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𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗘 𝗪𝗛𝗢 𝗗𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗦 𝗠𝗢𝗗𝗘𝗟𝗦 𝗖𝗔𝗡’𝗧 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗣 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗔𝗧 𝗬𝗢𝗨 "𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱, 𝗠𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗥𝗲𝗲𝘀𝗲." Sasha Orlov doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. When a man like him speaks, the world goes silent. Of course I’m distracted. I'm running on three hours of sleep, stale coffee, and the kind of sleep deprivation that makes you wonder if you're hallucinating. My brain feels like it's been replaced with soggy cereal. And it's all his fault. Mr. Perfect over there probably sleeps like a baby on Egyptian cotton and the crushed dreams of his employees. Meanwhile, I'm one minor inconvenience away from having a breakdown in the supply closet. Across the polished mahogany table, he flips through my report with maddening calm. Those hands move like they know exactly how much pressure it takes to make something break. Everything about Sasha Orlov screams power wrapped in Tom Ford. He's tall, dark, and devastating. Silver threaded through dark hair in a way that makes him look distinguished instead of old. Sharp jawline. Storm-gray eyes that have seen too much and miss nothing. “𝗗𝗼 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻?” "𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆, 𝗠𝗿. 𝗢𝗿𝗹𝗼𝘃," I say, channeling every ounce of fake enthusiasm I can muster. It’s barely six in the morning. Pale winter light bleeds across the office. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Chicago stretches awake. Meanwhile, I’m trapped in what feels like a Russian billionaire’s interrogation chamber. To be fair, I wasn’t paying attention. I was daydreaming about "accidentally" dumping his precious black coffee down that crisp white shirt, watching it stain his billionaire perfection in payback for every sleepless night and ruined weekend he’s demanded. “𝗚𝗼𝗼𝗱. 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗻𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁, 𝗠𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗥𝗲𝗲𝘀𝗲. 𝗜 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗽𝗮𝘆 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘂𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗻𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘀.” Heat crawls up my neck. I spent the last three nights building that model, eyes burning holes in spreadsheets. Fourteen hours of my life condensed into a twelve-page document he's been holding for exactly forty seconds. “𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗹𝗹 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗳𝗶𝗰, 𝗠𝗿. 𝗢𝗿𝗹𝗼𝘃.” His obsidian eyes flick to mine. They do not blink. "𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗷𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻." "𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗻𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘄𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘅𝗶𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗹𝘃𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗴𝗲𝘀." The words slip out before my sleep-deprived brain can stop them. Shit. That was out loud, wasn't it? He studies me for one measured beat. As if I am not just his strategist, but an investment he is deciding whether to liquidate. "𝗜𝘁'𝘀 𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲." His finger taps the page once. "𝗬𝗼𝘂'𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀." "𝗖𝗮𝗹𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗽𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘃𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗱," I counter. "𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝘂𝘀𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘂𝗽𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗻𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲." His jaw tightens. Just once. A flicker. A fracture in marble. Then it’s gone. But I saw it. And God help me, I'd give anything to crack that perfect control wide open. His gaze drifts back to the report. Not dismissive. Not impressed. Evaluating. “𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲,” he says, voice lower now, measured, “𝗶𝘀 𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗴𝘁𝗵 𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲.” The words settle between us. Three years I’ve worked for the devil himself. Three years of midnight revisions, canceled dates, and missing the season finale of The Bachelor because spreadsheets don’t watch themselves. Three years of proving I belong in rooms built for men who inherited their last names instead of earning them. Men who were handed power. I built mine from scratch. And I'll be damned if I let some silver-fox Russian billionaire make me doubt myself now. Silence builds. He shifts, the expensive fabric pulling taut across muscle that has no business existing on a CEO. The scent of cedar and gunmetal drifts toward me. It's obscene, really. No man should look that good while simultaneously ruining my life. It should be illegal. There should be laws. Meanwhile, my navy trousers are waging war against hips that refuse to apologize for existing. Off the rack and on clearance. Optimistically labeled "modern fit," which is corporate speak for designed by someone who has never encountered an actual adult woman. Curves that laugh at corporate dress codes and make older board members blink twice. My hips are not subtle. They never have been. And they are mine. I've made peace with my body. Mostly. I sit straighter, smoothing the folder in front of me. The movement shifts my blouse against my chest, fabric pulling slightly. His eyes flick down. Just for a beat. But I catch it. My pulse stutters. Oh. Oh no. Was he checking me out? Absolutely not. We are not doing this. Except his pupils just dilated. And his jaw just ticked. And I'm suddenly very aware of how warm this office is. How the air between us feels charged. Stop. You're exhausted. You're hallucinating. The women Sasha dates live on green juice and emotional unavailability. Stick-thin. Effortless. Minimalist chic. Women who look poured into couture without trying. Not women who take up space and refuse to apologize for it. So no. That glance was not interest. It was observation. Nothing more. Focus, Gabriella. This tyrant doesn't tolerate distraction. I lift my chin. "𝗔𝘀 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘀𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗷𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗱. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗸 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗸𝗲𝘁 𝘃𝗼𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗲𝘃𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲," I say with way more confidence than I feel. Something shifts in his expression. One eyebrow arches, slow and lethal. There it is. The look that sends grown men scrambling for transfers. The look that should make me stop talking. Instead, I hold his stare. I didn't claw my way out of four foster homes to flinch now. He leans back. Studies me like I'm a puzzle he's deciding whether to solve or destroy. "𝗧𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝗲, 𝗠𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗥𝗲𝗲𝘀𝗲." His voice drops an octave. "𝗗𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗴𝗲 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘆? 𝗢𝗿 𝗮𝗺 𝗜 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝗹?" ❤️ Read Dirty Business, Forbidden Office Romance. Now Available on Kindle Unlimited! → https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GP5X1ZKJ ★★★★★ "Completely addictive in the best way." -RxReads, Goodreads Review​ ★★★★★ “The chemistry between these two was off the charts.” -Goodreads ​★★★★★ "A gripping romance filled with mystery, intrigue, drama, a secret twist." -Korkoi, Goodreads Review​ Perfect for fans of: ✔️ Forbidden Office Romance ✔️ Morally Gray Silver Fox ✔️ Curvy Girl / Body Worship ✔️ Possessive "Touch Her and Die" Alpha