Later, after I’d finally pulled myself out of bed, laughing and flushed and unsteady, he took my hand and insisted on breakfast. We went down to the buffet—me in his shirt, hair still wet from the shower, feeling like the rules of ordinary life didn’t apply anymore.
When we sat, something shifted in the room. People glanced up, paused mid-bite, then quietly cleared away from the table Aleksander chose. The staff moved with a different kind of energy, polite but distant, like they recognized him or sensed something about him that made them want to keep their distance.
It was surreal, the way he commanded space and attention without trying. He just existed, and the world seemed to bend around him.
I remember stirring coffee, watching his hands as he buttered toast, feeling untethered and light and slightly giddy. Like the whole thing was a dream—two days stolen out of time, reckless and impossible.
The memory leaves me breathless even now. The only thing I knew for sure, back then or now, was that nothing in my life had ever felt so out of control…or so perfectly right.
After breakfast, I had drifted out into the bright hallway, letting my fingers skim the polished wood of the banister. Just two days earlier, I’d been there for work, too tired and distracted tonotice anything but my phone and the endless lists in my head. After two days locked away with Aleksander, the whole hotel felt different—strange, dreamy, as if I’d crossed some invisible line.
I paused by a window, watching the city bustle far below, my body still humming with the memory of his hands. I almost didn’t notice the woman until she was standing beside me.
She was elegant, maybe in her forties, dressed in muted colors, her gaze as piercing as winter air. She didn’t bother with a smile.
“Are you with him?” she asked, voice quiet but urgent.
I hesitated, caught off guard. “I—sorry?”
She stepped closer, dropping her voice even lower. “With the Russian. The one who took over half the buffet with you. Aleksander.”
My heart skipped. “I…I guess so. Why?”
She looked me over, searching my face for something, then shook her head, almost in pity. “You need to get out. Leave, right now.”
“What are you talking about?”
Her eyes never left mine. “Men like him—men in his world—they hurt people, and they don’t stop. If you’re smart, you’ll disappear before he decides you’re a problem too. Whatever you think this is, it never ends well for women like us.”
I swallowed, every muscle suddenly tense. There was nothing vague about her fear—nothing performative. She was dead serious.
She leaned in, just for me. “He might be charming, but don’t let yourself forget what he really is.”
And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the sunlight, shaken to my core. For a split second, I considered running—just grabbing my things and slipping out, vanishing before Aleksander even noticed.
But when I finally made it back to the suite, his presence pulled me in again, just as dangerous, just as irresistible as before.
Still, her words echoed in my head?—
Men like him hurt people.
I couldn’t quite shake the sense that she was right.
A soft knock sounds a while later, pulling me out of that half-awake, half-unraveling state where thoughts keep looping no matter how tired I am.
Aleksander doesn’t come in right away. “I ordered dinner,” he says through the door, voice low. “Proper food. Not whatever’s left in the minibar.”
I open it to find him already turning away, giving me space, gesturing toward the dining area. The table has been set while I wasn’t looking. White linen. Candles lit low. The kind of quiet, deliberate care that makes my chest tighten again.
Room service arrives in stages, like a small procession. Silver domes lifted one by one. Steam curling into the air.
There’s soup first, a clear broth poured over delicate dumplings and herbs, meant to warm without overwhelming. Then a plate of roasted vegetables arranged like someone actually cared how they landed. A main course of tender fish with lemon and butter,flaky and mild, and another dish beside it just in case I don’t want that—slow-braised meat, rich and comforting, the kind of food that assumes you’ve had a hard day.
There’s bread still warm, torn rather than sliced. Olive oil that smells like summer. A small dish of berries and cream waiting patiently at the end, untouched for now.
I stare at it all, a little stunned. “This is…a lot.”
“You haven’t eaten,” he says simply. “And your daughter will wake up hungry later.”
