He’s either rejecting my calls or he turned his phone off.
I stare at the screen, and I see the new app on my phone.
I think about Ilya, how his kiss had been dominant but he’d apologized for being rough. How he’d kept his hands to himself while we ate the parfaits.
I think about Adam’s demand. I can get him the information he needs. I can help him get promoted.
He’ll forgive me then.
And if I call Ilya, maybe he can help me get closer to home.
Ilya was kind, and even though I know that kindness could’ve been an illusion, something to draw me in until it’s too late, it had still been there.
I have to try.
No, I have to do more thantry. I have to do it.
I navigate to the app, where I press the button to call Ilya. I put it to my ear, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest as I wait to see if he’ll even pick up.
After two rings, I hear his deep, accented voice.
“Yes?” Ilya asks. “Who is calling?”
It isn’t an act when I burst into tears all over again. “Il—Ilya, it’s… It’s Micah. I’m so… I’m so sorry to call you.” The words are so broken and messy that I’m not sure if he’ll even be able to make them out, and I repeat, “I’m sorry.”
Can I really do this?
Do I really have a choice?
“Micah,” Ilya says. “There’s no need to be sorry. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m… I’m stuck at a restaurant, and I don’t… I don’t have any way to get home,” I admit to him. “Adam…” What lie can I tell that he’d possibly believe? Even though I feel sick, I continue, “Adam broke up with me.”
“Okay,” Ilya says. “Tell me the address. I’ll be there soon.”
I find the address and give that to him, along with the name of the restaurant. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him, starting to calm down, if not by much.
The idea of seeing Ilya makes my heart beat faster for another reason entirely, and I realize I want it.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t be grateful, even the smallest bit, that I can stay away from Adam until he calms down.
I wish I didn’t think the repercussions would be so severe.
Adam is going to want to know how I got in touch with Ilya so quickly; he’s going to be angry at me for following his orders unless I get somethinggoodout of it. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m no “honeypot.”
I have to try anyway.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ilya says. “Do you want to stay on call with me while I drive to you?”
I bite my lip, then shake my head. I realize he can’t see it, then whisper, “No, thank you.”
I don’t want him to hear me cry any more than he already has.
I don’t want to risk giving anything away.
“I’ll be there very soon. In fifteen minutes,” Ilya says. “But if you change your mind, you can call me. I have my phone connected to the car’s Bluetooth.”
