Page 1 of Use Me, Daddy

CHAPTER 1

Amy Whitaker

“What do you see?”

His question pulled me from my thoughts, slicing through the quiet of the gallery.

I turned, startled, to find a man standing close—closer than anyone should be when you’ve only just met. He was tall, his frame lean yet powerful. His dark suit was so impeccably tailored that it hinted at unmistakable wealth. The sharp lines of his jaw and the calculating glint in his eyes made my pulse skip for reasons I couldn’t quite name.

I knew who he was.

Aleksei Morozov.

Art dealer, enigmatic power player, and if the rumors were true, a man who lived with one foot firmly planted in the criminal underworld.

And now, he was here. Watching me. Waiting.

This was a job interview, I reminded myself. A stepping stone into the career I’d always dreamed of. I swallowed against the flicker of nerves billowing up from my toes and forced myself to hold his gaze.

I’d nail this.

“An interesting choice for an opener,” I said, keeping my voice steady, even as his dark eyes seemed to strip away every layer of composure I had.

His lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.

“It tells me more than a résumé ever could,” he replied, his voice as smooth as butter.

I turned back to the painting before he could see the flush rising in my cheeks. It was a bold, abstract piece—a riot of shadows and streaks of crimson that felt as though they were clawing their way out of the canvas.

“It’s commanding,” I said finally, choosing my words carefully. “The use of shadow feels deliberate, calculated, almost predatory. It pulls you in and makes you wonder—makes you uncomfortable almost.”

A low hum of approval came from beside me, and I caught the faintest hint of a smirk when I glanced at him again. His eyes lingered on me, his silence somehow seeming louder than words.

I studied him a bit more closely, trying to figure him out.

Aleksei Morozov looked like someone who had no reason to be intimidated by anyone. But more than that, he looked likesomeone who would gladly welcome the challenge if anyone tried.

His dark hair was carefully styled, short but just a little unruly, as if he’d run his hand through it more than once today. A well-groomed beard framed his sharp features, accentuating the strong line of his jaw and lending him a look that was both refined and rugged.

High cheekbones cast shadows that made his gaze even more intense, his eyes a shade of steel gray that seemed to gleam in the soft lighting of the gallery. They were piercing, unblinking, as if he were dissecting every thought I might have, every move I might make. And right now, he was focused on me as though I were the only person in the room.

It was unnerving to say the least, but I didn’t back down. I was the type of individual that rose to the challenge.

If I could land this job, it might mean my first big break in the art world. This position would open doors that had been closed to me my whole life. I wasn’t naive—I knew the art world had its inner circles and its exclusive clubs. I knew I was an outsider, but I was determined to find a way in, no matter the cost.

Growing up, I’d always straddled a line. I’d been lucky enough to attend a good prep school on a modest trust fund from my grandfather who’d built a small business from scratch. But unlike many of my classmates, I hadn’t come from ‘old money’ or generations of family wealth. My parents were the type who knew the value of every dollar, who chose practical vacations over flashy ones, who’d insisted I apply for scholarships to make my private education possible. My upbringing was comfortable, yes, but the reality was there was no endless well of resources to fall back on.

I had to make my own way.

Landing this job could mean just that. From what little I knew of Aleksei Morozov, he had an eye for art that wasn’t defined by one’s pedigree or conventional taste. He valued boldness, and that was something I could deliver. The question was whether I could convince him of that, and if I was ready for what working with him might entail.

I lifted my chin, confident I could succeed on both counts.

“So, what about you?” I asked, folding my arms. “Are you always like this in your interviews?”

The hint of a smile tugged at his mouth, as though he were amused by the idea of being questioned by me. “I find that the most interesting candidates answer questions no one thought to ask.”

Then he extended a hand toward a hallway. “Walk with me, Miss Whitaker.”

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