Page 101 of Auctioned to My Bratva Boss

I ducked my head quickly, hiding that stupid grin before the camera caught it. But before I could compose myself, my phone lit up again.

"You look better when you smile. Don't hide it."

I glared up at the camera. I should rip the damn thing out!

This man could scramble my heartbeat through a cold screen.

I flipped my phone face-down on the desk, forcing myself to focus.

My new desk was massive and expensive-looking. The surface was spotless, and in the most prominent spot sat a neat stack of sketches.

I recognized them. My design drafts from when I'd worked as Matvey's assistant. After Veronica kicked me back to my cubicle, I'd left in such a rush I'd abandoned everything. I'd assumed they'd been shredded.

But here they were. On my desk.

I picked them up, stunned. Every single sketch was pristine—not a wrinkle or bent corner.

I flipped through them slowly, my heart tightening like someone had wrapped gentle fingers around it.

He'd kept them. During those days when he'd had to treat me coldly, even kick me out of his office, he'd secretly preserved my work.

He'd treasured these like they mattered.

He'd never let me go. Not once.

Otherwise they wouldn't be here, perfect and waiting.

My eyes stung.

"You stubborn bastard," I muttered, warmth flooding my chest.

I pulled out a necklace design and picked up my pen, bending over it with focus.

This was what I loved. My dream.

No matter how many times life knocked me down, I'd never given it up.

The pen scratched across paper as lines and concepts that had lived only in my head took shape—clear, tangible, real.

I hadn't felt this way in so long.

So long I'd almost forgotten what that girl who'd come to New York chasing her design dreams even looked like.

Matvey had given me back the power to be her again.

Even though in a few months, I'd be a mother of two.

I lost track of time. When I finally straightened my aching back and stretched, morning had turned to noon outside the windows.

I'd just rolled my shoulders to start the next sketch when a knock came at the door.

"Come in." The words barely left my mouth before Miranda entered with a tray, moving carefully.

"Director Quinn," she set a steaming glass of milk beside me, her posture deferential. "This is... Mr. Bykov specifically instructed me to bring this to you. He said you always forget to drink water when you're sketching."

I wrapped my fingers around the warm glass, pausing.

The CEO specifically instructed.