Chapter 1

‘Do I have your undivided attention, Ms. Goodacre?’

I snap my focus back to my boss, Ivan Stepanov, who’s giving me that trademark look of his—not that I’ve messed up, but because that’s just his default setting.

Truely, he’s the living proof of the cautionary tale parents tell their children about the risk of a face freezing in a permanent scowl if they’re not careful.

I suppose his annoyance is somewhat justified. Not that he knows it.

He just caught me in the middle of a vivid daydream, where I’m wielding a magical remote with the power to silence his endless chatter at the press of a button. My fantasy escalates to the point where I hit the fast-forward button, zipping him through his lavish office’s panoramic windows and into a comedic dive onto the bustling streets of Manhattan.

It’s hard to fault my daydream; the day has stretched my patience to its limits, and I can feel my stomach growling.

I am thoroughly DONE with jumping through hoops for him today.

I’ve been at Stepanov Holdings since an ungodly hour this morning, after leaving the office last night at 10:00 P.M. For fuck sake, I even missed the Season Finale of the Bachelor.

I haven’t had a moment’s peace today, and now, without having had my lunch at 3:00 P.M., I’m just about ready to call it quits on this devil in an Armani suit.

Without my trusty sidekick—aka four shots of espresso—I’d be a goner for sure.

Yet, even fueled by caffeine, I’m a hot mess express.

I’m mentally face-palming for convincing myself that buying these ultra-skinny work trousers on sale was a savvy decision.

Right now, my legs are on the brink of rebellion, decidedly unhappy about being crammed into what I thought was a steal of a deal. I had to wear an extra long dress shirt to mask my camel toe.

Ivan, meanwhile, is the picture of unbothered elegance.

It’s actually unfair how he manages to look like he’s stepped out of a magazine, despite being on the go as much as he is.

His suit, his stubble, those piercing eyes—nothing’s out of place.

‘Ms. Goodacre, you haven’t answered my question.’

‘Oh, right,’ I manage to say. ‘Yes, you have my full attention.’ My eyes dart to my notebook. ‘The financial report is due to be reviewed by Mr. Thompson in Compliance first thing. Also, new ergonomic chairs for the executive conference room have been ordered, and I’ll follow up on the delivery. Your 10:00 A.M. tomorrow is now at 11:30, the 11:30 has moved to 2:15. And for next Thursday’s meeting, I’ve left a note saying—they can, um, ‘go fuck off.’ Did I miss anything?’

Ivan raises an eyebrow, a gesture that could mean anything from ‘I’m impressed’ to ‘you’re on thin ice.’

‘Is there a hint of sarcasm I detect?’

Keeping my expression as blank as possible, I reply, ‘Not at all, sir. After the incident with the incorrect financial forecast last month, you wanted ‘zero sass’. I remember.’

‘Hm.’

That sound, coming from Ivan Stepanov, the enigmatic CEO of Stepanov Holdings, is enough to send shivers down the spine of anyone. I’ve seen it—a supplier once came in to negotiate a contract and left looking like they needed a stretcher, all because of a single ‘Hm’ from Ivan.

He’s not just formidable to outsiders; even I’ve been on the verge of tears more times than I can count since starting here. And yet, here I am, plotting his remote control demise as a form of twisted self therapy. What has my life come to?

‘And the email I asked for?’

I hand a printed email to the corporate lion.

He looks at me, his gaze as penetrating as a laser.

‘I asked for this to be emailed, Miss Goodacre,’ he says with a voice smoother than a whiskey on the rocks.

‘Oh, it’s been sent,’ I retort, sprinkling just the right amount of sass into my words. ‘But given its vanishing act last time, I thought a hard copy might stick around longer.’

He raises his eyebrow again. I’d bet a million dollars he popped out of the womb with that exact same intimating expression.

Intimidating and sexy.

It’s in fleeting moments like this I find myself admiring just how unforgivably handsome he is. Despite my best efforts. The tall, dark, and brooding thing really works for him. If only his personality matched the exterior.

Wishful thinking.

With the elegance of a maestro, Ivan navigates to his inbox, spots the email, and dives into a reply. All business, no pleasantries.

