"I need to think," I say.
"You have until tomorrow." He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card, presses it into my palm. His fingers brush mine, and heat sparks up my arm. "My private number. Call me with your answer."
Then he's walking away, his footsteps silent on the hardwood, leaving me standing in the hallway with a piece of cardstock burning a hole in my hand.
I look down at it. Black print on cream paper, elegant and understated.
Igor Aslanov
No title. No company. Just a name and a number.
I slip it into my pocket and head toward my room, my mind spinning.
Married.
The words pound in my head with every step.
I pass through the marble and stainless steel kitchen—and nearly collide with the housekeeper, Anya, who's wiping down the counters.
"Sorry," I mutter.
She gives me a knowing look. "You look like you've seen a ghost, devochka."
"Something like that."
She tsks, shaking her head. "The pakhan has that effect. But he is a good man, under all that ice."
I want to ask her how she knows, what she's seen, but I just nod and keep moving.
My room is at the end of the east wing, tucked away like an afterthought. It's small but comfortable—a bed, a dresser, a window that overlooks the gardens. I close the door behind me and lean against it, closing my eyes.
You're the logical choice.
Not I want you. Not I care about you.
Logical.
I pull out my phone, scroll through my contacts until I find the one I'm looking for.
Danny
We've been on two coffee dates. He's nice. Normal. Works for an IT company, likes hiking, and has a labrador retriever named Max. Danny is the kind of guy who represents everything Igor Aslanov isn't—safe, predictable,uncomplicated.
My thumb hovers over his name.
Then I lock the screen and toss the phone onto the bed.
Because the truth is, I don't mind a little danger. A psychologist would tell me it’s because it’s what I know. It feels familiar, and that’s why it feels normal. But they’d be wrong. What I want is to belong somewhere. To someone. To stop feeling like I'm one mistake away from losing everything.
And Igor Aslanov, for all his cold control and dangerous edges, is offering me exactly that.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, the business card still in my pocket, and stare out the window at the snow beginning to fall.
Christmas is right around the corner. Then I’ll have to decide if I'm brave enough—or desperate enough—to say yes.
I fall asleep with more questions than I could ever answer.
Igor
