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“Fine,” I say. “It’s just warm in here. I’ll see you later, Kir.”

Then I get the hell out of there before another Lazarev man tries to ruin my life.

46

RAE

LE BERNARDIN — PRIVATE DINING

Reservation: Lazarev, L.

Date: Friday, 12 December 2025 | 8:00 PM

Guests: 14

A week and a half later, I’m ready to jump off the roof.

Kir has reclaimed me with a vengeance. Whatever truce existed between us on that rooftop, whatever fragile understanding I thought we’d reached, it’s been incinerated.

He now has a grudge against things like “Rae getting enough sleep” and “Rae consuming sufficient calories to maintain proper brain function.”

LGSII—that’s the “Lazarev Global Strategic Innovation Initiative,” for those following along at home—has become my personal torture chamber. Kir has me running point on half a dozen workstreams, all of which require deliverables that seem to multiply overnight like the world’s horniest rabbits.Every morning brings a fresh avalanche of urgent emails. Every evening stretches into late nights and many frustrated tears.

After racking up a hundred-plus hours since my return from France, it’s now Friday—I think. I’m staring at a spreadsheet that has begun to pulse and breathe like a living organism. The cells are definitely moving, crawling across the screen in little fluorescent ripples.

The coffee in my mug went cold hours ago, but I drink it anyway, grimacing at the bitter dregs. It’s my fourth cup today. Or maybe my fifth? I dunno. Numbers have stopped meaning things.

Across the open-plan floor, the other initiative members have long since packed up and gone home. Their desks sit dark and empty, monitors sleeping peacefully.

Must be nice.

I drag my attention back to the report I’m supposed to have finished by—I glance at the deadline in Kir’s email to confirm—yeah,yesterday.

Excellent. Fantastic. Love that for me.

The worst part isn’t even the workload; it’s that Lukas has been completely absent. According to the rumor mill, he’s been traveling. Moscow, apparently. Or maybe London. The gossip varies depending on who’s doing the gossiping.

Not that I care. Obviously. I’m far too busy being slowly murdered by pivot tables to spare a single thought for the man who fingered me in a conference room and then vanished like a ghost.

My eyes drift closed. Just for a second. Just to rest them.

And maybe just to remember for a moment how unbelievably good it felt to gush all over Lukas Lazarev’s hand…

When I jerk awake, my cheek is pressed against my keyboard and I’ve filled in roughly eleven thousand Excel rows with the letter R.

I sit up, wiping drool from the corner of my mouth. The clock in the corner of my monitor reads 7:41 P.M.

I so badly want to tell Kir to kick rocks. Anything is better than devoting the best years of my life to this meaningless nonsense.

But then I hear motion at the elevators. When I look to see who it is, I start to wonder if maybe that “meaningless nonsense” wasn’t better than this alternative.

I have to blink again to make sure I’m seeing correctly. But no, it’s him—Lukas, striding toward me, appearing like the biggest shadow there ever was.

His suit jacket is charcoal, double-breasted, viciously sharp at the lapel. Square cufflinks wink gold to match his watch and his hair looks ghostly white.

He stops at my desk. “Get your things,” he says without preamble. “You’re coming with me.”

I squint at him, still half-asleep and definitely hallucinating. “I’m sorry, what?”