Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)

“It’s over. My life as I know it is over. R.I.P. to me.”

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Pheebs!”

She chuckles while I stare at my reflection in the mirror and try not to throw up. My phone is lying on the bathroom counter on speakerphone, mostly because my palms have been sweating since I saw the meeting invite in my calendar for today.

9:00 A.M. – 09:07:32 A.M.: Emma Carson 1-on-1 with Ruslan Oryolov.

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist. Anyway, rewind, take a deep breath, then tell me what’s going on in your big girl voice. Unburden yourself. Take all the time you need. Just make it quick because I have a 9 o’clock appointment.”

I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet now, the same way that Reagan does when she needs to pee really bad. “Yeah, so do I. With him.”

“Ah. Oh, wait—oh.”

I first called Phoebe last night right after realizing what I’d done. Her reaction was a dizzying mixture of pride and horror. I believe her exact words were, “Sure, it’s mortifying, but I’m glad you got your rocks off. Knew you had it in you.”

She’s a little more reassuring now that things are escalating out of control. “That doesn’t necessarily mean he heard the voicemail, Em. Maybe this is just a standard, no-big-deal, super-boring-business-stuff Thursday morning meeting.”

“It’s scheduled for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. Precisely.”

“Hm.” There’s a beat of silence. “Doesn’t look good, does it?”

“Seriously? That’s all you’ve got for me? I’m gonna lose my job, Phoebe!”

“You don’t know that for sure. Just take a deep breath and go in there, see what he wants. Play it cool, y’know?”

“And what if what he wants is to kick my ass to the curb with a recommendation letter that claims I’m a dirty whore with mediocre phone sex skills?”

“I mean, there’s probably a market for that.” I groan as Phoebe’s laughter fades into a serious tone. “Listen, boo: whatever happens, you’re a strong, smart, confident woman and you’re gonna land on your feet. And until you do, I’ve got your back.”

Her words mean everything to me, but I know that Phoebe doesn’t have much margin for error in her life, either. She struggles just as hard as I do. If she is able to help, it still wouldn’t put a dent in all the bills and loans looming over me.

“Thanks for the pep talk. I’ve gotta go to my doom now.”

“Keep your pecker up!”

I blink. “Huh?”

“Oklahoma talk. It means, like, ‘break a leg,’ but for Midwesterners.”

If I weren’t worried about losing my job and ending up homeless on the street with three kids, I’d laugh. Instead, I say one more miserable goodbye, then spend a solid three minutes dry-heaving into one of the empty bathroom stalls.

Once I’ve sufficiently bruised my stomach lining, I slink out of the bathroom and waste the remaining two minutes before the meeting standing outside of Ruslan’s door, watching the clock steal my life away one second at a time.

“You okay, Emma?” asks Katie Miller, another of the executive assistants on this floor, as she passes by.

“Dandy,” I mumble. “Just waiting for the noose.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. I like your earrings. Have a good day.”

She raises her brow a smidge. I’m not usually so dismissive, but I can’t concentrate on small talk right now. Not when I’m T-minus thirty seconds away from the end of my career.

Dear God, I know I don’t pray to you often. Or, well, ever. But please help me out today and I’ll definitely consider starting on a more semi-regular basis.

Great. Now, I’m bargaining with God. New low, Emma. New low.

I take a deep breath and walk into his office. The shades are tight, snuffing out all the light of the Manhattan morning beyond. It’s like a bear cave in here—and the grizzly in question is sitting at his desk, scrolling through his phone. He doesn’t acknowledge me until I’m standing in front of his desk.

“Sit.”

The moment my rear end is parked, he puts his phone down and looks at me. Just looks at me.

In the eighteen months that I’ve worked for him, he’s never once given me the benefit of his full attention. Even during our morning meetings, he’s either on his phone, flipping through files, or typing away on his laptop. I used to be annoyed about it. I’m only now realizing I should have been grateful.

Should I say something?

Maybe he wants me to break the silence. Maybe I’m supposed to give him an explanation, an apology, something. But the more the silence stretches on, the less I’m capable of breaking it.

I decide once again that those amber eyes of his should be outlawed.

“I heard the voicemail,” he says at last.

I can’t place his tone. Amusement? Anger? Disbelief?

“Do you have anything to say, Ms. Carson?”

I launch into the apology I spent most of last night practicing in the mirror. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Oryolov. I have no idea what I was thinking. The whole thing was an accident; I didn’t realize I’d dialed you. I was so tired and out of it and… I can assure you that it will never happen again. I swear.”

My cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, but I try to keep my voice steady. I can’t sound too desperate, although that’s exactly what I am.

“Tell me, Ms. Carson: what would you do in my place?”

“I would give the plucky, hard-working assistant another chance, maybe?” It’s a long shot, but I figure, what the hell? I just wish I’d asked it without my voice rising to an Alvin and the Chipmunks pipsqueak at the end.

His mouth twitches with the promise of a smile, but it’s gone as quick as it came. “I know what you sound like when you orgasm, Emma. Is that the soundtrack you want running through all our interactions from now on?”

Flushing the brightest of reds, I shake my head. “If we could maybe just forget this whole thing—”

“The way I see it, there are only two options here.”

I hold my breath.

“One, I fire you.”

