My nerves are a live wire.
Seeing him again is what I’ve wanted and dreaded in equal measure.
Another goodbye will hurt worse than the first. I’m not sure I’ll survive a second one, but I’ll regret not seeing him before I leave the States, probably for good. My father certainly won’t let me leave Moscow again, and considering Maxim knows my history, he won’t likely let me either.
I smooth my palms down my robe, then freeze as footsteps approach.
And then he appears in the doorway.
My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
He’s wearing a suit. It’s dark and tailored and perfect. He’s holding the enormous bouquet of tulips against one arm. His hair is messy, like he ran his hands through it a thousand times. His tie is askew.
But what stops me cold isn’t the flowers or the suit.
It’s the look on his face.
Not broken like my heart and devastated as I feel. Instead, he’s smirking.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi.” My voice cracks on the single syllable.
There’s a moment—one raw, suspended second where we just stare at each other—before he crosses the room in a few long strides and sets the tulips gently on the counter.
“I heard you’re leaving,” he says.
My chest constricts. “Tonight is my last show.” I force a swallow. “Then I’m leaving.”
He nods, slowly. Too slow, like he’s humoring me.
There's a shift in his expression. It’s calm, but sharp underneath.
“To New York?” he asks.
I nod, because it’s not completely a lie. I do have to fly through New York on my way to Moscow.
“I went to the lawyer’s office,” he says.
The air leaves my lungs.
My eyes drop to the floor instinctively, to the toes of my ballet flats beside his polished dress shoes. I can’t bear to look at him when he tells me that he signed the papers.
“Oh,” I manage. “I—I’m sorry I didn’t get to sign yet. I will, though, tomorrow. I just got busy.”
“Busy,” he echoes, not fooled. Not even close. “Not too busy enough to clean out the penthouse before I could come home so we could talk, but now you’re too busy to sign the papers to end it?”
He waits until my eyes lift to his.
Then he says, very quietly:
“I know.”
My pulse freezes.
“Know… what?”
“About the trial,” he says. “And Moscow. And Maxim.” He pauses. “And why you left.”
