Page 19 of Claimed By the Boss

Radimir’s mouth twitches. “He’ll know you’re coming.”

I rub my thumb along the edge of my desk. Then I exhale and press the intercom. “Andrea,” I say. “You can come back in.”

There’s a pause before her brief, “Yes, sir.”

A moment later, the door creaks open and Andrea steps inside, her tablet still hugged to her chest like a shield. Her heels click against the polished floor, quieter than usual. Her face is pale, her expression composed, but only barely.

“I’m sorry about the interruption,” I say, rising from my chair. “You handled it well.”

She blinks at me as if she wasn’t expecting that. Most days I’m not in the habit of apologizing. Today is an exception.

“They breezed right past security,” she says softly. “I didn’t even know who they were. But everyone saw them.”

I nod. “I’m sure they did.”

“Based on the Slack channel, everyone is a little shaken.”

Of course they are. My employees are civilians. They’re programmers, analysts, recruiters, all buttoned-up professionals. Most of them have probably never seen a weapon outside of a movie screen.

“I’ll handle it,” I say. “You can get back to work.”

Downstairs, the elevator doors open to a low murmur of voices. It’s not the usual productive hum of a tech company mid-morning. It’s clipped and nervous, the sound of people who are trying not to seem panicked. The glass-walled lobby buzzes with a tight, uneasy energy.

I scan the space. Most of the programmers are still at their desks, but every cluster has someone whispering. Others hover nearthe breakroom and copy machines. Eyes flick toward the hallway where the Vasiliev men must have entered. No one is working.

Of course they aren’t. They’re scared. And most of them don’t even know why.

I step out onto the work floor and immediately the air shifts again. My presence has always quieted a room. I don’t like to talk unless it’s necessary, and when I do, I expect every word to land.

I let my eyes sweep the floor. A few of the managers straighten at the sight of me.

“I’m sorry for any disturbance those men may have caused earlier,” I say smoothly. “They were part of a security training assessment. They were instructed to observe how our employees react to unexpected conditions. They were not supposed to be carrying visible firearms, and for that, I am very sorry.”

Eyebrows shoot up, but no one questions me.

“They’ve been reprimanded,” I continue. “I can assure you all it won’t happen again. Now, please get back to work.”

The mood of the floor seems to shift, and by the time I reach the center of the office, I’ve delivered enough of a performance to put the story in place. It’ll hold. Just in case, I text Andrea to keep an eye on the company chat for the rest of the day.

When I look up, I see Lyra standing near the kitchenette, a small circle of women gathered around her. Their faces are pale, their expressions tight, and at least two have red-rimmed eyes. One of them wrings her hands. Another looks like she hasn’t blinked in several minutes. Lyra stands with her back to me, her voice low and steady, her hands moving gently as she speaks.

She’s calming them.

The others are nodding, slowly at first, then with more confidence. One of them even laughs. The others smile weakly, grateful. Lyra just keeps talking, her posture relaxed, her tone patient.

She’s better at this than most of my PR team.

I move toward them, my footsteps silent on the polished floor. As I approach, I catch the last bit of what she’s saying.

“Trust me, compared to some of the creeps I used to serve at Maison Royale, they were golden retrievers.”

More laughter. Another woman touches Lyra’s arm lightly, then turns to go. One by one, they break off, returning to their desks. She’s put them all at ease with just a few words, and it’s only her first day.

She turns and sees me. For a moment, her eyes widen, but she doesn’t flinch. She just watches me.

Her hair is half-pinned today, loose curls escaping around her face. Her blouse is crisp, tucked perfectly into a dark skirt that ends just above the knee. She looks extremely professional and in control.

I step closer, letting the space between us shrink. Close enough that I can see the faint line where her lipstick wore off from biting her lip. So not as in control as she’d like her co-workers to think.