A universe where Vincent Akopov would see past the quiet marketing associate who blends into the wallpaper and notice the real me instead.

The elevator dings as it mercifully descends below the thirtieth floor. It's like the journey I took to get here, but played backwards. Déjà vu all over again, but in reverse.

By the time the elevator kisses the ground, I do what I've always done: left the hope behind me.

It's safer than asking what if.

3

VINCE

The door clicks shut. I step away from Vanessa.

"Did you hear something a minute ago?" she asks, adjusting her skirt back down and shimmying her panties back up her legs.

"No."

But that's a fucking lie.

I heard something alright. Saw something. Winked at something before I even knew what I was doing.

It's not my damn fault, though. Something about that girl just drew it out of me. What a fucking irony-buried to the hilt in one woman and a second one takes me by surprise.

But I can't stop thinking about those wide, startled eyes. Her soft Oh. Cheeks flushing crimson, the black sliver of her open mouth as she gawked at me while Van here put on a porn star performance.

Christ, my head hurts from her screaming.

"You should go," I tell her coldly.

Vanessa winces like I struck her. "Was I not⁠-?"

"Don't make this a whole thing." I crack my neck from side to side and adjust the knot in my tie. "You've done good work here, but it's time for you to explore new grounds. You'll be transferred to the CFO's desk. He'll take care of you."

Just like that, her face crumples in horror. "Wait, no! Did I not⁠-"

"Thank you, Ms. Bowman. Safe travels."

I'll forget her name the moment she's gone. But it's for the best that way. Keep them anonymous, keep them meaningless, keep them always with one foot out the door.

Because if you don't care about anything, then nothing can hurt you.

It's for the best.

She wants to cry; fuck knows I've been around enough crying women to see all the signs. The trembling lips, the red-rimmed eyes. Her lipstick is smeared halfway up her cheek.

But then her mouth flattens into an enraged slash. I know what's coming next even before she says it.

"You're an⁠-!"

"-asshole," I finish. "Yes. I know. That is by design." I point toward the door. "Thank you for your service, Vanessa. It's time for you to go now."

Only then does she finally listen. Not happily. Not pleasantly. But she does listen.

Even she knows where the lines are drawn.

As soon as Vanessa leaves, I sit at my desk and pull up the company directory on my computer. I didn't get a good look at the intruder's badge, but I know she came to deliver quarterly reports. Which places her in marketing or finance, most likely.

I scroll through employee photos, searching for those startled doe eyes.

No...

Not that one...

Not her...

There.

Rowan St. Clair. Marketing Associate. Five years with Akopov Industries.

"Rowan," I say aloud, testing the name on my tongue.

I click through to her employee file. Nothing remarkable at first glance. Bachelor's degree in Marketing and Design from Generic State University. Consistent if unremarkable performance reviews-above-average, but never outstanding enough to fast-track for promotion.

I lean back in my chair, intrigued.

Well, that's not quite true. I'm intrigued by the fact that, on the surface, this girl is so utterly unintriguing⁠-

-and yet I can't stop picturing her face.

Oh. Fuck, that single syllable she whispered was a more delicious sound than anything Vanessa ever whined or screamed or moaned.

Oh. Like Rowan had never seen someone fuck before.

Oh. Like she wanted to find out how it feels for herself.

"Let's see what else you're hiding, Ms. St. Clair."

Technically speaking, I'm not supposed to access the HR files. But when your last name is on the building, certain rules become... flexible. A few keystrokes later, and I've got everything I could ever want splayed out before me.

What I find makes me sit up straighter.

Health insurance claims. Lots of them. Not for Rowan, but for a dependent-her mother.

Cancer treatments. Expensive ones.

I dig deeper.

Student loans still not paid off. A modest apartment in the sleazy part of town where ambition goes to die. No savings to speak of.

"Interesting."

I pull up her social media. It's almost nonexistent. A barely-used Instagram with photos of coffee and dog-eared books. No exotic vacations or wild parties.

An image forms in my mind: a woman trapped by circumstance. Working to survive, not to thrive.

An opportunity.

I recognize that hunger. It's what drove my father when he first came to America with nothing but ambition and a suitcase full of dreams.

My phone buzzes. Speak of the devil-it's Andrei himself.

"Father," I answer.

"Still at the office?" he asks in Russian, his accent drenched with snow and vodka even after thirty years in the States.

"Just finishing up."

I chuckle to myself at the little joke. Vanessa "finished up" three times. Even now, I can see her silhouette through the frosted glass of my office window. She keeps peeking over her shoulder like she's wondering if I'm as smitten with her as she is with me.

I'm not, of course. I can't afford to be. In a few short months, my father will step down from his role as the CEO of Akopov Industries.

Then it'll be my turn at the helm.

That's all well and good. But it's not the promotion I'm most excited for.

It's when Andrei hands me his other crown that I'll truly be salivating at everything that's finally mine.

That coronation will take place in the dark. It won't make any headlines. No news station will breathlessly cover the transition of power. No Wall Street motherfucker in a Loro Piana suit will speculate about what it means for the company's stock price.