Chapter 3 – "A Seat at the Table"
The bar was neither loud nor quiet. It buzzed with the kind of ambiance that suggested serious people having serious conversations—low lighting, expensive woodwork, and a subtle scent of aged whiskey and leather that hung in the air like an invitation.
Erin walked in with a calm, purposeful stride. She didn't glance around the room nervously. She didn't fidget with her coat. She knew exactly where she was going.
She had memorized the layout in advance.
The back table, near the window. Isolde Volkov always chose that spot when she met someone for the first time. It gave her a clear view of the entire bar while keeping her back safely to the wall. A woman like her didn't believe in accidents. She believed in control.
Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor. She wore a tailored black blazer over a high-neck white blouse, with dark pants that gave her a clean, cutting silhouette. Her makeup was minimal, just enough to bring out the brightness of her ice-blue eyes. Her ash-brunette hair was tied into a sleek low bun, with a single strand left loose to frame her face.
Calculated. Polished. Professional.
But her heart? It thudded like war drums.
She approached the table, where a woman with silver-streaked dark hair was sipping something amber in a short glass. Isolde didn't look up immediately. She continued reading a document—one of those deliberately archaic printed packets powerful people used when they wanted to remind you they had secrets.
Erin didn't interrupt. She waited exactly three seconds, then said calmly, "Ms. Volkov?"
The woman finally looked up. Her eyes were a striking pale gray—cool, unreadable, and far too intelligent. She scanned Erin quickly.
"You're early," she said.
"Five minutes early," Erin replied with a polite smile. "I understand you appreciate punctuality."
"And flattery?"
"Only when it's earned."
Isolde tilted her head slightly, amused. "Sit."
Erin took the seat across from her, posture perfect, movements smooth. Inside, her nerves twisted tight, but not a single twitch made it to her face.
"Your file is clean," Isolde said. "Too clean. That tells me one of two things—either you're hiding something, or you haven't done anything worth noticing."
"I prefer to stay unnoticed," Erin said evenly. "It keeps me efficient."
Isolde considered that. "What makes you think you're fit for this role?"
"Because I understand what it demands. You're not looking for a secretary. You're looking for someone who can observe, anticipate, adapt. Someone who can keep up."
"Interesting."
"And I learn fast."
"So you think this is about intelligence?"
Erin hesitated. "It's about restraint. Intelligence. Composure. The ability to follow without being led blindly. To serve without getting in the way."
Isolde smiled faintly. It was not a warm expression. "That last part is rare. And undervalued."
"I value it highly."
"Why?"
Erin didn't blink. "Because people who talk too much die faster."
A beat of silence.
"Tell me the worst mistake you've ever made," Isolde said.
Erin's breath caught, but only slightly. "Trusting myself when I should have questioned more."
"You're quick with answers," Isolde said. "Do you rehearse them?"
"Only the ones that matter."
The older woman leaned back, studying her more intently now. Erin could feel the pressure in her gaze, the weight of being peeled back and examined layer by layer.
"Do you know who you'd be assisting?"
"Yes," Erin said.
"And that doesn't bother you?"
"Why would it?"
Isolde arched a brow. "You'd be working closely with my son."
"I'm aware."
"He's not easy to work with. He's temperamental. He doesn't like being followed. He especially doesn't like strangers in his space."
"Then I'll make myself less of a stranger and more of a shadow."
That surprised a short laugh out of Isolde. "You speak poetically. Does that help you lie better?"
Erin smiled faintly. "It helps me speak carefully."
Isolde set down her glass and folded her hands together. "Let's not waste time. You're clearly competent. I can see that. But I need more than competence right now. I need a reason. Not for me—for him."
Erin tilted her head. "Excuse me?"
Isolde leaned forward, voice low and firm. "If I assign him a personal assistant out of nowhere, he'll push back. So you need to give me a reason—a concrete, believable reason—why I'm hiring you. Something I can say to his face."
Erin realized then that this wasn't about proving herself to Isolde. It was about helping Isolde sell the decision to someone who didn't want her there.
And Xander Volkov didn't want anyone in his orbit he hadn't vetted himself.
Erin straightened slightly. "Then tell him I'm here to streamline his schedule. That I have experience dealing with high-pressure personalities and that I specialize in executive protection-style logistics. That I've signed an NDA so tight I could be buried with it."
"You think he'll believe that?"
"He won't care, not if I do my job right. If I'm useful, he'll keep me around."
Isolde narrowed her eyes. "He doesn't keep anyone around."
Erin met her gaze. "Then I'll be the exception."
A long silence followed. One beat. Two. Three.
Then Isolde said, "You don't flinch easily."
"I've flinched enough in my life."
The older woman stood. Erin stood with her.
Isolde reached into her coat and pulled out a small black envelope. She handed it over without ceremony.
"Be at the Volkov estate at seven sharp. Bring me something more credible I can use. Or else, you'll be fired at that very second."
Erin nodded once. "Understood."
Isolde held her gaze a moment longer. Then she turned and walked away.
Erin stood still in the dim bar, the envelope in her hand, her heart pounding.
She had made it in.
Not just into a job. Not just into a powerful house.
But into the viper's nest.
And she was going to burn it down from the inside.