Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“I read that with the Portland Wildfire team now joining the league, many owners are discussing further expansion,” she says, cutting neatly into her pie. “That must complicate things.”
“It complicates revenue sharing,” I reply. “It also complicates egos, of which there are some large ones in many front offices.”
She smiles. “And you enjoy managing egos.”
“I enjoy managing outcomes.”
The conversation drifts from hockey economics to the art market, from the art market to travel plans she’s considering in the spring. It’s fluid and intelligent. Although she’s stunning, Svetlana is not ornamental. She has a successful career managing artists and ambitions of her own. There’s nothing vapid about her. Nothing shallow.
In fact, there’s not one single thing I can find wrong with her and she’d be a prime catch for any eligible bachelor.
And yet, as I watch her across the table, candlelight catching the sharp line of her cheekbone, the thought surfaces quietly and without cruelty… I don’t have it in me to feel for her. At least, not the way she deserves, and she’s well aware I’ll never commit to her. I’m always up front about that and if I get the slightest inkling that someone I’m seeing wants to take it to a deeper level, I’m afraid I have to cut her loose.
Svetlana finishes her dessert first, setting her fork gently on the plate with an air of finality.
“I must tell you,” she says, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin, “I loved this. The pie, yes. But the entire evening.”
“I’m glad.”
“No,” she insists softly. “Truly. I always enjoy my time with you, Julian. There’s a beautiful manner in which you host. It’s rare.”
“I try not to do anything any other way.”
She smiles at me, resting her chin in the palm of her hand as she stares at me fondly. “That’s obvious.”
I incline my head. “I’ve enjoyed it as well.”
And I have. The conversation’s been easy. The food excellent. The company undeniably attractive.
Svetlana studies me, then lets a faintly mischievous smile curve her mouth. “It would be unfortunate,” she says, voice lowering just enough to shift the temperature of the room, “if we allowed such a nice evening to end too early.”
“Too early?” I repeat.
She traces the stem of her wineglass with a slow finger. “I find that dessert is often only the beginning.”
There’s nothing crude in her delivery but rather suggestion, confidence, invitation.
I hold her gaze, allowing a small, controlled smile. “You’re suggesting a final course.”
“I’m suggesting we not waste momentum.”
Before I can respond, Percy enters with the seamless discretion of a man who has mastered the art of impeccable timing. He approaches the table as though the air has not shifted at all.
“May I clear the plates?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say.
He lifts Svetlana’s first, then mine. As he does, his eyes flick briefly to the melted edge of the ice cream, now fully surrendered into the crust.
“Acceptable consistency, sir?” he inquires.
“Perfect,” I reply. “The entire dinner was exceptional,” I add. “Thank you, Percy.”
There’s a subtle exchange in the look that passes between us. Percy has been in my life longer than most board members, longer than many friendships that once seemed immovable. He’s seen me at my most ambitious and at my most fractured. He understands the difference between the public version of me—the owner in the suite, the negotiator at the table, the man quoted in financial columns—and the quieter version who walks these halls when the city’s gone dark.
“Coffee, sir?” he asks. “Perhaps a brandy?” I look to Svetlana, giving deference to what she might want. Her eyes hold mine with open intent. No coyness, no pretense. She wants to move this elsewhere.
“I think we’re ready to retire upstairs,” I say quietly, my gaze pinned on Svetlana.
“The fire has been lit in the primary suite, sir,” Percy says with composure.
“Thank you, Percy.”
“I’ll ensure the lower floors are secured.” There is no raised brow or smirk. There isn’t even a suggestion of judgment. With Percy, it’s simple discretion and loyalty.
Svetlana slips her hand lightly into mine, and together we leave the dining hall.
We walk down the long corridor, the parquet floors catching the low amber light from the sconces lining the walls. The house at night appears even more theatrical, its bones quietly luminous beneath carefully placed illumination.
We pass into the expansive drawing room, and even after years of living here, I remain faintly aware of its scale.
The ceilings rise nearly fourteen feet, crowned with intricate medallions from which twin crystal chandeliers hang like suspended constellations. The walls are paneled in dark, high-gloss walnut, broken only by towering arched windows framed in heavy silk drapery the color of aged champagne. A grand piano anchors one side of the room.
The room is designed for conversation. It’s meant for performance and spectacle.
But tonight, it stands quiet and expectant.
Svetlana glances around, a small appreciative smile touching her mouth. “I will never quite get used to this,” she murmurs.