My Russian CEO

Chapter Two: Ivan

She was nervous.

I could see it in the way she held herself—spine too straight, shoulders too tense, hands clasped in her lap like she was afraid they might betray her. But she was trying to hide it, and I respected that. Weakness I could tolerate. Cowardice I could not.

Kenzie Morrison was not what I'd expected.

Her resume had been impressive—top marks, relevant experience, fluent Russian. But resumes told you nothing about the person. I'd interviewed dozens of candidates over the past month, all qualified, all professional. All boring. Women who looked at me and saw dollar signs, or men who were too intimidated to meet my eyes. None of them had that spark, that quality I couldn't quite define but knew I needed in someone who would be working so closely with me.

Then Svetlana had flagged this application. "American girl," she'd said, setting the file on my desk with that knowing look she got when she thought she'd found something interesting. "Young, but something about her... I think you should see her."

I'd been skeptical. Americans were often too casual, too familiar. They didn't understand the hierarchies that governed business here, the unspoken rules. They smiled too much, asked too many personal questions, expected friendship where there should be professional distance. But Svetlana's instincts were rarely wrong—she'd been with me since the beginning, had helped me build this empire from nothing—so I'd agreed to a video interview.

Even through the screen, I'd seen it—that spark of intelligence in her eyes, the way she held herself despite obvious nerves. And when she'd spoken Russian, her accent carrying the faint echo of an older generation, proper and formal in a way that suggested real education rather than language apps, I'd made my decision.

Now, watching her sit in my office, I wondered if I'd made a mistake.

Not because she was incompetent. In the three hours since she'd arrived, she'd proven herself capable—quick to learn, attentive, asking smart questions when appropriate and staying silent when not. She'd sat through two conference calls and a meeting with my legal team, taking notes in a neat, efficient hand, her face betraying nothing even when the conversation had turned heated and Dmitri had started shouting about contract terms.

No, the problem was something else entirely.

The problem was that I couldn't stop looking at her.

She wasn't beautiful in the conventional sense. Not like the models and socialites who threw themselves at me at every charity gala, all sharp cheekbones and surgical perfection, their beauty cold and calculated. Not like Irina, who I'd been seeing casually for the past few months—tall, blonde, stunning, and utterly forgettable the moment she left my bed.

Kenzie was... real. Soft curves beneath that ill-fitting suit that was trying too hard to be professional and failing. Honey-brown hair pulled back in a style that was meant to be severe but instead drew attention to the graceful line of her neck. A face that was more interesting than pretty—wide eyes the color of whiskey, full mouth that looked like it smiled easily when she wasn't trying so hard to be professional, a stubborn chin that suggested she had more spine than her nervousness indicated.

But there was something about her that pulled at me. Maybe it was the contrast—the nervousness she was trying to hide beneath that professional mask, the way her hands trembled slightly when she handed me documents. Maybe it was the flash of defiance I'd seen when I'd mentioned her working in coffee shops, the brief tightening of her jaw that said she had pride, that she wasn't going to be looked down on.

Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe it was the way she'd looked at me when she'd first walked in—that moment of pure, unguarded reaction before she'd gotten herself under control. I'd seen it in her eyes, in the slight parting of her lips, in the way her breath had caught.

Attraction.

She'd felt it too, that pull. And then she'd shut it down, locked it away behind professionalism and propriety.

That, more than anything, intrigued me.

I'd built my empire by reading people, by seeing what they wanted and using it. Kenzie wanted this job desperately—that much was obvious. But she also wanted me, even if she was trying to pretend she didn't.

The question was what I was going to do about it.

I'd never been one to deny myself what I wanted. Life was too short, and I'd clawed my way up from nothing to build this empire. I'd earned the right to take what I desired.

But Kenzie was different. She worked for me. She was young—twenty-three to my forty-five, young enough that the age gap should have given me pause. She was clearly running from something, vulnerable in ways she was trying to hide.

All excellent reasons to keep my distance.

And yet.

"Mr. Volkov?"

I looked up from the contract I'd been pretending to read. Kenzie stood in the doorway of my office, tablet in hand. It was nearly six, and Svetlana had left an hour ago. Most of the floor was empty, the city lights beginning to glow in the gathering darkness outside my windows.

"Yes?"

"I've compiled the notes from today's meetings and sent them to your email. Is there anything else you need before I leave?"

I leaned back in my chair, studying her. She looked tired—there were shadows under her eyes, and her shoulders had lost some of that rigid tension, replaced by simple exhaustion. Jet lag, probably, combined with the stress of a first day. Her hair had started to come loose from its bun, a few strands framing her face in a way that made her look younger, more vulnerable.

