Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)

It was a mistake to fuck her.

I was working under the assumption that sleeping with Emma would get her out of my system. We’d have regular sex, it would eventually get boring, and then I’d terminate our contract. She’d get a fat severance package and I’d be able to walk away without a care in the world.

What I didn’t count on was her tunneling her way into my subconscious.

I go to bed thinking about our next meeting. I wake up horny from dreams of her. I spend most of my day trying not to look at her too long or too intensely.

It’s fucking ridiculous is what it is. I need to get my head on straight. And I’ve decided that the best way to do that is to make plans for lunch or dinner with a different woman every day for a week until this resolves itself.

It serves the dual purpose of keeping me distracted as well as keeping Emma in her place—which is preferably right beneath me. Naked and spread-eagled.

But since that can’t happen any time between the hours of nine and five, this is a better remedy. She doesn’t get to question me about who I have lunch with and I don’t need to feel guilty about welcoming a different woman into my office each day.

Sure enough, there’s no guilt when I look at the name on my calendar today.

But the dread is real.

“Mr. Oryolov?”

I keep my gaze fixed on my phone. The angelic white blouse that Emma is wearing today is giving me “preacher’s daughter” vibes and I’ve already wasted most of the morning imagining her on her knees in front of me, begging to be corrupted.

“Yes?”

“Jessica Allens has just arrived.”

I can’t help my sneer. Jessica fucking Allens. Trust fund heiress. Socialite diva. Daddy’s girl. An all-around goddamned nightmare.

Sometimes, I wonder why I put myself through the indignity of her company. Then I remember: her daddy’s not just rich; he’s important. Hiram Allens is the city’s newly appointed police commissioner, and for a man with my variety of irons in the fire, that’s a connection I can’t afford to pass up.

“Send her in.” I’m forced to look up when Emma stays where she is. “Was there something else?”

Judging from the vein throbbing on Emma’s forehead, there most certainly is.

“She asked me to get her a finger bowl because, and I quote—” Emma’s face screws up in a haughty expression that’s all nose and chin—“she ‘doesn’t like to use public restrooms.’”

I press my lips together in a hard line to keep myself from smiling.

“And she asked me to get her some weird tea thing that I’ve never heard of. Gu-yusu… something or the other. I told her we didn’t have that on hand, and she responded by dropping her fur coat and heavy bag right on my desk. Like she’s in The Devil Wears Prada.”

I raise my brow. “Is that a euphemism?”

She snorts with laughter but manages to rein herself in fast. Her cheeks are flushed a delicate shade of pink. Of course, that might also be infuriation and rage—pretty common symptoms to have after spending any length of time with the resident princess-bitch of New York.

“It’s a movie.”

I glance back at my phone for no reason. But it’s necessary that I look busy whenever Emma is in the room. It helps me avoid any prolonged eye contact.

“There’s some salted sakura tea in the director’s lounge. She can make do with that.”

“Doubtful,” Emma mutters darkly.

“She’s difficult,” I agree.

“Then why are you having lunch with her?”

There’s nothing ostensibly possessive about that question, but it rubs me the wrong way regardless. “I’m not sure I need to justify my lunch dates to my assistant, Ms. Carson.”

She stiffens instantly and, just like that, the vein in her forehead is back. “Right. I’ll just let her in then. Have a wonderful lunch.”

I suppose I deserve that snark.

Seconds after Emma exits, Jessica enters. She looks like she’s going to a fancy cocktail party. Her genetically-engineered body is squeezed into a velvet bandage dress and her makeup is so thick that it almost manages to hide all the plastic surgery she’s done to her face.

“Ruslan, darling!” She walks gracefully for a woman in six-inch heels. “You get more and more handsome every time I see you.”

My gaze slides to the door, then back to her Botoxed forehead. Pretty sure if I were to facepalm her, she wouldn’t feel a thing.

