He stands with his back to the light, dark hair falling just past his collar, longer than the other men wear theirs. His suit fits perfectly—tailored coat left open over a crisp white shirt, no tie. Casual in a way that feels deliberate. He holds a glass of something amber in one hand, but he hasn’t taken a drink.
He’s listening.
A man across from him—older and red-faced, gesturing too broadly—is mid-argument. I can’t hear the words, but I can read the posture. The man punctuates his sentences with jabs of his finger, leaning in like proximity will win him ground.
Dimitri doesn’t move.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low enough that I have to strain to catch fragments. Something about zoning permits. Timeline adjustments. Legal precedent. His tone is calm, almost bored, but the other man’s face goes pale halfway through the response.
I watch, fascinated, as Dimitri dismantles him.
By the time he finishes, the older man has stepped back, hands raised in surrender, mouth working around words that don’t come.
Dimitri takes a sip of his drink and turns away.
The room exhales.
My pulse kicks up without permission. I don’t understand what I’ve just witnessed—don’t have the context or the vocabulary—but I understand power when I see it. Whatever this man has, it isn’t the kind that needs volume.
I look down at my tablet, typing notes I won’t remember later, trying to focus on anything except the uncomfortable heat crawling up my neck.
A woman beside me leans toward her companion, voice low. “That’s the third time this month Rudenko’s shut down Patterson. You’d think the man would learn.”
“Patterson doesn’t learn. That’s his problem.”
“Rudenko doesn’t forget, either. That’s his.”
They move away, leaving me with more questions than answers. I glance back toward the windows, but Dimitri has shifted, now speaking quietly with a younger man who looks equally composed, equally controlled. There’s something in the way people orbit around him—careful distance, calculated respect. Fear, maybe, dressed up as professionalism.
I don’t notice the other man approaching until he’s too close.
“You’re new.”
I startle, nearly dropping the tablet. The man in front of me smiles, but it isn’t friendly. Mid-forties, expensive cologne, eyes that drag over me in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“I… yes. I’m interning with—”
“You should get me a drink.” He says it casually, like it’s a fact instead of a command.
My stomach twists. “I’m here in a research capacity, actually.”
“Research.” He laughs, low and dismissive. “Right. So what are you researching? How to look pretty in a room full of adults?”
Heat floods my face. I open my mouth, searching for something cutting, something that will make him back off without causing a scene—
“She’s with me.”
The voice comes from behind me. Low, accented, precise.
The man’s expression shifts instantly, smile vanishing, shoulders straightening. “Mr. Rudenko. I didn’t realize—”
“Now you do.”
I turn slowly, heart hammering.
Dimitri Rudenko stands less than a foot away, close enough that I catch the faint scent of expensive fabric and something darker underneath—smoke, maybe, or leather. He isn’t looking at me. His gaze stays fixed on the other man, steel-gray eyes sharp and utterly unreadable.
The businessman takes a step back. “Of course. My apologies. I didn’t mean any harm.”
