Page 22 of Claimed By the Boss
I look out the window. We cross Sixty-Third Street. Sixty-Second.
“I want a formal agreement,” I say.
He’s quiet for a moment. “About what?”
“The appearances. Galas, dinners, functions. I want a defined limit. A number per month, dates provided in advance, and an end clause I can invoke if the terms aren’t met.” I keep my voice even. Measured. This is not an argument. It’s a request I’ve been building since Wednesday. “I need to know this has edges.”
He looks straight ahead. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“I know that’s what you’ll say. I’m asking you to make it work that way.”
“The council sets the calendar. The appearances aren’t scheduled to my preference; they’re scheduled according to shifting organizational requirements. I cannot put a number on something that doesn’t operate on a fixed schedule.”
“Then I need something else. A conversation before each one. Actual notice. Not a calendar invite, not a box.”
“You had three days this time.”
“I need it in writing, Zane.”
He turns to look at me. I look back at him.
“You were good tonight,” he says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not.” He looks back at the window. “Written agreements about appearance frequency don’t exist in my world. They couldn’t be enforced against the council’s requirements, and the council knowing they exist would raise questions I don’t want raised.”
“So there’s nothing you can give me.”
“I can give you the conversation. Before each one. That I can do.”
The car turns onto our street. I look at my heels on the seat, the green dress that did its job tonight, the small gold earrings Lena sent from Zurich last week in a small envelope with a note that saidYou forgot these.
“That’s not enough,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “It’s what I have.”
The car pulls up to the building. Roman opens the door. I put my heels back on and step out into the cold, and don’t wait for him.
The conversation ends the way every conversation with this man ends. Not with a resolution. With a wall in place, a wall I can see clearly but cannot move.
The difference is that tonight, for the first time, I’m not sure I am only angry about it.
I’m not going to think about that.
I go upstairs.
10
ZANE
They are already seatedwhen I walk in.
Gregor at the center, Fedorov to his left, Lev Maric on his right. Three men arranged like a presentation, which is exactly what this is. Gregor has his folder open on the table. Fedorov has his hands folded. Maric is looking at the window, which means he’s not fully committed to whatever Gregor has told him they’re doing here today.
I sit down across from them. I don’t say anything. I wait.
Gregor clears his throat. “We want to formally raise a concern about the current domestic arrangement.”
