Before he steps out, he glances over his shoulder. “Dry off, Livvie. You’ve got ten minutes before I make you choose between a silk nightgown or nothing at all.”
Then he’s gone.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind him, but the echo of his presence clings to the air like smoke.
I stand there for a moment, still dripping, still breathless. Steam curls around my ankles, fogs the mirror, clouds my thoughts.
I hate how he tilts the gravity around him, like everything and everyone is meant to orbit Kingston Viacava.
Grabbing a towel from the shelf, I wrap it tight around my chest, tucking it with more force than necessary. Then I swipe a hand across the fogged mirror and stare at the woman looking back at me, confused by the shameless ache pulsating between my thighs.
The overstimulation gets out of control when that man looks at me.
When my phone buzzes from the counter, I exhale the burning urges growing louder within me and check the screen.
Roman.
I tap open the message and read.
We need to meet. First thing in the morning. I have proof you need to watch your back around Kingston. I’ll send directions.
My stomach clenches as I read the message again. Then a third time, my pulse tapping at the base of my throat, not sure how to react.
I lock the screen and set the phone down, the air around me suddenly colder than it was a minute ago.
A tremor of panic siphons through me, not knowing the truth behind the man I have to sleep beside.
I’m out the door just after six in the morning.
A black hoodie zipped over my chest, charcoal-gray leggings hugging my legs, sneakers laced tight. My hair’s pulled into a messy ponytail, no makeup, no jewelry—just the uniform of every Manhattan woman trying to be healthy while hiding something.
I step into the corridor and head toward the elevator doors, playing it cool when I approach one of Kingston’s men whose arms are folded, expression curious.
“Morning,” I say, all breezy confidence as I press the button.
“Need a car, Mrs. Viacava?”
I flash a quick smile, just enough to sell the lie. “Nope. Just a short stroll to the yoga studio.”
The big guy doesn’t question it. He just nods and steps aside, giving me space to enter the elevator whenthe doors slide open.
Downstairs, the guards out front watch quietly as I pass by, my movements cleared by the guy from outside our apartment door.
I disappear into the city’s early morning rush, my hood up and my footfalls determined.
Roman chose the meeting spot as always. A tucked-away coffee shop in the West Village, the kind that doesn’t advertise itself but always coaxes customers with espresso and warm cinnamon buns. A tiny bell chimes overhead when I push the door inward.
Inside, it’s all exposed brick and mismatched chairs, filled with a few early risers hunched over laptops and a barista humming along to a tune playing low through the speakers.
Roman’s already there, waiting in a corner booth beneath a silver wall sconce, a black coffee in front of him and his posture tense. Though, as always, he blends into the background without ever really disappearing. Exactly the way he likes it.
He doesn’t stand when I approach, just watches me over the rim of his coffee cup.
“Morning,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him.
“You’re late.”
“You’re lucky I showed up at all, Roman. I’m married now, remember?”
