Page 7 of Forbidden Boss

I hesitate. The thought of walking out, of slamming the door behind me and never having to see his cold blue eyes again, is intoxicating.

“I can’t just quit, Susie. This is Levcon. It’s everything I worked for.”

“And you’ll find somewhere else that’s even better if you have to. You’re too good not to.”

I press my forehead against my palm, torn between anger and despair. “I don’t know if I can work for him. Every time I look at him, all I can think about is…” My voice trails off as the memory of his mouth on mine, his hands gripping my hips, surges up uninvited.

Susie snorts. “Honestly, I’m jealous. But he’s right about one thing, Mari. It was just sex. He made it clear he doesn’t care, so why should you?”

“Because it’s humiliating,” I snap, then sigh. “Because I feel like an idiot for letting it happen. And now I have to sit in meetings with him and pretend it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Then do exactly that.” Her tone sharpens, full of the practical certainty she uses at the hospital when everything is chaos. “Pretend it wasn’t a big deal. Ignore him. Or better yet, show him he’s not the only one worth noticing. Find another hot guy in the office, flirt a little, remind yourself that you have options. That’ll drive him crazy.”

I laugh weakly, shaking my head. “He wouldn’t care,” I protest.

“Men like him always care. They just won’t admit it. You want to get back at him? Show him what he’ll never have again.”

I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. The idea is tempting, but I’m not here to play games. I’m here to work, to prove myself, to finally step into the career I’ve dreamed of.

Lev doesn’t get to take this from me. He doesn’t get to make me feel small in the very place I fought so hard to reach.

“You really think I should stay?” I ask softly.

“Absolutely. You’re stronger than this, Mari. You’ve been through worse. Don’t let some arrogant jerk scare you off. If anyone can handle him, it’s you.”

I close my eyes, letting her words sink in. She’s right. Walking away would be easy, but it would also be giving up. And I have never given up before. Not when my parents died, not when I had to work my way through school, not when my grandmother passed and left me on my own. I clawed my way to this point, and I’m not about to let Lev Borikov be the reason I turn back.

4

LEV

I’m usually good at compartmentalizing my life. There’s business, there’s the Bratva, and there are women who blur the edges when I let them. But Mari refuses to stay in the box I put her in.

It’s been days since she first walked into my office, and I still can’t shake her. I told myself she’s just another employee, another body behind a desk pushing numbers. She is utterly replaceable. Yet every time I catch sight of her through the glass wall, something in me tightens.

She works with her head down, deliberate and methodical, with the kind of focus I respect. But she undercuts it with small, thoughtless gestures that tear through my control. Like the way she chews her bottom lip when she concentrates. The way she brushes her hair back, only for it to fall forward again minutes later. How her brows draw together whenever she finds something that won’t reconcile.

I’ve had more women than I care to count but the memory of her body tangled with mine that night keeps coming back to me, unbidden and relentless. Out of nowhere, I remember theway she gasped against my mouth, the way she opened for me without hesitation, the way her skin burned under my hands. It should have been forgettable. Yet the memory clings to me like cellophane.

My employees are starting to notice my distraction. In meetings, I catch myself drifting. My eyes skip past spreadsheets and graphs, pulled instead to the faint outline of her in her office across the floor. I force myself back to focus, only to realize the silence has stretched too long and that I’ve missed half a sentence. Their eyes flicker, uncertain.

I correct it the way I always do, with a sharp edge. I tear apart proposals that would have passed on any other day. I cut men down with words cold enough to sting for weeks. They think I’m ruthless. They think I’m distracted by work. I’m happy to let them believe that.

Better that than the truth.

When she brings me her first report, all neat columns and careful notes, I could tell her it’s solid. I could give her the rare approval I offer when someone actually meets my standards. Instead, I flip through it with a frown, tell her it’s not good enough, and order her to redo it by morning. Her eyes spark with anger, quick and hot, but she swallows it and nods.

An hour later, I call her back into my office on a pretext so thin it barely holds. She stands in front of me again, shoulders stiff, voice clipped, and all I can think about is how those same shoulders had pressed into the mattress when I pinned her down. I ask questions I don’t need answered just to keep her in the room.

It becomes a cycle. I push her harder than anyone else, then I find excuses to summon her back when she’s been gone too long. I tell myself I’m testing her, that I need to know if she can withstand pressure. That’s a lie. The truth is simpler. I want her near me. I want to watch the small cracks in her composure, to see if I can break past that professionalism into something raw.

I built my life on discipline. I control everything. Nothing touches me unless I allow it. However, she has slipped through my grip, and the more I try to lock it down, the more my control slips.

One night, I stay late, the building quiet, my lamp the only light left on the executive floor. She’s still in her office, bent over a stack of statements, her blazer hanging off the chair. Her blouse clings to the curve of her back, her hair falling forward as she scribbles notes. I tell myself to leave, to walk out and let her stay alone in that square of lamplight. Instead, I send a message through my assistant, summoning her one more time.

She comes with tired eyes but steady hands, sets another report on my desk, and explains her process with calm precision. I don’t look at the numbers. I look at her. The faint smudge beneath her eye. The indentation on her finger from the pen she gripped too tightly. The soft rise and fall of her chest as she draws a breath. None of it is my business. All of it feels like mine.

“Eat before you go home,” I say.