Page 2 of Use Me, Daddy

I hesitated just long enough to keep him guessing before I stepped forward, matching his pace. He was watching me, testing me, maybe even waiting for me to flinch. Instead, I forced myself to look right back, letting him know I wasn’t intimidated.

That just seemed to amuse him further.

We moved into a private viewing room, and he stopped by a canvas draped in dark cloth. “Since we’re questioning each other,” he said, his voice smooth and even, “what makes you think you’re suited for the job?”

“I’m not afraid of a challenge.” I held his gaze, feeling his scrutiny like heat on my skin. “And I don’t need every answerhanded to me. I’m more than capable of figuring things out myself.”

A glint of something dark and approving flashed in his eyes.

“Good.”

He pulled back the cloth to reveal a painting thick with dark strokes, a chaotic scene that seemed to pulse with life. The longer I looked, the more unsettled I felt, as if it wanted me to confront something I’d rather not see.

“Go on, Miss Whitaker,” he said quietly. “What do you see?”

I hesitated. “It’s raw,” I managed, surprised at the feeling in my voice. “Complicated. It doesn’t want to be understood.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching me with interest. “And yet you tried.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “You’re an achiever. A perfectionist. You think if you can understand something, you can control it.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I fought the urge to break eye contact.

“Isn’t that why people like you hire people like me?” I replied, raising an eyebrow.

His gaze flickered with a hint of approval, though it was far from warm.

“People like me,” he repeated, as though tasting the words. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

I met his eyes, unyielding. “People who don’t need the answers because they make the rules.”

This time, his smile was real, though it was edged in something unreadable.

“Interesting answer, Miss Whitaker. But if you’re right, that means the only answer that matters is mine. Are you sure you’re comfortable with that?”

He stepped closer, and despite the tension, or maybe because of it, I felt a thrill run down my spine.

“I’m here for the job, Mr. Morozov. Nothing else,” I countered.

He studied me for a beat, his gaze heavy. Then he turned back to the painting. “The art world needs people who see what others miss. If you think you’re one of them, then I have a proposition.”

The intensity in his gaze said this job was not at all what I thought. And for reasons I couldn’t quite understand, I felt the urge to rise to his challenge, whatever it might be.

“Good,” I said, letting the weight of his words settle. “I think I’ll surprise you.”

And judging by the look in his eyes, I could tell he wanted me to try.

I squared my shoulders, refusing to let him see the effect he was having on me. I wasn’t some girl to be intimidated. I had spent too many years learning how to be formidable myself.

“So, Miss Whitaker,” he said, his voice low and steady, “tell me about your education. Where did you study?”

“Wilmington Academy,” I replied, my tone cool. “Then St. Anne’s for undergrad. Art history, with a minor in business management. And after that, I earned my master’s in modernart at Parsons. I focused on underrepresented artists in postmodernism—more specifically, female artists.”

His eyebrows lifted, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips, as though he’d heard an unintended layer to my answer.

“Impressive,” he said, though the word carried a slightly mocking undertone. “So, you appreciate those who are… commonly overlooked.”

I bit back a retort. “I believe that everyone should be given an equal chance to be heard,” I said, my voice firmer than I intended.

“And yet you sought me out,” he replied, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall, watching me like a cat sizing up its prey. “If I’m not mistaken, I’m not exactly known for my inclusivity.” His gaze was sharp, challenging, as if daring me to disagree.

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