“Good enough to ease your heartbreak?” I ask, dryly.
“Better than therapy,” she says, standing and adjusting her hair. “Though not nearly as satisfying as a goodbye Rough sex would’ve been.”
I don’t rise to the bait.
“I’ll be heading back to Russia soon,” she adds, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Hopefully, I never see you again, Sasha.”
“Likewise,” I reply without missing a beat. Then, more firmly, “Don’t ever speak badly about Lucas again. And if you see him, you don’t talk to him. Not a word.”
Her gaze meets mine for a beat, then she nods.
“Alright,” she says softly, with some twisted grace. “Consider that my parting gift.”
She turns for the door, heels clicking against the floor. Just before leaving, she throws one last look over her shoulder.
“Goodbye, Alex,” she says with a wink. “I’m off to shake my heartbroken ass on a yacht—with your money.”
She blows me a kiss, then disappears through the door.
The silence she leaves behind is a relief.
***
“Welcome back, Mr. Petrov,” Chris, my doorman, says as soon as I step into the private lobby of my penthouse.
“How are you, Chris?” I offer him a brisk nod.
“Very well, sir,” he replies with a polite smile. “Your mother and brother left about an hour ago.”
I give him a small nod of thanks and head toward the elevator. As the doors slide shut, I lean back against the wall, eyes on the numbers as they tick upward. My mind’s not on work anymore, or the stupid visit from Vera.
I’m not nervous—I’m not someone who gets nervous—but there’s a weightless feeling in my chest that I can’t quite name. Something fluttering. Restless. Light.
It only happens when it’s about Lucas.
It’s new. Unfamiliar. But I don’t hate it. It’s been like this since I met him.
Every time I come home and he’s here, moving around my space like he belongs, something inside me settles. I feel… content. Like I have something real. Like I have everything.
Waking up next to him. Cooking for him. Watching him eat. The way he lights up when he talks about something that fascinates him. The way his voice softens when he tells me about his favorite songs or TV shows. The way he’s started to speak to me more freely, comfortably.
I have never been one who talks much. It’s not something I can change. But Lucas doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t fill the silence with awkwardness. He doesn’t try to pull words out of me that I don’t have. He just… talks. And let me listen.
And I do. Every time.
Because he trusts me enough to talk and I’ll never stop being grateful that he isn’t silent with me, that he chooses to be loud, in all the ways that matter.
The elevator reaches my floor, and the moment the doors slide open, something flutters in my chest—light and sharp, like the spark of a match.
And there he is.
Standing right in front of the elevator, waiting for me. His curls are still damp, like he just stepped out of the shower, and he’s wearing one of those loose, off-shoulder shirts that hang lazily down one of his delicate shoulders. His shorts are the kind I like on him, the ones that bare his thighs, his legs, all that soft, fair smooth skin that drives me fucking insane.
Ever since I saw him wearing them the day I visited his place after our argument at my parents’ place, I haven’t been able to get the sight out of my head. It’s seared into me. The way it had looked on him. The way I wanted him.
And now, he’s here. In my space. Ours.
“Hi,” he says, voice soft, almost unsure.