I walk her over to the stainless steel table in the neighboring alcove and pull a chair out for her. We spend a good fifteen minutes talking about her damned acrylic nails before Emma shows up with the tea.

“Here you go, Ms. Allens.”

Jessica scrunches up her nose. “No guayusa?”

“We’re fresh out, Ms. Allens.”

“Disappointing.”

The vein seems to have taken up permanent residence on Emma’s forehead. But apart from that little tell, her face gives nothing away. “If that’s all, then…”

She’s backing away from the table when Jessica snaps her fingers. “Hold on. Where did you put my coat and bag?”

“They’re on my desk, Ms. Allens. Exactly where you dum—left them.”

Jessica is not even looking at Emma when she speaks. “That coat is worth more than your entire apartment. Make sure it’s looked after.”

Emma’s jaw clenches. Now that Jessica is looking away, she lets her professional mask slide right off. If looks could kill, Jessica would be a smoldering pile of ash.

I can’t say I’d mind.

The moment the door shuts, Jessica rolls her eyes. “What a ditz, huh? Finding good help is so hard these days.”

Something inside my chest roars to life. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s accompanied by a very specific thought: No one insults my woman.

On the heels of that thought is pure fucking terror.

What the fuck? My woman?

“Ahem! Ruslan? Where’d you go, handsome?”

I blink away the little red spots that are honestly a welcome distraction from Jessica’s face and do my damned best to appear like I’m actually happy to see her.

We spend the next hour flitting from one mundane subject to the next. The only consistent thing about the conversation is the fact that she bookends each topic with the mention of a friend who’s getting married or about to get married; a friend who’s pregnant or trying to get pregnant.

I keep my phone close the whole time, but try as I might, some of the stupid bullshit she’s spewing still manages to slip through.

“… don’t you think?”

Since I’ve completely missed her question, I fall back on my tried-and-true default. “Hm.”

Her eyebrows hitch up with excitement. “I knew it. It’s the broody, silent ones that are big teddy bears on the inside.”

Okay. So maybe it’s not a foolproof response. “Come again?”

“It would be a terrible shame if you didn’t have children, Ruslan. I mean, look at that jawline of yours! Those genes need to be passed on!”

I nip that shit in the bud immediately. One: I’m not the fatherly type. Two: I have no idea what this woman’s children would actually look like; shit, I’ve forgotten what she used to look like. And three: the thought of procreating with her just made me violently sick to my stomach.

“Children aren’t on my radar.”

“Oh.” Her face drops. “But—”

I make a show of glancing down at my Rolex. “It’s been a pleasure catching up, Jessica. But I have meetings to get to.”

“Oh. Okay. Shall we schedule another date soon? Maybe dinner next time?”

I nod. “I’ll have my assistant contact yours.”

I open the door for her and Jessica’s eyes veer straight to Emma. She makes a point of placing her hand on my chest, her eyelashes fluttering unnecessarily.

“Thanks for a mesmerizing lunch, handsome.” She leans in, her lips coming for mine. I turn my face deftly to the side and her kiss finds my cheek.

“Jessica.”

I step back into the safety of my office and close the door on her faltering smile.

Well, that was a fucking shitshow. But it did get me thinking.

Apparently, everyone has babies on the brain. Everyone except me. I need to make sure that I’m covered with Emma where that’s concerned. The contract has a detailed section on contraception that Emma signed, indicating she was on the pill. But that leaves the responsibility squarely in her hands.

I thought I was comfortable with it at the time, but the more I think about it, the more I want to take back some control. Condoms aren’t my favorite thing, but I’m willing to wear them if they’ll prevent an unwanted pregnancy with my secretary.

It’s alarming how fast the image rushes to the forefront of my mind. Emma, wearing a blouse similar to the one she’s wearing today—except that it billows over her stomach to accommodate the child she’s carrying. My child.

No.

That’s just the caveman in me talking. I don’t even want a child. I certainly don’t want one with Emma.

No matter how much my dick is suddenly obsessed with the idea.