"Sit," I said, gesturing to the chair across from my desk.

She hesitated, just for a second, then obeyed. Good. I liked obedience, even when it came with that flash of uncertainty in her eyes.

"Your first day," I said. "Impressions?"

"It's been... informative," she said carefully, her voice neutral.

"That's not an answer."

Her eyes met mine, and I saw a flash of something—irritation, maybe. Good. I wanted to see what was beneath that professional mask. "It's been intense. You work at a pace that's... demanding. But I think I can keep up."

"You think?"

"I know I can," she corrected, and there was steel in her voice now, that stubborn chin lifting slightly. "I wouldn't have taken the job if I didn't believe I could do it."

I felt my mouth curve—not quite a smile, but close. "*Khorosho.*" (Good.) "Confidence is important. False modesty wastes time."

She nodded, but didn't speak. Waiting. Smart girl. She was learning already that I didn't like unnecessary chatter, that silence was often more valuable than words.

"You'll be working late hours," I said, switching back to English. "I don't keep conventional schedules. Sometimes I'll need you at six in the morning. Sometimes at midnight. Is that going to be a problem?"

"No, sir."

"Your living situation is settled?"

"Yes. I'm sharing an apartment with a friend in—"

"Arbat district," I finished. "I know. It's in your file."

Something flickered across her face. Surprise, maybe, or unease at the reminder that I knew things about her, that I'd looked into her background before hiring her. That I knew she'd been working three jobs to pay off student loans, that her credit score was mediocre, that she'd broken a lease early in Seattle six weeks ago.

"The apartment is adequate?" I asked.

"It's perfect. Thank you for the housing stipend. It made the move possible."

"You left someone behind. In Seattle."

It wasn't a question, but she answered anyway. "My best friend, Olivia. But she's actually moving here next month. She got a job teaching English."

"And a boyfriend? Husband?"

I watched her face carefully as I asked it, saw the way her expression shuttered, the brief tightening around her eyes, the way her hands clenched slightly in her lap.

"No," she said, her voice flat. "No one."

There was a story there. Pain, recent enough to still sting. Someone had hurt her, and badly. I filed it away, another piece of the puzzle that was Kenzie Morrison.

"Good," I said. "Relationships are distracting. This job requires focus."

"I understand."

We sat in silence for a moment. Outside the windows, Moscow was lighting up, the city transforming into a constellation of lights against the darkness. Kenzie's eyes drifted to the view, and I saw her face soften slightly, some of that professional mask slipping. Wonder replaced wariness, and for a moment she looked younger, more open.

"It's beautiful," she said quietly, almost to herself.

"You've never been to Russia before?"

"No. My grandmother used to tell me stories, but..." She trailed off, then seemed to catch herself, straightening. "I should go. Unless there's something else?"

There were a thousand things I could have asked her. I wanted to know what had put that hurt in her eyes, what had driven her to flee across the world, what she thought about when she let her guard down. I wanted to know if she felt it too—this pull, this awareness that hummed in the air between us like electricity.

Instead, I said, "That's all. Be here at seven tomorrow."

She stood, smoothing her skirt. "Yes, sir. Good night."

"Kenzie."

She paused at the door, looking back.

"You did well today."

The smile that crossed her face was brief but genuine, and it transformed her—made her luminous, made me want to see it again. Then it was gone, and she was slipping out the door, leaving me alone in my office with the city lights and the memory of that smile.

I turned back to my computer, pulling up her file again. Twenty-three years old. Fresh out of university. Running from something—a man, probably, given that reaction when I'd asked about relationships.

I should have hired someone older, more experienced. Someone who wouldn't make me think about things I had no business thinking about. Someone who wouldn't make me wonder what she'd look like with that hair down, that professional mask stripped away, those wide eyes dark with desire.

But I hadn't.

And as I sat there in the darkness, I acknowledged what I'd known from the moment she'd walked into my office: I wanted her.

Not just professionally. Not just as an assistant who could keep up with my demands and manage my schedule.

I wanted her in my bed, beneath me, crying out my name in that voice that carried just a hint of her grandmother's accent. I wanted to strip away that cheap suit and discover what she was hiding underneath. I wanted to make her forget whatever bastard had put that hurt in her eyes.

It was inappropriate. She worked for me. She was young enough to be my daughter, if I'd been careless in my youth. She was clearly damaged by something, vulnerable in ways she was trying to hide.

All excellent reasons to keep my distance, to maintain strict professionalism, to treat her exactly as I would any other employee.

But I'd never been good at denying myself what I wanted.

And I wanted Kenzie Morrison.

The question was how long I'd wait before taking her.