“I’ve been worried sick about you. I know you’ve been with Donovan…” His words were quick, but then they slowed as he took in what I was wearing. He blinked, and his eyebrows jumped on his forehead before he huffed out a breath. “You look… wow. I don’t know what to say. You’ve stolen every appropriate word I could use. My brain is officially useless.”
I stepped out of the elevator and the guard punched a number in. The doors closed quickly behind me, leaving us alone. I watched as he noticed the big rock on my finger, his jaw muscles started working overtime. My chest felt like itwas going to crack wide open. Moisture pricked my eyes as he slowly—painfully—looked away from the ring… away from me.
“I guess that explains the outfit,” His voice was void of all emotion now.
My throat closed. “Ivan?—”
“Don’t,” he rasped as he held up a hand. “Just don’t, please.”
His gaze dragged back to mine, and I could finally see the storm brewing in them. It was enough to break me.
“You got engaged,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
I pressed my shaking fingers against the cold, angry sparkle sitting on my hand. “I—yes.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. He folded his arms over his chest like he needed something to hold himself together.
“Did he even ask you,” Ivan muttered, “or did he just… tell you?”
My lips parted, but nothing came out. I didn’t know how to answer because, yes—Donovan had technically asked me. But no—there had been no real choice. Not with Jane at stake.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to say it’s all a joke and that you’re breaking it all off. I want you to tell me that you will never go through with this.”
His hand lifted toward me for the briefest second, like he wanted to touch me, wipe off the fake perfume, pull me out of this dress, and out of this nightmare. But he curled hisfingers into a fist before it reached me and let it drop back to his side.
“I wish I could.”
“Then do it. Take it off.”
“I can’t,” my voice broke.
He turned on his heel and walked to the only door in the hallway. He didn’t look at me as he went inside. “Ivan, why are we here? Is Jane okay? Where is she?”
He didn’t answer me.
He didn’t even slow.
He just disappeared through the door—his door—and the soft click of it closing behind him felt like a punch straight to my ribs.
My pulse roared in my ears. I hurried after him, twisting the knob and stepping inside before I could talk myself out of it.
“Ivan,” I tried again, breath catching. “Where is she? Why are we?—”
The words died in my throat. Because as soon as I stepped inside, I realized… This wasn’thisplace. The entryway opened into a stunning, minimalist penthouse—sleek black marble floors, tall windows, soft golden lighting. Or if it was his place, it was designed by a woman. None of this screamed Ivan Cristof.
“Jane?” I whispered.
A quiet laugh floated from down the hallway. “In here!”
I followed the sound until I reached a massive living room—warm lighting with a huge sofa and a skyline view—and there she was. She was sitting with her legs underneath her and somebright pink, fuzzy pjs wrapped around her still damp body. A towel was wrapped around her hair, and she had a deck of cards in her hand. Sitting across from her was a woman I’d only seen a handful of times, but had never been formally introduced to.
Mrs. Cristof.
My breath left me in a rush.
Jane looked up and grinned. “Poppy! You have to see the bathroom. It’s literally bigger than my entire bedroom at home.”
