His gaze doesn’t waver. “Did you honestly think you’d get out of the building? I knew you were planning something the second you walked into the kitchen.”
“You were watching the cameras?”
“Yes.”
Of course he was.
“And that’s why you called your guard away?” I nod toward the hulking man in the foyer, arms crossed and pouting like a scolded bulldog. The one I planned to throw coffee on.
Dominik doesn’t look back. “Boris would’ve broken your legs to keep you here. That’s his job. Remember that next time you try to manipulate one of my men.”
“It was easier than I expected,” I mutter.
His lips twitch. It’s hard to tell whether it’s irritation or dark amusement. “Don’t test me, Alina. I’m already risking more for you than you understand.”
“Why?” The word slips out sharper than I intend.
“Because you don’t deserve to suffer for your brother’s bullshit,” he says. “And you especially don’t deserve what Gavriil has planned.”
“Then let me go.” It comes out softer than I want, my desperation threading through.
His eyes travel over me, lingering in ways that make my pulse stumble. “I can’t. Not until Archer returns what he stole.”
Better him than Gavriil. But that isn’t saying much since I’m still a hostage.
Dominik bends down to pick up the fallen card. “Since Boris let you steal this without noticing, he’s on roof duty for a month.”
“You mean outside? All day?”
“Yes.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Now he’ll really want to break my legs.”
“No, he won’t.” He says this with complete confidence, as if he has zero doubts.
“I thought you were smarter than this, Alina.” His voice sharpens, disappointment slicing deeper than anger ever could. “Go to your room.”
I slip past him without another word, my heart pounding with humiliation of being treated like a child. But deep down, I know he’s right. There’s no escape for me.
What the hell was I thinking?
In the bathroom, harsh lighting throws every truth I’m trying to avoid back at me: my flushed cheeks, parted lips, the adrenaline buzzing beneath my skin. I splash cold water on my face again, hating how rattled I look.
Back in the bedroom, I lock the door. Not because it’ll stop him, but because I need the illusion of control. I sit on the bench inside the closet, knees drawn in, refusing the comfort of the bed or chair.
My mind circles back to Archer. He always promised his shit would never touch me. He always believed it. And I always believed him—until now.
Later, I rub a dab of hand cream into my fingers just to keep from spiraling. It smells faintly of bergamot, and the absurdity of imagining Dominik shopping for lotion almost makes me laugh. Almost.
Hours creep by slowly. I try watching a little TV. I reorganize the drawers. I remake the bed. Nothing helps pass the time.
When hunger finally wins, I open the door to find a tray waiting—chicken, rice, carrots glazed in something sweet. My eyes burn. I refuse to cry over food. Overanythinghe gives me.
After washing the dishes in the bathroom sink, I stare at myself in the fogged mirror and force out, “Archer will figure something out.” Even though the woman looking back doesn’t quite believe it.
I watch shift changes in the hallway, a quiet choreography of black-clad men with hard eyes. None of them speak to me, butone nods. A simple acknowledgment that I exist. That I’m being watched.
As night settles into the penthouse, the skyline glows a deep New York blue, then black. People live their lives just beyond these windows while I remain trapped.
