My Russian CEO

Chapter Three: Kenzie

"He's gorgeous. Please tell me he's gorgeous."

Olivia's face filled my laptop screen, her blonde hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, a glass of wine in her hand even though it was barely noon in Seattle. I'd called her the moment I'd gotten back to my apartment, needing to hear a familiar voice, needing to process the chaos of my first day.

The apartment was small but clean, furnished with the basics. My roommate—a British girl named Emma who worked in marketing—was out for the evening, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my laptop and the strange feeling that my life had just shifted in a direction I couldn't quite predict.

"Liv, that's not the point—"

"Oh my god, he IS gorgeous. I can see it on your face. Kenzie Morrison, you have a crush on your boss!"

"I do not," I protested, but I could feel my cheeks heating, could hear the lie in my own voice. "He's just... intense. And yes, objectively attractive, but he's also terrifying and old enough to be my father and my BOSS, so it doesn't matter."

"How old?"

"Forty-five."

Olivia whistled low. "Silver fox territory. Does he have the gray hair at the temples? Please tell me he has the gray hair at the temples."

"You're not helping."

"I'm not trying to help. I'm trying to live vicariously through you because my life is boring and you're in Moscow working for a hot Russian billionaire. This is literally the plot of every romance novel I've ever read."

I laughed despite myself, some of the tension draining from my shoulders. This was what I'd needed—Olivia's irreverence, her ability to make everything seem less serious, less overwhelming. We'd been friends since freshman year of college, had lived together for three years, had survived breakups and finals and hangovers together.

"It's not a romance novel," I said firmly. "It's a job. A really good job that I'm not going to screw up by developing inappropriate feelings for my boss."

"Inappropriate feelings," Olivia repeated, grinning. "So you admit you have feelings."

"I admit nothing. I'm jet-lagged and overwhelmed and he's just... a lot. That's all."

"Uh-huh. What does he look like? Paint me a picture. I need details."

I sighed, but found myself describing him anyway, the words tumbling out. "Tall. Really tall, like six-three or six-four. Broad shoulders. Dark hair with gray at the temples—yes, Liv, the gray hair. Sharp features, like someone carved them out of granite. Pale gray eyes that look like they can see right through you. He moves like... I don't know, like a predator or something. Everything about him is controlled and precise and intense. And his voice..." I trailed off, remembering the way it had made my spine straighten, the way it had sounded speaking Russian.

"And you're attracted to him."

"And I'm not going to do anything about it," I corrected. "Even if I was, which I'm not admitting, he's my boss. There are about a thousand reasons why that would be a terrible idea."

"Name three."

"Power imbalance. Age difference. The fact that I literally just got out of a relationship where I was cheated on and clearly have terrible judgment when it comes to men."

Olivia's expression softened, her playfulness fading. "Kenz, what Alexander did wasn't your fault. He's a piece of s**t who couldn't keep his d**k in his pants. That doesn't mean you have bad judgment."

"I dated him for two years and never saw it coming," I said, my voice going flat. The memory still stung—coming home early from my shift at the coffee shop, hearing sounds from our bedroom, opening the door to find Alexander and Jessica, our roommate, tangled together in sheets I'd washed that morning. "I trusted him. I believed him every time he said he was working late or going out with the guys. I was so f*****g stupid."

"You weren't stupid. You were trusting. There's a difference."

"Is there?" I rubbed my eyes, suddenly exhausted. "I just... I can't do this again, Liv. I can't fall for someone who has power over me, who could destroy me if things go wrong. I need this job. I need to prove I can do this, that I'm not just some naive girl who makes terrible decisions."

"Then prove it," Olivia said simply. "Do your job, be professional, and if your boss happens to be hot, well, there's no law against looking. Just don't touch."

"Exactly."

"But if he makes a move—"

"He won't."

"But if he does—"

"Olivia."

"I'm just saying, if a gorgeous Russian billionaire wanted to ravish me, I wouldn't say no. Life's too short to always play it safe."

"Says the woman who's never had her heart broken."

"Fair point," Olivia conceded. "But Kenz, you can't let what Alexander did control the rest of your life. You're in Moscow. You're working for a powerful, attractive man. You're starting over. Maybe that means being careful, but it doesn't mean shutting yourself off completely."

"I'm not shutting myself off. I'm being smart."

"You're being scared."

The words hit harder than I wanted to admit. "Maybe I have a right to be scared."

"Maybe you do," Olivia said gently. "But promise me you'll at least think about it. If something happens, if he's interested, don't automatically say no just because you're afraid. Okay?"

"Nothing's going to happen."

"But if it does?"

I sighed. "If it does, I'll think about it. That's all I'm promising."

"Good enough. Now tell me about Moscow. Is it as cold as everyone says?"

I let her change the subject, grateful for the reprieve. We talked for another hour about the city, the apartment, the strange experience of being somewhere so foreign and yet oddly familiar because of my grandmother's stories.

