a hint of interest. “I have a proposition for you.”

CHAPTER TWO

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