The Late Night Demand

NORA

"Do I have your full attention, Ms. Mercer?"

The sharp, uncompromising baritone of his voice slices through the quiet hum of the thirtieth-floor HVAC system. I blink, swallowing hard as reality crashes back down around me.

Viktor Volkov is glowering. It is not because I have committed some fireable offense in the last ten seconds. It is just his resting expression whenever I am in his line of sight. Honestly, it is the look he reserves for the human race in general. I often wonder if he is the walking, breathing manifestation of that old warning mothers give their children: if you keep making that sour face, it will freeze that way.

Only, his face is not sour. It is lethal.

To be fair, his current irritation is justified. He just caught me zoning out, trapped in a vivid mental sequence where I snatched the heavy, brushed-steel stapler off his immaculate mahogany desk and drove it right through his beautiful, arrogant lips. In the fantasy, once I secured his mouth shut, I shoved him backward. I watched him shatter the floor-to-ceiling glass of his pristine Vanguard Industries corner office, plummeting thirty stories down to the merciless concrete below.

He would deserve the fall. He brought this murderous daydream upon himself.

Exhaustion is a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders, crushing my spine. I have been catering to his endless, impossible whims since the sun broke over the city skyline. I dragged myself through the sliding glass doors of Vanguard Industries at the crack of dawn. Since then, I have not enjoyed ten consecutive seconds of peace. I have not stopped moving, typing, scheduling, or fetching.

Now, the digital clock on his desk flashes 8:58 P.M. I am running on fumes. Without the ungodly amount of espresso currently pumping through my veins, I would simply disintegrate into dust and blow out the air vents.

Even with the caffeine masking my fatigue, my nerves are frayed. Inside my head, I am screaming at my past self for buying these stilettos. They were on clearance, a half size too small, and I thought I could tough it out. Now, the arches of my feet are staging a bloody, agonizing rebellion. Every nerve ending below my ankles begs for mercy.

Viktor stands on the opposite side of the desk, looking like he just strolled out of a GQ cover shoot. It borders on offensive. He has been working the exact same grueling hours, running this empire like a soulless machine, yet he shows zero signs of wear. His tailored charcoal suit is immaculate, clinging to his broad shoulders without a single wrinkle. His jaw is shaded by a dark, rugged five o'clock shadow that only makes him look more dangerous. The scorching amber of his eyes hasn't dimmed a single watt since this morning.

"Ms. Mercer. I asked you a question." The chill in his tone drops the temperature of the room.

"Uh, yes," I stammer, shaking my head to clear the fog. I straighten my posture, ignoring the shooting pain in my heels. "Yes, you have my attention."

I look down at the glowing screen of my tablet, clearing my throat before the silence stretches too far. I need to be flawless. One slip up means another round of his quiet, devastating reprimands.

"The litigation release needs to go to Colin in Legal first thing in the morning," I recite, keeping my voice brisk and professional. "New chairs have been requested for the boardroom on Floor Seventeen, and I will check on the delivery dates with procurement. I am moving your 2:00 P.M. to your 11:30, moving your 11:30 to your 7:15, moving your 7:15 to next Thursday." I take a shallow breath, holding his gaze. "And I am telling next Thursday's meeting attendees to—and I quote—'eat shit and die.' Did I miss anything?"

Viktor arches one dark, unfair brow. It is a signature move. If I could harvest those expressive eyebrows and paste them onto my own forehead to intimidate people, I would do it in a heartbeat. They do half the threatening for him without a single syllable leaving his throat.

"I detect a tone," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave.

I immediately lock my facial muscles into a mask of polite indifference. "No, sir. No tone. You specifically requested 'no snark' after the lunch salad debacle last month. I would not forget your rule."

"Hm."

That is it. A single sound. A low, rumbling vibration in his chest. But coming from the infamous Mr. Volkov, CEO of Vanguard Industries, that one syllable is a weapon of mass destruction. It makes grown men sweat through their custom suits. It makes seasoned executives dissolve into nervous wrecks.

I witnessed its destructive power firsthand. Not long after I started this nightmare of a job, a microchip supplier came into the boardroom. They provided the core tech for Vanguard's flagship home security system. The supplier thought he held the leverage. He stood at the head of the table, puffed out his chest, and tried to strong-arm Viktor into a higher price point.

When the idiot finished his sweaty, aggressive pitch, Viktor did not yell. He did not slam his fists. He simply leaned back, lofted that exact same eyebrow, and said, "Hm."

The supplier folded. The man actually started shaking. The tremors got so bad his knees gave out, and security had to roll him out of the conference room in a leather desk chair like it was a makeshift ambulance gurney.

He was not the first casualty of Viktor's icy dominance, and he certainly won't be the last. Viktor has pushed me to the edge of tears and dragged me back over the cliff more times than I can count over the last eighteen months.

Before I took this job, the warnings were loud and clear. Human Resources looked at me with genuine pity during my onboarding. They told me his last three personal assistants set records for short tenures. They lasted six months, four months, and two weeks, respectively. They all ran for the hills. The running joke in the breakroom is that the two-week girl is still checked into an in-patient psychiatric facility somewhere up in Vermont, staring at a white wall and whispering his name.