Then, without missing a beat, he’s onto his next demand. ‘I’ll be having a late lunch from that Mediterranean place on 5th. They’re always swamped, just so you know. Please tend to the paperwork on your desk when you return.’

Being an assistant to a man who thinks the world revolves around his wants requires a particular brand of insanity.

If I didn’t need this job so badly, I might just have the courage to tell him where to shove his five star meal.

‘Thank you, Miss Goodacre.’

Clearly, my time’s up.

As I make my way to Medina, the city’s rhythm pulsates through the streets, a symphony of honking taxis, chattering pedestrians, and the ever-present tune of sirens in the distance.

Navigating Manhattan Financial District is akin to playing a real-life game of Tetris, where I dart and weave through an obstacle course of tourists mesmerized by skyscrapers stopping to snap a photo of literally everything.

It’s a dance of waiting, smiling politely, and gently nudging the staff with a reminder that I am there to pick up an urgent business lunch for Stepanov Holdings to get the order expedited.

Upon securing the culinary treasure, I return to Stepanov Holdings Headquarters. The building, much like Ivan, stands tall, imposing, and unapologetically opulent.

By the time I return, holding Ivan’s gourmet lunch and my modest salad, he’s vanished.

Typical.

As I settle down to tackle the mountain of paperwork he’s generously left behind, my desk phone starts ringing off the hook.

My phone becomes a hot potato, passing from one crisis to another with the skill of a seasoned diplomat promising that Mr. Stepanov will indeed return all calls, knowing fully well he won’t.

Between bites of my salad and sips of coffee that’s already gone cold, I navigate the treacherous waters of high finance by soothing egos and making promises I can only hope Ivan will keep.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

A smidgen of recognition from Ivan wouldn’t hurt.

Some acknowledgment of the tireless effort behind making his life run as smoothly as a well-oiled machine.

As I glance at his untouched lunch, a part of me wants so badly to dump it on over his head. I’ll have to save that vision for my next daydream.

Ivan sweeps back into the office like a stormfront.

‘The paperwork, Miss Goodacre,’ he says, his voice cutting through the air like a knife.

My eyes dart between the semi-conquered paper mountain and him. ‘I didn’t forget.’ I start, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. ‘Your clients have been calling nonstop, and I’ve been doing my best to keep them from losing their cool.’

He fixes me with a look that could freeze lava. “Ten minutes.’

I open my mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes stops me—the unyielding demand, the expectation of perfection.

In his world, there’s no room for excuses, no space for the human element.

He leans in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. ‘I hired you because I thought you could handle the pressure. Don’t prove me wrong.’

With that parting shot, he strides away, leaving me feeling about two inches tall.

It’s moments like these that I question my life choices.

Anger and frustration bubble up inside me like a shaken soda bottle, threatening to explode. But I refuse to cry, refuse to show any weakness in this high-stakes game of corporate chess.

Instead, I channel all that emotion into finishing the paperwork, my fingers flying over the keyboard like a pianist in the midst of a frenzied solo.

Feeling like I could blow up any minute.

Finally, with the printouts in hand, I march to Ivan’s office.

I drop the papers onto his desk with a deliberate thump, watching them scatter forcefully.

He looks up, his expression unreadable as the papers flutter across his desk.

‘That’s everything you asked for,’ I announce, my voice quivering with a storm of suppressed fury. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m clocking out for the rest of the day.’ The words hang between us, a bold line drawn after a day where every ounce of my patience was tested.

For a moment, Ivan only watches me, his dark eyes giving nothing away.

It’s infuriating, like shouting into a void and waiting for an echo that never comes.

Ivan finally breaks the tense silence, his voice as steady and composed as ever, betraying no sign of irritation or amusement. ‘Miss Goodacre, you’re free to leave,’ he says, his tone embodying the very essence of professional detachment he has practically made as his signature.

I quietly leave his office, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest.

I gather my things, pretending to be calm, my hands shaking as I shove my laptop into my bag.

I could totally be fired tomorrow. Fuck it.

I don’t look back as I leave, the doors closing behind me with a finality that feels oddly satisfying.

The cool air hits my face, and I take a deep breath, trying to let go of the anger and the frustration.

As I walk, my mind keeps replaying the scene in Ivan’s office.

That unreadable look in his eyes, was it indifference or something else?