Page 130 of Sexting the Boss

We walk in silence a bit longer, through hallways that feel more like a museum than a home—rich paintings, antique vases, high vaulted ceilings. Everything screamsold money.

“You’re brave,” Ekaterina says suddenly.

I blink. “What?”

She looks at me, eyes glinting. “Coming here. With him.”

I swallow hard. “I didn’t exactly have a choice.”

She chuckles softly. “No. You wouldn’t.” She slows, casting a glance back toward where Damien disappeared. “My son…is a difficult man. Always has been. Too much like his father, though he’d rather chew glass than hear me say it.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay quiet.

“So,” she hums, “how did you two meet?”

I blink. “Um. It’s kind of a funny story…but I work at his company.”

Ekaterina’s brow arches. “At Zaitsev Industries?”

“Yeah. I just started a few weeks ago.” I force a smile. “I’m…very new.”

She hums thoughtfully. “You don’t look like the type they usually hire.”

I wince. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

We stop in front of a large oak door. She studies me again, something unreadable passing over her face.

“Whatever you think this is,” Ekaterina says quietly, “you’re wrong. Damien doesn’t bring people here. Ever.”

I swallow, heart thudding. “I didn’t ask to come.”

She nods. “No. But you’re here. Which means…you’re in it now.”

The door creaks open. The room is beautiful—soft cream walls, gold accents, a balcony overlooking the garden. Nothing like the prison I imagined.

Ekaterina glances at me once more. “Goodnight, Sasha.”

And just like that, she’s gone, leaving me alone with too many questions and no answers.

I pace the length of the ridiculously large guest room, arms crossed, teeth sinking into my lower lip until it’s sore. The chandelier overhead flickers slightly with the breeze from the open balcony doors, but all I hear is my own thoughts spiraling out of control.

I should’ve left. Should’ve called an Uber or hell, walked back to the city barefoot. But instead, here I am—practically housed in Damien Zaitsev’s personal estate, watched by men with guns.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Tomorrow morning, I’m marching straight to him. I want answers. All of it—the men, the attack, this house. Who the hell he really is.

And there’s fact that I don’t have any clothes to wear.

I whirl around when there’s a soft knock at the door.

My stomach drops.

I debate ignoring it. But my legs move on their own. When I open the door, Damien’s there—one hand braced above the frame, shirtsleeves rolled up, eyes darker than usual.

I stare. “Are…are you drunk?”

His lips curl, a humorless smirk, and before I can blink, he’s pulling me in by the waist and kissing me hard.

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