Thesirdrips out of my mouth. I’m keenly aware that this man goes far beyond just my boss… he’s something else. Something much bigger.
The corner of his mouth twitches and he steps back, reclaiming the space between us. The office instantly feels colder with the distance.
“Dismissed.”
I turn on trembling legs, dossier and phone clutched to my chest. The door handle is cool beneath my fingers. I step outside his office into the hallway, feeling safer than when I walked in.
Safe or owned? The question ricochets inside my skull, and beneath it beats a deeper drum I refuse to name, an ache that remembers his touch, his voice whispering a language into my ear that I don’t understand.
I breathe deep and steady, then step into the stark, bright corridor, still trembling, still alive, yet tethered to a man who’s made it clear he keeps what he buys.
And he’s just bought me.
CHAPTER 13
TERESA
The new apartment is nice.Toonice.
White-oak floors that smell like varnish, sleek cabinets that hiss shut on soft-close hinges, a bed big enough to stage a Broadway number on. Vlad calls the place a “safe-flat,” but it feels more like one of those model units you tour before you sign a lease—spotless, impersonal, staged with exactly two coffee-table books and a fake fiddle-leaf fig.
There’s no dent in the sofa cushions, no water rings on the side tables, no half-dead rosemary plant clinging to life on the sill. I know I’m safer here, but I often catch myself missing my crooked Queens walk-up every time I step over the threshold.
Still, three quiet days have done wonders for my nerves. Angeloff security—guys in non-descript hoodies and black running shoes—shadow my commute without breathing down my neck. They stay back a fair distance, peeling off as soon as I disappear into the HQ lobby. Once I’m in my office, I’m back to spreadsheets and flight manifests, answering Vlad’s encrypted pings.
While trying to decide if I like the taste of chamomile tea, seeing as that’s the only thing in the new pantry, my personal phone lights up. It’s Trina.
Christmas market at Bryant Park tonight? Mulled wine, gingerbread, reckless ornament purchases?
I pause for a moment before texting back. Vlad has been serious as hell about my safety and responding feels like a reckless move.
Tempting. What time?
An hour? 6 p.m. at the rink. Wear something snuggly. Her words are followed by a blue heart emoji.
Something normal. God, I could use some normalcy. I change into a chunky oatmeal-colored sweater dress, black tights, knee-high boots, and the wine-red wrap coat I bought on an end-of-season sale. As I lock up, a guard with a discreet earpiece gives me a polite nod. Vlad probably already knows where I’m going; the man probably tracks my pulse from his phone.
I don’t leave alone, of course. A pair of men dressed all in black sit in a car outside. They roll the window down as I approach.
“Where are you going?” one asks gruffly.
“Bryant Park,” I reply. He opens his mouth to say, “get in,” but I cut him off. “And I want to take the subway. You know, feel like a normal person for once.”
The men share a look that makes it clear they don’t like it one bit.
“I’m staying close,” the passenger guard says. “He’ll meet us at Bryant Park.”
“Fine. But not too close. I’d like to at least pretend I’m not being watched every minute of the day.”
The passenger guard steps out, the driver takes off, and I start down the block. Thankfully, the guard on foot hangs back a bit before following me into the station.
I take the Lexington line downtown, wedged between a Wall Street type and a very determined tourist with a city map. The train clacks and sways, and for once I don’t mind the sweaty hum of it all. Living in Manhattan might mean sirens at 3?a.m. and clanging garbage trucks waking you up in the wee hours of the morning, but it also means stepping out of the subway and landing smack in the middle of a Christmas display fit for a Hallmark movie.
Bryant Park looks gorgeous. Little cedar stalls form a circle around the ice rink, roofs dripping with fairy lights.Sleigh Ridedrifts from the speakers, and the air smells like cinnamon, pine, and sweet roasted almonds. Yesterday’s dusting of snow still clings to the lawn edges, sparkling beneath the bulbs.
Couples shuffle past clutching hot cider. Kids wobble on skates in puffer jackets. A stall is selling hand-blown ornaments shaped like tiny galaxies—glass globes swirling with multiple colors. Another booth offers Bavarian gingerbread the size of dinner plates. I inhale it all, cherishing the way it makes me feel.
Trina isn’t here yet, so I slow my pace, letting the scene sink in. A charming carousel turns lazily behind the market huts. A street saxophone player belts outJingle Bell Rockand nails it.
