Page 3 of Masked Seduction
When I enter his office again, Abram is seated behind his desk, brow furrowed in concentration over his laptop. His attention snaps to me as I approach.
“Well?” he prompts impatiently.
I meet his gaze evenly, folding my arms over my chest. “Your meeting with Henley is about acquiring another club. It’s exclusive, high-end, and skirting the boundaries of legality.”
His eyebrows lift, surprise briefly flickering across his carefully controlled features only to be replaced quickly by narrowed suspicion. “Did he say anything else?”
My lips twist slightly. “He mentioned it’s a sex club.”
His eyes darken and something flickers in them—a sharp, brief heat that makes my pulse quicken despite myself.
“Did he now?” he murmurs, almost thoughtful. I can tell he already knew.
I tilt my head, studying him. “Would you have demanded these details if I were a man?”
His expression cools instantly, eyes sharpening. “Absolutely. My assistant should have complete knowledge of my affairs, regardless of their nature.”
I let a soft, skeptical hum escape my lips, then straighten. “I’ve already ordered your lunch. It’ll arrive promptly at noon. Anything else?”
He stares at me, unreadable, then shakes his head once. “That’s all. Close the door behind you.”
I turn without a word, shutting the door just a little too firmly. Back in my office at my desk, I sink into my chair, the anger and indignation slowly ebbing, replaced by reluctant curiosity.
Abram Vasiliev, Bratva kingpin and billionaire asshole extraordinaire, is about to own a sex club. The thought isn’t exactly shocking—he’s no stranger to power or danger—but something about it catches me off guard.
I imagine him there, dark eyes watching, that powerful, commanding presence dominating every room. Heat flushes my cheeks, and I angrily shove the thought away.
No. Absolutely not.
My desk phone buzzes loudly, pulling me sharply back to reality. Abram’s lunch is here. With a weary sigh, I push aside allfantasies and head downstairs to collect the perfectly prepared meal from Abram’s favorite upscale bistro. My lunch consists of a sad, and limp salad from the convenience store next door.
When I return, Abram has vanished from his office. Typical. I settle behind my desk, staring at his untouched meal, suddenly feeling foolishly hopeful he’ll at least acknowledge the effort I put into making his days easier.
My phone rings incessantly, a nonstop stream of irate investors and demanding clients, all of whom expect Abram’s immediate response. I soothe egos, make promises, and swallow frustration along with bites of wilted lettuce.
Abram reappears an hour later, striding through the office like a thunderstorm. He stops sharply at my desk.
“The paperwork?” he demands, voice edged with impatience.
My eyes dart toward the semi-finished stack. “Nearly done. Your clients have been calling nonstop, and I’m trying to keep them calm.”
His eyes narrow to icy slits. “Ten minutes.” I open my mouth to argue, but his glare silences me immediately. He leans in, voice low and dangerous. “I hired you because I believed you could handle the pressure, Jenna. Don’t make me regret it.”
He straightens and stalks away, leaving me trembling with suppressed rage. I channel it all into my fingers, typing furiously until the paperwork is finished.
Storming into his office, I slap the finished documents onto his desk, harder than necessary. Pages scatter. Abram glances up sharply, gaze darkening.
“That’s everything,” I say through clenched teeth. “If there’s nothing else, I’m leaving for the day.”
He regards me silently, eyes unreadable. Silence stretches between us, heavy and tense, and just when I think I might scream, he nods once. “You’re free to go.”
I leave quickly, grabbing my purse and laptop, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop everything twice. Outside, the air hits my heated skin, cooling some of my temper. I’m certain I’ll be fired by tomorrow, but right now, I honestly don’t give a fuck.
My mind races as I walk away, replaying his unreadable expression. Was it indifference or something else? I grit my teeth, forcing myself to dismiss the thought. Abram Vasiliev’s moods and motives aren’t my problem.
Except they are because I need this job.
Still, there’s only so much I can tolerate. I won’t be his verbal punching bag forever. No matter how irresistible or powerful he is.
