It’s strange, seeing something that felt so loud from the inside turned into a two-paragraph filler story between election polls and celebrity nonsense.
My fingers hover over the keys.
Then I type:Aleksander Antonov.
The search results load and my stomach does a slow, unpleasant flip.
There he is. Over and over again.
Business sites, finance pages, glossy profiles with headlines like “The Quiet Force Behind Antonov Holdings” and “The Reclusive Shipping Magnate Diversifying Into Tech.” Photos from conferences, charity galas, a black-and-white magazine cover with his face half in shadow.
In every picture he looks…contained. Expensive suit, watch I’m afraid to even guess the price of, expression neutral in that practiced way powerful men have when they know cameras are on them. There’s always a sense of space around him, even in a crowd—as if people instinctively don’t stand too close.
I click one at random.
It’s an article about a donation to some children’s foundation. There’s a photo of him shaking hands with a politician, a tight half-smile on his face. The caption refers to him as “Russian-born American entrepreneur” and “logistics and infrastructure investor.”
No mention of where he really comes from. No mention of the word he said so calmly in that hotel:Bratva.
I scroll through more images. Him at a podium. Him getting into a car. Him standing on a stage with other men in suits, all of them laughing at something just off camera. In one photo, his hand is lifted like he’s mid-gesture, and I can almost hear his voice.
It doesn’t feel real that the man in these photos is the same one who knelt between my legs on a cheap diner table, who shielded my daughter with his body in a shower of glass.
There’s a faint scar near his eyebrow I never noticed before, thin and pale.
I zoom in without thinking.
His eyes are the same steel gray I remember. Focused. A little tired. Like he’s always watching four steps ahead of everyone else.
My hand lifts. Before I realize what I’m doing, my fingertip is tracing the outline of his nose on the screen, the line of his mouth, the curve of his jaw.
It’s ridiculous, tracing pixels on Maya’s scratched laptop like a teenager with a crush. But for a moment it’s like touching the thought of him is easier than thinking about the real man—guns and blood and choices that can’t be undone.
“Wow,” Maya says behind me.
I jump. My finger leaves a faint smudge on the glass.
She’s leaning over the back of the couch, staring at the screen. “He really is stupidly hot,” she says. “I thought you were exaggerating.”
I close the tab too fast. The empty browser looks accusatory.
“It’s just research,” I say, which sounds weak even to my own ears.
“Uh-huh.” She rounds the couch and drops onto it beside me, tucking her feet under her. “You traced his face, Bell.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I was…thinking.”
“Clearly,” she says dryly. “So. Billionaire businessman. No criminal record. No scandal. Not so much as a messy divorce. Publicly, he’s cleaner than my search history.”
“Doesn’t mean anything,” I murmur. “If anything, that makes it worse.”
Maya studies my face instead of the laptop. “What are you feeling right now?” she asks, and the question is so direct it makes my throat tighten.
I look down at my hands. “Like I’m an idiot,” I say. “Like I’m lucky. Like I’ve just jumped off a building and haven’t hit the ground yet.”
“And about him?” she presses gently.
I think of his mouth on my skin. The way he showed that faintest trace of vulnerability. The way he looked at Lily without even knowing what she was to him.
