Page 27

Goldilocks has once again entered the bears’ house without permission, but it feels like more than a burnt saucepan is on the line this time around.
9
ARKADIY
As I sit across from one of the most recognizable faces in Russia, I wish I were anywhere but here. Veronika is stunning, with blonde hair, piercing green eyes, and a body often featured on magazine covers, but I’ve never met someone so dimwitted.
She’s droned on about her latest skincare line nonstop for the past hour. I’m bored out of my mind, and her voice, the equivalent of nails being dragged down a chalkboard, is so grating that my head is throbbing.
The one between my legs isn’t close to having the same pulsating response as the one between my shoulders. There’s no interest on my cock’s behalf whatsoever, which isn’t surprising.
I’m only here because a member of the media I thought I’d lost snapped a picture of me opening the cab door for Mara and Tillie before I slipped in behind them.
He was an hour away from splashing Mara’s face across the glossy front pages of gossip magazines as my latest fling when my offer for an exclusive interview landed on his desk.
The promise of an all-inclusive interview with one of Russia’s most sought-after women and me is why Mara isn’t being defamed by the media right now.
The interview concluded twenty minutes ago, but Veronika has yet to notice the journalist’s absence.
As the social media influencer harps on about her latest fashion campaign and the designer clothes she will be rewarded for it, I think about the deals I could be closing instead of being here.
My mind shouldn’t immediately deviate to the hearty hum of Mara’s refrigerator that came from nowhere near the motor, but it does.
I’ve never heard a more erotic sound.
Not wanting Veronika to get the wrong idea about the heat creeping up my neck, I drift my eyes to the two-way mirror at the side of the meeting room before tapping my watch.
If Fyodor notices the signal we devised for when I want our meeting interrupted, he doesn’t pay any attention to it. None of the multiple doors surrounding the meeting room shoot open as they have numerous times today.
Fyodor remains behind the two-way glass, no doubt devouring the double espresso I requested Rafael bring down almost an hour ago so I’d stay awake while listening to the ramblings of a woman who hasn’t worked a hard day in her life.
When Veronika launches into a monologue about her ex-boyfriend and how their breakup affected her influencer status, I slice my hand through the air.
She barely pauses for half a second before focusing on how our collaboration could boost her follower count to celebrity-level status. “We don’t even need to be in the same room. Photoshop can do wonders. I know a guy who knows a guy who…”
I tune out again before locking my now-narrowed eyes with the two-way mirror. My expression announces that despite Fyodor’s seal of approval, Veronika isnotthe woman I want at my side during my fortieth birthday celebrations.
Just the thought of being subjected to her nasally whine for another thirty seconds has me wanting to damage the hearing in my right ear as poorly as the incident that stole the hearing from my left ear.
A pen to the ear would be less painful than another update on Veronika’s follower count.
The tightness in my chest alleviates when a tap sounds from the main meeting room door; I’m optimistic relief is moments away. “Come in.”
The clinking of silverware drowns out Veronika’s adenoidal tone. It isn’t a noise I am anticipating, but I welcome it when I learn who it is coming from.
While smiling hesitantly, Mara approaches the boardroom table, juggling a large silver serving tray. Because the tray is overloaded with coffee, milk, mugs, a sugar bowl, and a handful of pastries, her arms are rigidly robotic.
Their stiffness teasingly tugs up the risqué hem of a fitted pleated pencil dress I’m certain isn’t on any chambermaid’s uniform list. It is from a designer I know well.
The label, not as meticulously stitched as the one Mara was wearing Friday night, shows off her legs in a way her maid’s outfit never will.
It also displays that she is a woman who should be served, not serve others.
Follower count has nothing on natural grace and sophistication.
Mara’s eyes move to Veronika for the quickest second before they return to me. I can tell she is uneased about approaching me in general, much less when I’m seated across from a womanknown worldwide for her beauty, but she hides it well with a friendly smile and a professional edge.
“Ex-excuse me, sir,” she says softly, her words barely above a whisper. “I have your order for you.”