He tried to step toward me again, like that was going to magically fix everything. “If I lost?—”
“If you lost,” I echoed, voice rising. “So your big loyalty-based strategy was to gamble me away in case you failed?! Like some kind of backup prize?”
He scoffed like I’d said something ridiculous, like I was the dramatic one here. Cute.
“It was just a stupid game! It’s not even about you?—”
“But it is about me!” I burst out, the heat in my chest boiling over. “You literally used me as the centerpiece of your pissing match with Volkov! That’s, like, the definition of about me!”
“Do you even hear yourself right now?” he shot back, rubbing his temples like I was the one being difficult. “Telling him no would’ve made it worse!”
“Oh wow, sorry for not supporting your fragile ego warfare,” I said sweetly, the sarcasm dripping like poison honey. People nearby were definitely noticing now. Whatever. Add “public spectacle” to the playlist of humiliation.
I sucked in a deep breath, telling myself not to cry because that would just make him think he’d won. Like this was just another little argument we’d laugh about later.
No. Not this time.
“You know what?” I said, calm suddenly. Dangerously calm. Chillingly reality-show finale calm. “You should go.”
He blinked. “Me? Go?”
“Yes. Go. I’ll Uber.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” His voice was full of disbelief. “I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t want to go home with you.”
The words fell out like sharp snowflakes, cold and clean. His face froze.
“Why?” he asked, and I swear, he looked genuinely confused.
I laughed—just once, bitter and bright. “Do I really need to re-explain that you made a bet involving me doing who-knows-what with your literal nemesis?”
“It was if I lost!” he shouted, like that changed the entire tone of the thing.
“If your team lost,” I corrected, my voice low and final. “So yeah, you didn’t think you’d lose—but you were willing to risk me, anyway.”
He stared at me, speechless for once. Good.
I spun on my heel, practically vibrating with leftover rage as I stormed back into the bar. My heart was still doing somersaults like a caffeinated gymnast and honestly? I felt like I might explode into glitter and fury at any moment. Mikel had taken off—stormed off, actually—leaving me alone with a whole suitcase of regret, embarrassment, and the kind of angry tears that taste like salt and betrayal.
I needed out. Out of this bar, out of this night, out of this freaking emotional hostage situation.
I ducked my head and power-walked through the swarm of people, hoping if I looked invisible, I’d be invisible. I didn’t want eye contact, conversation, or even an accidental brush of elbows. And I definitely didn’t want to see him.
But of course. Because the universe loves chaos.
Oh no.
No no no no no.
"Ah. The girl with the freckles."
That voice? Deep. Russian. Problematic.
Nikolai freaking Volkov.
My stomach did a betrayal-flip. Panic spiked like someone had jammed an adrenaline EpiPen into my thigh. I sped up, aiming for the back exit like it was the escape hatch off the Titanic.