Every warning was accurate. Surviving under Viktor Volkov's relentless scrutiny is a daily war. The shifts start in the dark and end in the dark. The environment is harsh, unforgiving, and moves at a breakneck speed. The man does not know how to form the word "please" and "thank you" is a foreign concept his brain refuses to process.

Yet, I am still sitting in this chair. I endure the blistering demands and the soul-crushing hours for one singular reason: I have no other choice.

Actually, that is a lie. I have three reasons.

Their names are Jace, Chloe, and Riley.

I break eye contact with Viktor and glance down at my phone resting on my lap. I tap the screen. The lock screen flares to life, and three smiling faces stare back at me, instantly grounding my frayed nerves.

Little Riley is front and center. She is five years old and just lost her top front tooth. In the photo, she is pushing her tongue through the fresh gap, looking like a tiny, triumphant dork. Beside her is Chloe. She just turned six, but she poses like she belongs on a runway. She already practices her subtle smiles and chin-tucked angles. She is going to shatter hearts the second she hits high school.

Then there is Jace. He is eight, the oldest of the trio, but looking at his face breaks something inside me every time. He has the eyes of an old man trapped in a little boy's body. There is a chill in his gaze, a haunted shadow that lingers just beneath his forced smile. He carries a stony, rigid sense of responsibility that should never belong to a kid who hasn't even hit puberty yet.

But losing your mother will do that to a kid.

I know that pain intimately. Losing my sister did the exact same thing to me.

My brain automatically crunches the terrible numbers. Today is March 9th. Tessa died in a horrific accident in September, three years ago.

Three years, six months, and four days.

That is how long it has been since I smelled her perfume. Since I heard her wild, fearless laugh echoing through an apartment.

Three years, six months, and four days since my identity shattered and rebuilt itself overnight. One day, I was the fun, irresponsible aunt who brought too much candy on weekends. The next morning, I was a mother to three grieving, terrified children.

Three years, six months, and four days since my life became a desperate scramble to keep a roof over their heads. I need this Vanguard paycheck. I need the premium health insurance. I need the bonuses. I will swallow Viktor's arrogance and freeze my emotions because failing those three kids is not an option.

Movement pulls my attention away from the glowing screen. Viktor stands up to his full, towering height. He casually shoots his cuffs, adjusting the expensive fabric at his wrists. Every movement he makes is fluid, predatory, and effortless. He cracks his knuckles. Then he tilts his head, cracking his neck. His amber eyes never leave mine. He watches me process the shift in his posture.

I force my hands to stay still in my lap. I focus on the rhythm of my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

I assumed eighteen months of his tyrannical behavior would cure this stupid, secret infatuation I harbor for him. I assumed working in the trenches with a nightmare boss would kill the physical attraction.

I was wrong.

If anything, the proximity makes it worse. He is even more breathtakingly intimidating now than the very first day I walked into his office.

The memory of that first meeting still burns my cheeks. I remember stepping off the elevator, rounding the corner, and stopping dead in my tracks. I stared at him like a drooling lunatic. My brain short-circuited. I couldn't comprehend that this man—this towering, sculpted god in a bespoke suit—was the mastermind behind the largest home security enterprise on the planet. I thought someone had planted a Hollywood body double in the CEO's chair as a prank.

Viktor had looked up from his monitors, sweeping his gaze over my cheap skirt and shaking hands. He didn't offer a greeting. He didn't ask my name.

He just leaned forward and asked, "Are you going to make my life easier or harder, Ms. Mercer? If it is the latter, do not even bother setting your bag down. Just turn back to the elevators while you still can."

That cold, brutal efficiency set the boundaries of our dynamic forever.

"I am leaving," Viktor announces, snapping me back to the present. "Make sure the folders are set out on the long table for the department head meeting in the morning."

He rounds the heavy desk and strides toward the door. His path brings him close to my chair. Too close. My heart kicks against my ribs as the space between us shrinks. Then, the scent hits me. His signature cologne. Today, it is deep, woodsy, and layered with a smoky, crisp finish. It wraps around my senses, intoxicating and heavy, making my pulse race despite the sheer exhaustion dragging me down.

"Yes, sir," I croak. My voice sounds thinner than paper.

He reaches the glass door but pauses, his hand hovering over the metal handle.

"Oh," he adds, his tone casual, like he is asking for a glass of water. "I also need my tuxedo brought to the penthouse on 48th. Tonight."

My lungs freeze. The words echo in the silent office. Tonight?

"Tonight?" I balk, panic surging up my throat. "But I have to—"

He does not wait for the rest of my sentence. He does not care about my boundaries or my time. He simply pushes the door open and swishes out into the dim hallway. He doesn't bother throwing a single backward glance in my direction.

The heavy glass door swings shut behind him with a soft, final click. I am left sitting in the pristine, oppressive silence of the thirtieth floor. The only proof he was ever standing there is the trailing tendrils of his woodsy cologne lingering in the air, mocking me as I realize exactly what I have to do.