Page 2 of Perfect Stalker

The implications in her tone, along with the way she says it—like it’s a given I’ll dothatto keep this job—make my skin crawl. I’veworked hard for this job, climbed from receptionist to executive assistant through pure dedication and late nights despite all the crap my coworkers have laid on me. Is there some foul rumor going around that I slept my way to the top? With whom? Miranda, our loathsome CEO? Not likely.

“I wouldn’t stay if there are certain strings attached,” I say haughtily, making Sarah’s perfect blonde brows arch as she takes a step back. “I should go to my desk,” I say, moving around her. “I need to think.”

My workspace is an island of normality in the chaos—no box, and no termination notice waiting. Just my neat stack of files, my color-coded planner, and the small potted succulent I’ve somehow managed to keep alive.

I sink into my chair, powering on my computer with trembling fingers after confirming there’s no letter taped to the screen. The login screen looks the same, but when it loads, the company logo has already changed. Gone is the familiar silver fox head. In its place is a stark black M against a blood-red background.

My email inbox pings. One new message.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Meeting—10:00 AM

Location: Executive Suite

The message contains no greeting and no explanation. Just three words in the body.

Don’t be late.

My watch reads 9:47. Thirteen minutes to pull myself together and face whatever comes next.

I open my desk drawer and grab my emergency makeup bag. The bathroom mirror shows me what I already know—I’m pale, and my freckles stand out against my skin. I reapply my lipstick with practiced precision, tame my hair back into its neat bun, and straighten my charcoal grey blazer.

The woman in the mirror looks professional, composed, and prepared. Like someone who deserves to keep her job while all her colleagues pack up their lives. I wish I felt as confident as she appears.

The executive suite takes up the entire top floor. In four years, I’ve been up there exactly twice—both times to get a dressing-down from Miranda for someone else’s error. I realize abruptly I never spoke up to defend myself on either occasion. When was the last time I did say anything against their assertions and insinuations? That I can’t remember tells me all I need to know.

Huh. Maybe I’m the reason I’ve become the office whipping girl by allowing it. I squirm at the uncomfortable thought and try to force my thoughts back to my newest worry, which is meeting my new boss. The elevator ride feels endless, each floor number lighting up like a countdown to...something.

I check my watch again, and it’s 9:58. The elevator doors open to reveal a completely transformed space. Gone are the warm woods and comfortable furnishings of the old executive suite. The new décor is all sharp angles, black leather, and chrome. They did this all in one night? Maybe it’s been longer that they’ve been doing renovations up here since I haven’t been up in over a year.

A woman sits at a desk that definitely wasn’t there the last time I was here. Her platinum blonde hair is pulled into a severe chignon, and her black suit probably costs more than mymonthly rent. “Jenny Graham?” Her accent is distinctly Russian. “Mr. Markov is expecting you.”

She rises, gesturing for me to follow her down a hallway I swear is longer than it used to be. Her heels make no sound on the plush black carpet.

We stop at a set of double doors that look more like they belong in a fortress than an office building. The woman knocks once, opens the door, and steps aside. “Miss Graham to see you, sir.”

“Send her in,” says a deep male voice with a rumbling timber. It makes me shudder, but not entirely from fear. Is that a hint of a Russian accent I heard? It fits with everything I’ve learned so far—which isn’t much.

I step into the office, and my heart stutters. The man behind the imposing black desk rises to his full height—easily six-three. His dark hair is perfectly styled, and his tailored charcoal suit molds to broad shoulders. Steel gray eyes lock onto mine with predatory intensity.

A strange spark of recognition flutters through me. Something about those eyes, that commanding presence...

“Miss Graham.” His voice rolls through the room, and I definitely detect the faintest Russian accent. “Please, sit.”

I perch on one of the sleek leather chairs facing his desk, smoothing my skirt with damp palms. The office temperature must be seventy degrees, yet goosebumps ripple across my skin.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Ivan Markov circles his desk with fluid grace, coming to lean against the front edge. His proximity sends my pulse racing.

“I...assume it’s about the company acquisition?” My voice comes out steadier than I expect.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yes and no.” He studies me for a long moment. “Tell me, Miss Graham, why do you think you were spared when I terminated the rest of the staff?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I’d like to think it’s because I’m good at my job.”

“You are.” He pushes off the desk and prowls closer. He stops beside my chair. “But that’s not why.”

My throat goes dry. “Then why?”

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