The next morning, the “Iron CEO” was back. I sat in the third row of the auditorium, watching Anna command the stage with a voice that could cut glass. It was impossible to reconcile this titan of industry with the barefoot woman from the night before.
I tried to make myself invisible, shrinking into my seat. I was just Ivan Petrov, a single-dad architect trying to survive, and she was a shark who ate people like me for breakfast. I prayed she had forgotten my face.
She hadn’t. As the applause died down and the crowd dispersed, she cut a straight line through the VIPs directly toward me. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
She stopped inches from me, her expression unreadable behind designer glasses. “Mr. Petrov,” she said, her voice low enough that only I could hear. “Try to read the room number next time. Or are you making a habit of breaking and entering?”