Page 34 of Scarred Angel

Thirteen

MAKSIM

“From this angle, you get a great view of the city. What do you think, Mr. Belov?”

My name drags me from my thoughts, and I shift my focus to the woman in front of me.

“I’m sorry—what was that?”

Her brows soften as she tucks a strand of platinum hair behind her ear, smiling with practiced ease. “The view. It’s like you’re on top of the world up here.”

I say nothing as I move past her toward the floor-to-ceiling glass. The city sprawls beneath me, in constant motion, endless noise, people moving like ants who believe they matter. From up here, none of it feels real. None of it feels enough.

Or maybe it’s because my mind is elsewhere.

It’s been two weeks since that night in my condo. Since I last saw her, touched her, breathed her in. Yet I can’t purge her from my thoughts. Valentina has burrowed into every nerve and every cell of my body. I gave her excuse after excuse of why I couldn’t swing by, couldn’t call. I’m fucking trying. But a man can only stretch so far before he breaks.

“Velikolepno, ne pravda li?”

“You speak Russian?” I ask, glancing at her as she joins me at the window.

“Caldwell is my husband’s last name…well, soon-to-be ex-husband,” she adds, shooting me a side-eye I don’t miss. “Orlova is my maiden name.”

I let out a shorthmph, the sound clipped and uninterested.

Silence stretches before she clears her throat.

“So, Simon tells me you traveled from Moscow just over a month ago. Will this be a permanent move for you? A satellite office during your stay?”

“Draw up the paperwork,” I say, ignoring her questions, my attention shifting back to the window. “This will work just fine.”

She exhales sharply, and I catch her nod in the glass’s reflection. “Very well, sir. I’ll have those over to you first thing in the morning.”

“Today,” I counter without looking at her. “No later than eight p.m.”

I start for the door, her heels snapping against the tile as she scrambles to keep pace.

“Maksim, that’s in two hours. I don’t think I can?—”

I stop so abruptly that she collides with me. My hands catch her shoulders before she can fall on her ass.

“What did you call me?”

“Um…Maksim—I mean, Mr. Belov. My apologies. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

Mrs. Caldwell is about my age—attractive, polished, efficient. Four weeks ago, I might’ve bent her against the glass, fucked her, and sent her home to her soon-to-be ex-husband with the taste of me still on her tongue.

But today is different.

“Eight p.m.,” I repeat, my voice tight, leaving no room for negotiation.

A flush creeps up her neck, and that’s when I realize I’m still gripping her arms.

“Got it,” she breathes, her bottom lip catching between her teeth.

I let go and push open the office suite door, heading straight for the elevator without another word.

My phone’s in my hand before I even realize it, thumbs moving faster than thought.