There it is. I knew it. I’m done for. I’m going to need to call the welfare office and see what—

“Or two… I give you exactly what you want.”

I almost choke on my own saliva. What little is left in my gaping mouth. “W-what?”

Silently, Ruslan offers me the blue folder lying in front of him. I pick it up with shaky hands and open the cover. It takes me a few long moments to figure out what on earth I’m looking at.

A… contract?

I read through the first page, feeling a strange sensation bubble up in my chest. Then, since I’m clearly misunderstanding something, I read through the first page again. And again. And again.

Only then do I look up. “Is this a joke?”

He doesn’t blink. “I never joke.”

“It’s just that, it seems like, from what I read, um—”

“I will offer you money and security in exchange for live encores of the little performance you sent me last night. In addition to meeting my other needs.”

“And by ‘needs,’ you mean…sex?”

He tilts his chin down and regards me solemnly. “How explicit would you like me to be, Ms. Carson?”

What.

“So this—” I raise the blue folder in my hand. “—is a sugar daddy contract?”

His brow furrows. “I’d prefer to call it a ‘Friend With Benefits’ contract.”

“But we’re not friends.”

He smirks. “Fair enough. No, we’re not.”

There’s a throbbing in my head that reminds me of the first time I got drunk. Sienna and I had snuck into Dad’s study the eve of my sixteenth birthday and stolen a 1984 Chateau Latour. We passed it back and forth, taking turns sipping from the bottle like it was cheap bagged wine until the whole thing was gone.

For a moment, I think about what Sienna would say if she were here. Would she be outraged or intrigued? Would she slap the smug asshole and storm out?

Or would she grin and say, Double the price and I’m in.

What would you do, Si?

And then it hits me, a bolt of lightning straight to the chest, almost like she’s speaking to me herself. I miss her so much, it hurts. But she left little bits of herself behind, in all three of her children. The same kids I’m working my ass off to protect.

That right there is the answer.

Sienna would have done whatever was best for her children.

So I don’t slap him. I don’t storm out. I sit there and stare at my arrogant, asshole boss who always gets exactly what he wants.

And what he wants… is me.

I meet Ruslan’s steely gaze. “What happens if I say no?”

He shrugs as though this is just another job interview for him and he has a thousand other candidates lined up behind me. “If you say no, I’ll let you go with a generous severance package, a glowing recommendation, and no mention of the phone call.”

It’s a relief, but it doesn’t come close to comforting me.

“But if you say yes…” His eyes turn a dark, liquid gold. “It will definitely be worth your while. I have many skills, Ms. Carson, and they’re not limited to business.”

My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. I’m sure he sees it.

He leans against his leather wingback. “It’s entirely up to you.”

I stare at the contract in my lap. It’s not a small decision by any stretch of the imagination. “Can I have some time to think about this?”

“You can have today off. I expect your answer by tomorrow.”

He’s not really giving me a whole lot of time, but I think we both know more time will only confuse me. Maybe it’s better this way.

I start to stand when he says, “One more thing, Ms. Carson.”

So I freeze, ass hovering over the seat. “Yes?”

“This stays between the two of us.” His expression turns deadly. I’ve seen that look on his face in the boardroom, right before he pounces on some poor fool who was stupid enough to question him. “If you tell a soul about the contract, the deal is off. No protection, no recommendations, no pension—and I have every means to utterly destroy your chances of employment in any capacity ever again. Am I making myself clear?”

I gulp hard. “Crystal.”

“Good. Then you’re excused.”

It’s the normal goodbye routine. He picks up his phone, his gaze drops, and just like that, I go back to being a nobody. No one would guess that a few moments ago, he was propositioning me for sex. For contracted sex.

I have a lot to process.

I grab my stuff and race out of the building, trying to remember the last time I had a day off. It still doesn’t feel like a free day; it feels like a weight sitting squarely on my chest. A weight that gets heavier and heavier with every passing minute.

I take the subway over to Central Park and find a bench in a shady corner. I pull out the contract folder and stare at the cover, gathering up the strength to start reading. Then, with a sigh, I dive in.

Twenty minutes later, I have a growing headache and a pro-con list that’s pulling me at both ends.

Pro: The money is amazing. I’d be able to actually take care of the kids without worrying so damn much every second of every day.

Con: I would be exchanging sex for money.

Pro: I’ll be able to pay off the loans faster.

Con: Ruslan Oryolov is an influential man with possible mob connections. All rumors, but in my opinion, there’s no smoke without fire.

Pro: He also happens to be a very, very, very attractive influential man with possible mob connections.

Con: He’s an asshole.

Pro: He’s an asshole who’s probably great in bed.

I close the contract after staring at the Non-Disclosure section of the agreement for what feels like an eternity.

If rumors of Ruslan’s supposed mob ties are to be believed, I would be exposing the kids to danger. It just feels like too big a risk. Which is why, when I put the contract back in my bag and get to my feet, I feel like I’ve made my decision.

It’s too crazy, too reckless, too insane of a deal for me to agree to. I can’t compromise myself that way and I can’t let this decision bleed into the kids’ lives. Isn’t it more important that they’re safe?

Okay. Done. Decision made. Goodbye forever, Ruslan Oryolov.

So why don’t I feel right about it?