Chapter 1
EUDORA
The towering glass facade of Stepanov Enterprises cuts through the Manhattan skyline like a blade, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces that seem to watch me as I approach. I smooth my blazer for the third time since stepping off the subway, hyperaware of every tiny imperfection—the loose thread near my left cuff, the scuff on my secondhand heels, the way my blouse gaps slightly between buttons because I’ve lost weight from skipping too many meals.
Professional but approachable, I remind myself, checking my reflection in the building’s glass doors. You belong here. You deserve this.
The lies taste bitter, but I force them down. Three months of rejections have taught me that confidence is a performance, even when your stomach is eating itself from nerves and unpaid bills.
My phone buzzes as I step into the marble lobby.
Eira: You’ve got this, babe! Remember—you’re brilliant, qualified, and they’d be lucky to have you. Text me after! ❤️
A smile tugs at my lips despite everything. Eira has been my anchor since we were kids, the sister I chose rather than the one I was born with. She’s believed in me even when I couldn’t believe in myself—especially after everything that happened with the Stepanovs.
I still can’t believe I applied here. For months, I told myself I’d never step into their world again. But rejection after rejection leaves you desperate, and when I saw the listing for an entry-level accounting position—something generic, safely buried in their corporate structure where I’d never have to see him or his father—I swallowed my pride and hit submit.
The irony isn’t lost on me that I only met Vlad because I was helping Eira deal with her father’s debts. Back then, the Stepanov name was just a signature on paperwork, a faceless entity that held our lives in its hands. I never imagined I’d end up dating the heir to whatever empire they’d built.
Don’t think about Vlad, I tell myself firmly. This is about survival, not the past.
The receptionist is a vision in designer everything—blonde hair that probably costs more than my rent, makeup applied with surgical precision. She looks up from her computer with the kind of smile that never reaches the eyes.
“Eudora Thompson?”
“That’s me.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“Perfect timing. They’re ready for you.” She gestures toward a bank of elevators. “Forty-second floor, conference room A.”
The elevator ride feels endless. I check my reflection one more time in the polished steel doors, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. Entry-level accounting, I remind myself. HR interview. Basic questions about spreadsheets and data entry. Nothing complicated.
The doors slide open to reveal a hallway lined with floor-to-ceiling windows and abstract art that probably costs more than most people’s houses. Conference room A sits at the end, its glass walls offering a glimpse of Manhattan stretched out like a kingdom below.
I knock twice before a voice—deep, commanding, achingly familiar—tells me to enter.
The office is a study in controlled power. Dark wood, leather that probably costs more than my car, and windows that make the city look small and conquerable. Behind an enormous desk sits a man reading documents, his dark hair streaked with silver at the temples.
“Please, sit.” He doesn’t look up, but that voice... God, that voice makes my stomach clench with recognition I refuse to acknowledge.
I sink into the chair across from him, hands clasped so tightly in my lap my knuckles turn white. He’s still reading, or pretending to read, and the silence stretches until it becomes a weapon.
Finally—finally—he lifts his head.
The world tilts.
Aleksandr Stepanov. Vlad’s father. The man who looked at me like I was something he’d scraped off his shoe every time I dared to exist in his son’s presence. The man whose cold disapproval followed me through my relationship with Vlad like a shadow I could never escape.
He hasn’t changed much in three years. Still devastatingly handsome in that sharp, dangerous way that makes smart women do stupid things. Still looking at me like I’m a stain on his perfectly ordered world.
My throat feels like sandpaper. “Aleksadr…Mr. Stepanov.” I quickly correct myself after one brow raise from him. “I... I didn’t know you would be conducting the interview.”
“How is it of relevance if I am conducting the interviews, Miss Thompson?”
The way he says my name—like it tastes bitter—makes me want to shrink into my chair. But I’ve spent three years learning how to hold my ground, even when everything inside me screams to run.
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” I say, lifting my chin.
He leans back in his chair, those pale green eyes studying me with the intensity of a predator sizing up prey.
“Your qualifications. Yes, let’s discuss those.” He picks up what I assume is my resume. “Accounting degree from NYU. Adequate GPA. Several part-time jobs—waitressing, I see.” His gaze flicks back to me. “And of course, your... previous experience with the Stepanov family.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “That was a long time ago.”
“Three years, two months, and sixteen days.” The precision in his voice makes my skin prickle.
“Why are you—” I start, then catch myself. This is a job interview, not whatever twisted game he’s playing. “I’m here because I’m qualified for this position. My personal history shouldn’t factor into your decision.”
He steeples his fingers, watching me in silence for a beat too long. The weight of his stare burns through me, making it impossible to stay still.
“I forgot to mention—” He pauses, savoring the moment. “The position you applied for no longer exists.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. “What do you mean it no longer exists? The posting was active yesterday—”
“Company restructuring,” he says with a casual shrug that suggests he’s discussing the weather rather than destroying my life. “These things happen.”
I feel myself swaying slightly, gripping the back of the chair in front of me for support. Three months of job hunting, depleted savings, my mother’s medication costs climbing every month—and this bastard is sitting there like my desperation is amusing.
“However,” he continues, and something in his tone makes my skin prickle with warning, “I do have another position available. Personal assistant. Direct reporting to me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple, really.” He stands, moving around the desk with predatory grace. “The salary is considerably higher—one hundred and twenty thousand annually, plus benefits. Full health coverage, dental, and vision. Company car. Three weeks paid vacation.”
My brain struggles to process the numbers. That’s more money than I’ve ever dreamed of making, enough to pay off my student loans, cover my mother’s medical expenses, maybe even save for the future I’ve been putting on hold.
“Why?” The word slips out before I can stop it.
Aleksandr tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “Why what?”
“Why would you offer me that position? We both know you...” I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “You never approved of me dating Vlad. You made that very clear.”
Something flickers across his expression—too quick to read, but it makes my pulse skip. “My son’s poor judgment in companions has nothing to do with your potential professional capabilities.”
The casual cruelty in his voice, the way he reduces my entire relationship with Vlad to a mistake, should hurt more than it does. Instead, I find myself focusing on the strangest detail: he called Vlad his son, not by name. Like even in private, there’s distance there.
“The position comes with a three-year contract,” he continues, returning to his chair. “Non-negotiable terms, including a substantial penalty for early termination. But I think you’ll find the compensation more than fair.”
Three years. Three years of working directly under Aleksandr Stepanov, of seeing his face every day, of being reminded constantly of everything that went wrong with Vlad. Three years of whatever game he’s playing now.
But also three years of financial security. Three years of not choosing between groceries and rent, of being able to help my mother without destroying myself in the process.
My hands are shaking as I reach for the pen he slides across the desk. This feels like signing my soul away to the devil, but what choice do I have? Pride doesn’t pay bills. Dignity doesn’t buy medication.
I sign my name with movements that feel disconnected from my body, like I’m watching someone else make this catastrophic decision.
“Excellent.” Aleksandr’s smile is sharp enough to cut glass. “You’ll start tomorrow at seven AM sharp. I’ll have everything you need prepared by then.”
I stand on shaking legs, smoothing my skirt with hands that refuse to steady. “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Stepanov. I won’t disappoint you.”
“See that you don’t.” He’s already reaching for his papers again, dismissing me like I’m nothing. “And Miss Thompson?”
I pause at the door. “Yes?”
When he looks up, there’s something dark and hungry in his expression that makes my pulse skip. “Welcome to the family business.”
