The elevator doors close.
Whatever. It's done.
I stand in the hallway, Pyotr staring at me, the food bag in my hands, and slowly realize what I've done.
I called for help.
Soon, there will be cops everywhere. Sirens. Questions. Ivan will be arrested. Or he'll run. Or he'll?—
Fuck.
The realization crashes over me. Ivan will be arrested. Taken away. This whole thing—whatever this is—will be over. Finished. The erotic chapter of my life ending not with a satisfying conclusion but with police and lawyers and me giving statements about being held captive.
Which is what I wanted. Right? That's why I wrote the note. Because I wanted out. Because this is wrong.
Except my chest feels tight, and all I can think about is Ivan being led away in handcuffs while I stand wrapped in his sheet, surrounded by drawings of all the ways I want him.
Why do I regret this?
Why does the thought of his arrest make me want to throw up?
"You okay?" Pyotr's question cuts through my spiral.
"Fine." I clutch the food bag. "I'm fine."
But I'm not fine.
I ended this. Whatever this was—captivity or choice, prison or sanctuary, Stockholm syndrome or something real—it's over.
And I have no idea why it makes me want to cry.
I return to the guest room, close the door, and slide down to sit on the floor. The Thai food sits forgotten beside me. The drawings are spread across the bed—all those fantasies I'll never get to live out.
Because any minute now—fifteen, maybe thirty—the police will come. They'll find me here. They'll rescue me. Take me home.
And I'll have to explain why the thought of being rescued feels like the worst thing that could possibly happen.
Why being saved feels like losing everything.
I realize too late that maybe what I wanted wasn't rescue at all.
Maybe what I wanted was right here the whole time.
And I just threw it away.
15
IVAN
The warehouse is still burning when I leave.
Orange flames lick at the Chicago sky, the smoke thick enough to taste three blocks away. It’s the third of Dmitri's operations reduced to ash this month.
Still, we lost Gregor tonight.
Good soldier, loyal for six years. He took a bullet meant for Misha. Four of theirs went down, too, but the math never balances. It never fucking does. His wife will get the payout, and their kids will be taken care of, but that doesn't bring him back. Doesn't erase the fact that I'm the reason he's dead.
Blood and smoke cling to my clothes. I should shower and change at the safe house before going home. Instead, I'm in the Bentley heading straight to the penthouse because I've been thinking about her all day. About what she's been drawing. About step five and whatever creative filth her mind has conjured.
