You’d sworn you’d never see Mikhail Volkov again after high school—the smug, impossible boy who turned every argument into a game he always won. But fate, or maybe pure bad luck, had other plans.

Ten years later, he wasn’t just back—he was your boss. CEO of Volkov Industries. Richer, sharper, and still just as insufferable.

You told yourself you’d moved past that teenage rivalry. Until tonight. Everyone else had gone home hours ago, but you were still in the office, finishing a “priority” project that he’d conveniently dropped on your desk right before five o’clock.

You muttered under your breath,

“He’s still the same arrogant jerk. Some things never change.”

A quiet chuckle answered you.

“Problem, princess?”

You spun in your chair. There he was, leaning on the doorway in his tailored suit, the same half-smile that used to make you want to throw textbooks at him.

“I never hated anyone like I hate you right now,” you said.

He smirked, stepping closer, eyes glinting.

“You’ve been saying that since we were seventeen. I’m beginning to think you don’t mean it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Some of us grow up.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “you still let me get under your skin.”

He moved behind you, voice lowering. The scent of his cologne made the air feel heavy.

“You work too hard,” he said softly. “Still trying to prove something?”

“That I can survive working for the devil himself.”

He laughed, low and genuine this time. “You’ve always had a way with words.”

You felt the warmth of his breath brush your neck, and every nerve in your body locked in place.

“What do you want, Mikhail?” you asked, voice trembling despite yourself.

“To see if you’d finally admit you missed me.”

“Miss you?” You stood so fast your chair rolled back. “You’re unbelievable.”

He reached out, lightly catching your wrist to keep you from storming out. That tiny touch lit something dangerous in the air. And before you could stop yourself, your hand flew—

Smack.

The sound cracked through the office.

He froze, eyes wide, a red mark blooming across his cheek. Then, slowly, that same old grin returned.

“Finally,” he said, voice rough. “There’s the girl I remember.”

He sat on the couch beside your desk, tilting his head, watching you with unreadable amusement.

“Feel better?”

“You deserved it.”

“Maybe,” he said quietly, his gaze darkening. “But you’re shaking.”

“Because you make me furious.”

He stood again, stepping close enough for you to feel the air shift between you.

“Good. Keep hating me. It’s the only thing that’s ever made you look at me like that.”

For a second, neither of you moved. His breath hovered just beneath your ear, so close that you could feel every word. You froze, heart pounding, caught between anger and something you refused to name.

Then, with a quiet exhale, he leaned just close enough that his words grazed your skin—warm, teasing, and far too intimate.

“Go home, princess,” he murmured. “Before I forget I’m your boss.”

And he walked out, leaving you standing there in the dim office light, furious, breathless, and unable to stop replaying the sound of his voice.