I keep replaying how I bolted from that alley and melted into the crowd at Market Square, finally catching my breath near the monument of King Danylo. When I spotted a taxi, I dashed toward it without thinking twice. It was only when I got back to my apartment that I finally felt a sense of relief.
As I reflect on the whirlwind of my escape, Sunday passes in a blur. I’m angry at myself for letting thoughts of that stranger invade my mind. By Monday morning, I arrive at work exhausted and distracted.
To make matters worse, my boss seems to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. I barely make it down the corridor when I bump into him, and he yells at me for something I didn’t even do. I enter my office, desperate for coffee, but the phone rings, shattering my moment of peace.
“Milana, is the contract with Poliansky’s company ready? He’ll be here any minute,” my boss barks on the other end.
“Of course, Dmytro Oleksandrovich,” I reply, forcing professionalism into my voice.
“Bring it to my office. Urgently.”
“It’s on its way,” I manage before he hangs up.
Clenching my teeth, I grab the contract folder and rush out of my office. Navigating in my fitted pencil skirt and heels isn’t easy, and I end up colliding with Olya, my boss’s secretary, who’s mid-sip of water. The splash soaks my white top, creating a disastrous wet spot around my bust.
“Ugh, Olya!” I hiss, frustration bubbling over.
I know it’s my fault, but I’m late, and the new partner could arrive any second. Desperately scanning my options, I realize I can’t walk into my boss’s office like this. I glance at Olya, weighing my options.
“Oh, help me out,” I plead, trying to keep my voice steady.
“What..?”
“Take off your jacket,” I implore.
With a roll of her eyes, Olya starts fumbling with her buttons. I sneak a look at the reception entrance and my boss’s office door, feeling the pressure rise. Quickly, I pull off my wet top, leaving only my bra. My hands shake as I slip into Olya’s jacket, which fits snugly on my shoulders but is too tight across my chest.
I manage to button the top button, trying not to breathe too deeply, while Olya bites her lip, clearly stifling laughter. “Don’t even think about laughing,” I hiss, but the corners of her mouth betray her amusement.
Just as I take a calming breath, the door creaks open. I pray it’s not the new partner, but my luck is running thin.
“Good day, ladies. I’m Andriy Poliansky. Is the boss around?”
“Okay, Milana,” I mentally coach myself, “Slowly, turn around, and don’t breathe.” I plaster on a smile, trying to ignore the way his gaze flickers over my figure.
“I’m Milana Kraievska, one of Dmytro Oleksandrovich’s lawyers, handling your contract.”
“Nice to meet you, Milana,” he says, his voice familiar but wrapped in foggy memories I can’t quite place.
“I see you’ve prepared,” he adds, his tone dripping with double meaning that makes my blood boil. I straighten up, forgetting about the tight jacket and the way the buttons threaten to pop.
“Follow me, Andriy Mykolayovych,” I say coolly, forcing myself to turn and walk toward my boss’s office, adjusting my jacket as I go.
I knock, hear the call to enter, and step inside. My boss glances at my unusual attire, frowning in disapproval.
“Gentlemen,” I say, gesturing for Andriy to sit as I take my place on the edge of the couch, trying not to shift. The tight fit of the jacket is suffocating, and I feel like my ample bust might spill out at any moment.
As the men discuss the contract, I sit rigid, trying to maintain some decorum. I catch Andriy's blue gaze lingering on me, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Finally, the discussion wraps up, and my boss signs the contract, sliding it toward me. I brace myself as I lean slightly to pass it to Andriy, trying to avoid giving him an unintentional show.
His gaze flickers back to my neckline, unabashedly enjoying the view. “What a show,” I think, biting my lip in frustration.
He signs, and I exhale mentally. God forbid I breathe too deeply; I might pop a button.
As the men rise to leave, Andriy smirks. “Pleasant to meet you,” he says, and I can’t help but sense the playful taunt behind his words.
Once they exit, my boss’s voice cuts through the air like a knife.
“Kraievska!” he barks. “What kind of show was that? Were you planning to walk in here in just your bra?”
I wince, but I stand my ground against his piercing gaze. “Dmytro, it was an accident,” I stammer.
“I couldn’t care less!” he interrupts, his tone fierce. “I hope it won’t happen again. I understand it might be a distraction for the new partner, but I expect him to prioritize professionalism.”
His words hang in the air, a mix of criticism and something else. I nod, blushing furiously as I bolt from the office, eager to escape the aftermath of my wardrobe malfunction.