𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊

𝟖 | 𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐏

"𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝙒𝙃𝙊 𝐈𝐒 here?" I demand.

Esmeralda runs her fingers through her faux curls and bows over the back of her chair, having just entered my office to deliver striking news. She's wearing her usual blood-red blouse and a tight, black mini-skirt on her hips. Her short legs, paired with her favorite six-inch heels, spread over the arm of the chair in my direction.      

I lean back in my chair, pressing two fingers to my temple. I wait for her to say something more, but she continues playing with her hair and effectively ignores me. My intrigue for my guest ties with my hatred for the guessing game my life has morphed into.

"Esmeralda," I say harshly.

"Don't patronize me, Beauie," she pouts.

"Then answer me," I request, ignoring her stupid nickname.

Esmeralda sighs and falls out of the chair, standing tall in her shoes. She closes the space between us and smooths her hands to the front of my desk. Her red lips curl in excitement, and I already know that I've entered uncharted territory for the both of us.

"Why so interested?"

"Because you just said Ivan Petrov is in my boardroom."

"I did, didn't I?" she giggles.

"What does he want?"

Esmeralda shrugs her shoulders, feigning knowledge, and rounds my desk, planting her ass to it. Her legs intertwine with mine, but I keep my eyes on her face. Whenever Esmeralda is in a playful mood, she often wants to be close to her prey. I know, just from her expression, that I have become it precisely because of Ivan Petrov's relations.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she teases my collar.

"Yes, I would," I grit my teeth. 

"Maybe if I tell you, you'll finally realize how off you've been since the ball."

"I have not been off."

"Baby, you're so off, I don't know if you'll ever be on again."

I stand up and cut off her physical touch, wounding her, I know, and move toward the window behind me. Esmeralda remains in her spot, her arms crossed over her chest as I mutely mull over her words. There was a moment at the ball, but it did not change the trajectory of my life—it had no appeal on my business or my personal—

I stop.

I'm lying.

"Quit brooding," Esmeralda says behind me.

"I'm not brooding, I'm thinking."

"Well, stop it—that's dangerous."

I shoot her a glare over my shoulder, but she's already peeled herself from my desk and is at the door, waiting for me to follow. Silently, I exhale a huff of annoyance under my breath and slide on the façade my father spent his life teaching me. As I pass Esmeralda, and as she closes the door behind us, customarily following me into the meeting, she whispers one determining thing.