But after we hung up, I sat in the darkness of my small room, staring at the ceiling, and couldn't stop thinking about Ivan.

About the way he'd looked at me.

About the way my body had responded to his proximity.

About the way his voice had sounded speaking Russian, commanding and dark.

*This is a bad idea,* I told myself. *He's your boss. He's too old. You're too vulnerable.*

But I couldn't shake the memory of those pale gray eyes, or the way they'd tracked me when he thought I wasn't looking.

---

The next two weeks fell into a rhythm that was exhausting but exhilarating. Ivan hadn't been exaggerating about his schedule—he worked constantly, often starting before dawn and going until late at night. I learned to anticipate his needs, to have his coffee ready before he asked, to know which calls he'd take and which he'd defer, to read his moods in the set of his shoulders or the tone of his voice.

He was demanding but not cruel, exacting but fair. When I made mistakes—and I did, especially in those first few days—he corrected me sharply but didn't belabor the point. When I did well, he acknowledged it with a brief nod or a "*khorosho*" (good) that felt like high praise.

I was learning the business too, absorbing information about energy markets and real estate development and technology investments. Ivan didn't shield me from the complexity of his work; instead, he seemed to expect me to keep up, to understand the context of every meeting and call. He'd switch between English and Russian mid-sentence, testing me, and I found myself rising to the challenge.

It was the most challenging thing I'd ever done.

It was also the most alive I'd felt in years.

But there was something else, something I tried not to think about but couldn't quite ignore.

The awareness.

It was always there, humming beneath the surface of every interaction. The way my pulse jumped when he walked into a room. The way I was hyperconscious of his proximity when he leaned over my desk to look at something on my screen, his cologne filling my senses. The way his voice did something to my spine when he spoke Russian, the words rolling off his tongue in a way that made me think of dark rooms and tangled sheets.

I told myself it was just biology, just my body responding to an objectively attractive man. It didn't mean anything. I wasn't going to act on it.

But then there were moments that made me wonder if I was imagining things.

The way his hand would linger on my shoulder when he passed my desk, his touch burning through the fabric of my blouse.

The way his eyes would track me when he thought I wasn't looking, that pale gray gaze following my movements with an intensity that made my breath catch.

The way he'd asked me to stay late one evening, ostensibly to finish a report, but then had barely spoken to me, just worked in silence while I sat across from him, the tension in the room so thick I could barely breathe.

Once, I'd caught him staring at me, and when our eyes met, he hadn't looked away. Just held my gaze with that predatory intensity until I'd been the one to break contact, my cheeks burning.

I was probably imagining it. He was Russian, and maybe they were just more physical here, more comfortable with casual touch. And he was intense with everyone, not just me.

But sometimes, when his eyes met mine and held just a beat too long, I wasn't so sure.

---

It was a Friday afternoon, two weeks into my tenure, when everything shifted.

I was at my desk, reviewing Ivan's schedule for the following week, when I heard voices from his office. The door was slightly ajar, and I recognized Ivan's voice, speaking Russian.

"—*net u menya vremeni na eto, Sergei.*" (I don't have time for this, Sergei.)

"*Ty dolzhen nayti vremya. Kogda ty v posledniy raz delal chto-to, chto ne bylo rabotoy?*" (You need to make time. When was the last time you did anything that wasn't work?)

I shouldn't have been listening. I turned back to my computer, trying to focus on the calendar, but the voices carried.

"*Ya zanyat.*" (I'm busy.)

"*Ty vsegda zanyat. Poydem segodnya vecherom. Vypivka, uzhin, mozhet byt', naydem kompaniyu—*" (You're always busy. Come out tonight. Drinks, dinner, maybe we'll find some company—)

"*Mne ne interesno.*" (I'm not interested.)

"*Ne interesno v zhenshchinakh? S kakikh por?*" (Not interested in women? Since when?)

There was a pause, and then Ivan's voice, lower, more controlled: "*S tekh por, kak ya nanyal assistentku, kotoraya delayet vsekh drugikh zhenshchin skuchnymi.*" (Since I hired an assistant who makes every other woman seem boring.)

My heart stopped.

"*Ah,*" Sergei said, and I could hear the amusement in his voice. "*Amerikanskaya devushka. Svetlana upominala o ney. Krasivaya?*" (The American girl. Svetlana mentioned her. Pretty?)

"*Eto ne otnositsya k delu.*" (That's irrelevant.)

"*Znachit, da. I ty khochesh' yeye.*" (So yes. And you want her.)

"*To, chto ya khochu, ne otnositsya k delu. Ona rabotayet na menya.*" (What I want is irrelevant. She works for me.)

"*S kakikh por eto tebya ostanovilo?*" (Since when has that stopped you?)

