Megan turns back to me.
“You okay?”
I nod.
She hesitates, then tells me she’ll report it to our manager, squeezes my arm lightly before walking away. I take a slow breath. My hands are still shaking, but not from fear. From rage.
I glare at Jeremy’s retreating form, knowing this won’t be the last time he tries to mess with me, and I am getting tired of it.
***
I stand outside my apartment building, waiting for Alexander’s driver. My phone is useless now—dead for good.The repairman had told me this morning that it’s beyond saving. Just like me, maybe.
Perfect.
The black car pulls up, and I slip inside before the driver can get out. For two weeks, he’s been ferrying me back and forth, yet I don’t even know his name. He’s never offered it, and I’ve never asked. The silence between us feels like part of the arrangement.
The ride is quiet, as always. My nerves coil tighter the closer we get. I tell myself it’s nothing, that it’s stupid, but anticipation is already blooming warm in my chest. I haven’t seen Alexander in days. And God help me, I’ve missed him.
The elevator ride to his penthouse feels endless. When the doors open, I step into his vast, open living space.
And stop dead.
A woman is descending the stairs, graceful, deliberate. Long red hair tumbles over her shoulders, her black dress clings like it was made for her body alone. Lips painted the same shade as fresh blood curve, unsmiling. There’s something in her carriage—ease, ownership—that makes my stomach knot. She doesn’t look like a guest. She looks like she belongs here.
Her eyes find me. Green, cool, appraising.
“Who are you?” Her voice is low, smooth, tinged with a Russian accent.
I can’t answer. My throat locks.
Footsteps sound above us, steady, unhurried. My pulse spikes.
Alexander.
He appears at the top of the stairs. Shirtless. Only grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, damp hair curling against his temples as though he’s just stepped out of the shower. Every line of his body is honed, hard, effortless. I can’t stop staring.
When I tear my gaze away, she’s watching me with something sharp in her eyes— amusement, maybe. Or curiosity.
“Hello?” she calls again, head tilting, voice lilting with feigned patience.
Before I can even gather the breath to answer, Alex’s voice cuts across the room.
“Leave him alone, Vera.”
Low. Controlled. A warning threaded through steel.
Her eyes flick toward him, glinting. Then, in Russian, she murmurs something smooth, almost teasing. I don’t understand a word, but the way her tone dips, like velvet wrapping around a knife, makes my skin prickle.
Alex replies in the same clipped, decisive tone.
And I hate it.
I hate not knowing.
The sound of their voices—secret and intimate feels like I’ve been locked out of a room I didn’t even know existed.
When she turns back to me, her lips curve into a smile. Knowing. Amused. Like she sees more than I do.
