The doors part again, and there he is.
Lev Rusnak.
He’s waiting at the threshold of his penthouse, like a man who already knew I would come. Dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, watch gleaming on his wrist—every detail screaming old money and quiet danger. I can’t believe how insanely gorgeous he looks right now.
And he’s smiling at me, as if I’m not the one out of place here.
“Welcome, Sasha.” His voice is silk and smoke, curling under my skin.
Before I can form a word, he gestures for me to follow. We walk through the wide, understated luxury of his apartment, and then he pushes open glass doors—
And the rooftop swallows me whole.
Strings of gold lights drape above us, glowing warm against the night. The city stretches endlessly below, all glitter and heartbeat.
I actually stop breathing.
“Lev…” I whisper, because I don’t know what else to say.
He looks at me like he’s already won. “You are impossibly beautiful, Sasha. You take my breath away.”
My breath hitches like I don’t get compliments thrown my way every waking second. “Thank you,” I manage, though my voice doesn’t sound like mine.
He turns to the table a few feet away, where a bottle of wine waits. He lifts it, the dark glass glinting under the lights, and makes a show of uncorking it—slow, practiced, the soft pop echoing louder than it should in my chest.
He pours, first for me, then for himself. The ruby liquid catches the glow as he hands me a glass, his fingers brushing mine, deliberate.
“To you,” he says, eyes steady on me. Then, with a smirk that twists my stomach into knots: “And to tonight.”
I raise the glass to my lips, desperate for the distraction, though I’m not sure the wine will calm me more than his gaze unsettles me.
“Are you ready for dinner?” he asks after downing his wine.
“Yes.”
I expect a private chef to step out of the shadows. Or at least some perfectly plated five-star spread waiting under silver domes.
But Lev leads me straight into the kitchen. Sleek marble counters, state-of-the-art everything, and him—already rolling up his sleeves higher, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“You cook?” I can’t hide the disbelief in my voice.
He glances at me, gray eyes glinting. “For you, yes.”
My stomach does a ridiculous flip. I fold my arms, leaning against the counter, trying to look unimpressed while he pulls fresh pasta from somewhere, prawns from another, and gets to work like a man who’s done this before.
The smell of garlic and olive oil fills the air. He moves easily, like he owns not just the kitchen but the entire night.My eyes keep tracking the way his hands work—precise, steady, confident.
“You don’t strike me as the domestic type,” I say, needing to break the spell.
He smirks, tossing the pasta into the pan. “I’m not. But I like control. Even here.”
I roll my eyes, though my cheeks heat. “Of course you do.”
We talk as he cooks, the conversation light, random. He asks about my favorite meal on layovers, my worst flight story, whether I’ve ever snuck off to explore a city alone. I ask if he always hijacks airlines just to impress women, and he laughs, low and unbothered.
By the time he plates the pasta—handmade, steaming, prawns seared perfectly—I’m caught between irritation and…something else I don’t want to name.
I take the first bite and actually groan before I can stop myself. “God. This is unfair.”