"*S etogo momenta. Ona moloda, Sergei. Ona uyazvima. I ona khorosha v svoyey rabote. Ya ne sobiraюs' vse eto razrushit', potomu chto—*" (Since now. She's young, Sergei. She's vulnerable. And she's good at her job. I'm not going to f**k that up because—)

He stopped abruptly, and I realized too late that I'd frozen, my hands hovering over my keyboard, my breath caught in my throat.

The door opened fully, and Ivan stood there, his eyes finding mine immediately.

He knew I'd heard.

For a long moment, we just looked at each other. I should have said something, should have pretended I hadn't been listening, should have done anything other than sit there like a deer in headlights.

But I couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stare at him while my heart hammered against my ribs and heat flooded my face.

"Kenzie," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Come in here, please."

It wasn't a request.

I stood on shaking legs and walked into his office. Sergei was there, leaning against Ivan's desk with a knowing smirk on his face. He was almost as tall as Ivan, built like a boxer, with dark hair and sharp features that would have been handsome if not for the scar that cut through his left eyebrow. He looked dangerous, the kind of man you didn't want to meet in a dark alley.

"*Vot ona, ta, chto sozdayet vse problemy,*" Sergei said in Russian, his eyes moving over me with frank appreciation. "*Ya vizhu, pochemu.*" (So you're the one causing all the trouble. I can see why.)

"Sergei," Ivan said, his voice carrying a warning.

"*Chto? Ya prosto govoryu—*" (What? I'm just saying—)

"*Vykhodи.*" (Out.)

Sergei laughed, pushing off the desk. "*Khorosho, khorosho. Ya ostavlyu vas dlya vashey... professional'noy diskussii.*" (Fine, fine. I'll leave you to your... professional discussion.) He winked at me as he passed, and I felt my face burn hotter.

Then he was gone, and it was just Ivan and me, alone in his office with the door closed and the weight of what I'd overheard hanging between us.

"How much did you hear?" Ivan asked.

I could have lied. Should have lied. But something in his eyes—that intensity, that directness—made me tell the truth.

"Enough."

He nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. Then he moved to the windows, his back to me, his hands in his pockets. The late afternoon sun cast his profile in sharp relief, all angles and shadows.

"I apologize," he said. "That was inappropriate. It won't happen again."

"Mr. Volkov—"

"Ivan." He turned to face me. "When we're alone, you can call me Ivan."

The intimacy of it made my breath catch. "Ivan," I repeated, and his name felt strange on my tongue, too familiar, too personal. "You don't need to apologize. I shouldn't have been listening."

"You were at your desk. I should have been more careful." He took a step toward me, and I fought the urge to step back. "But since you did hear, we should address it."

"We don't have to—"

"Yes, we do." Another step. He was close now, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something expensive and subtle. "I'm attracted to you, Kenzie. I have been since you walked into my office two weeks ago. But you work for me, and that creates a power dynamic that makes any kind of personal relationship inappropriate."

I should have agreed. Should have nodded and backed away and reinforced those professional boundaries.

Instead, I heard myself say, "What if I'm attracted to you too?"

The words hung in the air between us, and I immediately wanted to take them back. But it was too late. They were out there, and Ivan's eyes had darkened, his jaw tightening.

"Are you?" His voice was rough, lower than I'd ever heard it.

I should have lied. Should have laughed it off, made a joke, done anything to defuse the tension that was crackling between us like electricity.

But I was so tired of lying. Tired of pretending. Tired of being careful.

"Yes," I whispered.

He moved so fast I didn't have time to react. One moment he was standing three feet away, the next his hand was cupping my jaw, tilting my face up to his, his thumb brushing across my lower lip.

"This is a mistake," he said, but he was leaning in, his breath warm against my mouth.

"Probably," I agreed, and then his lips were on mine.

The kiss was nothing like I'd expected. Not gentle, not tentative. It was consuming, demanding, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that made my knees weak. His other hand came to my waist, pulling me against him, and I gasped at the contact, at the solid wall of his chest, at the heat of him.

I'd been kissed before. But never like this. Never with this intensity, this certainty, like he was staking a claim, like he was branding me.

My hands found his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his suit, and I kissed him back with everything I had, all the tension of the past two weeks pouring out of me.

His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine. I made a sound I didn't recognize, something between a whimper and a moan, and felt him smile against my mouth.

Then, abruptly, he pulled back.

We stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other. His hand was still on my waist, mine still gripping his shoulders. His lips were slightly swollen, his eyes dark with desire.

"*Blyat,*" he said quietly. (Fuck.)

"Yeah," I agreed, my voice shaky.

He released me, stepping back, running a hand through his hair. "This can't happen."

"I know."

"You work for me."

"I know."

"If anyone found out—"

"I know, Ivan."

He looked at me, and I saw the war in his eyes—desire versus control, want versus responsibility.

"Go home," he said finally. "It's late. We'll... we'll discuss this on Monday."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me at the door.

"Kenzie."

I looked back.

"I meant what I said. Every other woman is boring compared to you."

Then he turned back to the window, dismissing me, and I fled.