Page 41 of Ruins
“Oh-” she stammers, eyes flicking down to the screen. “It’s just… sometimes faux flowers are easier for styling. They stay in place longer.”
I level her with a look, one that clearly shuts the thought down. “Real ones.”
She nods quickly, scribbling the note. “I’ll have them sent to the estate.”
“Send them to Cassandra.”
The stylus halts mid-stroke.
“Cassandra?”
“Her team is styling Vasilisa’s hair.”
The planner nods again, lips pressing together as if that should’ve been obvious. As she writes, her brows pull slightly together in thought, “Vasilisa… beautiful name.”
I still.
Her name hangs there, soft but heavy, cutting through the space in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
I shouldn’t care that she said it. I shouldn’t care, but something about hearing her name, spoken out loud by someone else, settles in my chest uncomfortably.
“Yes, it is,” I say, quieter than I intended.
The planner seems oblivious to the shift, tapping notes into her screen like this is just another job to check off.
“Thank you, Mr. Amato,” she says, offering a tight smile. “I’ll handle the arrangements.”
I give a brief nod, eyes fixed on the edge of the desk.
She starts to leave, but before she reaches the door, I add, “Make sure the roses are white.”
Her head bobs in agreement before the door clicks softly behind her.
The room falls silent once more, but the weight of Vasilisa’s name lingers like an echo I can’t quite shake.
I press my thumb to the carved initials, the rough edges catching against my skin. The grooves are deeper than I remember.Permanent.
I don’t do things like this.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
And yet, she’s everywhere, even when she’s not here.
***
Sandra efficiently lines up potential secretaries for me to interview. The process goes seamlessly, with three candidates surpassing my expectations, any one of them could potentially become a permanent fixture in my office. I’ll take the week to carefully consider my decision.
Just as I am about to call Marcus, the head of the cyber department, for an update on our progress with the QUEEN file, a loud commotion erupts outside my door. Without warning, a woman bursts through the door, her chestnut curls are disheveled, the papers in her hand wrinkled.
She’s dress in business attire for sure, but the way the pencil skirt and blouse cling to her curves should be a crime. This woman is a sexy, curvy, brunette, with big brown eyes and cherry red lips, but I can’t find it in myself to stir any sort of desire as my mind travels to the svelte golden ray of light that was in my office earlier.
Sandra follows behind the woman with a deep scowl on her face.
“I’m sorry Mr. Amato, I told her the interviews wereover.”
I lift my hand and gesture for Sandra to give us a moment. She hesitates, but leaves.
The brunette steps forward.
