Page 1 of Babies for the Boss
1
MOLLY
My alarm goesoff at six thirty, which feels like a personal attack considering I distinctly remember falling asleep sometime after two.
For a few seconds, I lie there staring at the ceiling of my tiny Brooklyn apartment, trying to remember why I agreed to live a life that involves mornings at all. Then the memories line up like dominoes.
Pavel Strakov. His schedule. The meetings. The men who show up unannounced at strange hours and leave even stranger instructions behind.
I groan, roll over, and slap at my phone until the alarm stops screaming at me. When the screen lights up, three new notifications are already waiting. That is never a good sign.
The first message is from Igor:Running late. Traffic.
The second is from the building security desk.
The third is from an unknown number and simply reads:Delivery arrived.
I stare at the messages for a moment while my brain attempts to boot itself into working order. Working for the most intimidating man in New York has taught me many things, but the most important one is this: when the day starts with cryptic messages, it’s going to be interesting.
I drag myself out of bed and shuffle toward the kitchen, where I make coffee strong enough to qualify as a controlled substance. The quiet of my apartment feels temporary, like the calm before a storm that already has my name on it.
Most people in the city have heard rumors about Pavel Strakov. They say he owns half the docks along the Hudson. Politicians return his calls before their own wives. People who cross him tend to disappear in ways that make the police very tired and very confused.
I don’t know how many of those stories are true, and it’s better that way. What I do know is that he runs an empire that never sleeps, and somehow I ended up being the one responsible for keeping his life in order.
By the time I’m dressed—pencil skirt, blouse, heels, and enough concealer to hide the fact that I sleep about as much as a caffeinated raccoon—I’ve already begun mentally rearranging Pavel’s schedule. Eight a.m. meeting with a hedge fund manager who sweats when Pavel looks at him. Nine thirty conference call with lawyers who pretend they don’t know exactly what kind of work our “consulting firm” does. Eleven a.m., something that simply saysMeeting, which is Pavel’s subtle way of telling me not to ask questions I probably don’t want answered.
Despite the chaos, I like the job. I really do.
There’s a strange satisfaction in keeping up with Pavel Strakov. The man moves through the world like a hurricane in an expensive suit, and I’m the one responsible for making sure the storm arrives on time. It’s a challenge, and I’ve always liked challenges.
The only real problem is Pavel himself.
Tall. Controlled. Deeply handsome in the kind of quiet way that sneaks up on you. Silver trimmed hair, sharp eyes that miss absolutely nothing. A presence that makes powerful men straighten their backs when he enters a room. He rarely smiles. Or sleeps. When he speaks, it’s usually because whatever he says will become law within the next ten minutes.
Which means he is extremely off-limits.
I remind myself of that every morning on the subway ride into Manhattan. The rule is simple. Pavel Strakov is my boss. My terrifying, brilliant, completely unattainable boss. The line between us is professional and essential to my continued employment and survival.
The problem is that lately… he’s been watching me.
Not in a creepy way. But every once in a while I’ll glance up from my computer and find his eyes already on me, studying me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that refuses to behave. Each time it happens, he looks away almost immediately, as if the moment never existed.
Which is why I tell myself the same thing every time it happens.
The subway ride into Manhattan is crowded in the way only New York mornings can manage, a moving tin can full of people clutching coffee and glaring at their phones. I wedge myselfbetween a woman in a blazer that probably costs more than my rent and a guy who smells faintly like onions.
Not exactly the glamorous life I thought I’d have in the city, but I’ll get there one day.
By the time we reach Midtown, I’ve mentally reorganized Pavel’s entire day twice and answered three emails from my phone without actually looking down at the screen. Multitasking is a survival skill here. If you can’t juggle twelve problems before breakfast, you’re not going to make it in New York.
When I step out onto the sidewalk, the city is already awake and roaring. Yellow taxis cut through traffic like aggressive fish, construction workers shout over the noise of jackhammers, and the glass towers of Midtown reflect the pale morning sun like a thousand silent witnesses.
Somewhere inside one of those towers sits the office where my day will unfold. Specifically, the top floor of the building that Pavel purchased three years ago in a deal that somehow made three competing developers quietly disappear from the negotiation process.
I didn’t ask questions then, and I’m certainly not starting now.
The lobby security guard nods when I walk in, the way people do when they recognize someone who works for a man like Pavel. It’s not fear exactly, but it lives in the same neighborhood. “Morning, Miss Bennett,” he says as I approach the elevator bank.
