Just then, the phone I'd tossed aside lit up again.
My heart skipped a beat.
That faint glow was like a damn curse.
My pulse stuttered. No way. Him again?
Was it him demanding my photo, or something even filthier?
A wild mix of craving and terror gripped me. The clarity from that post-orgasm haze vanished in an instant.
With shaky hands, I reached for the glowing thing.
Okay, just one look.
Absolutely, positively the last one.
Chapter Two
Alexander
Steam still lingered in the bathroom as I threw on a black silk robe, toweling off my damp hair. Tonight's "business meeting" had been even more tedious than expected—that smart-ass American spent the whole time trying to test my limits with his pathetic tactics, until I put a loaded Makarov on the table. Only then did he finally learn how to shut up and listen.
Boring.
I'd been maintaining this order through violence and fear for ten years now. Ever since the day my parents fell in pools of blood, I'd learned to crush enemies with superior force. I'd succeeded, but after the flames of revenge died out, only endless emptiness remained. Everything had become routine, without surprises.
Until tonight.
My phone buzzed softly on the bed.
I didn't even bother looking up. Messages at this hour were usually Ivan's follow-up reports or some idiot causing trouble. But it buzzed again. Then a third time. Irritated, I walked over and grabbed the phone.
The screen showed messages from an unknown number.
Photos.
From that ballsy little reporter—the one who'd been scared shitless but still had the guts to photograph me.
My eyebrow lifted slightly.
Honestly, I'd expected her to agonize for a week, maybe even block my number entirely. That terrified expression hadn't looked fake.
But she'd actually sent them.
I leaned back against the headboard and opened the first photo. Not exactly professional, even a bit blurry from shaky hands, but that angle... damn clever. She'd captured something I never showed the world—not the power and fearlessness, but a moment of detachment and exhaustion amid the chaos that I hadn't even noticed myself.
I lit a Cuban cigar, taking a deep drag and letting the harsh smoke fill my mouth.
Anna Parker.
Her terribly disguised face flashed through my mind. Smoky makeup so heavy it looked like she'd been punched, cheap blonde curls that screamed fake, and that bargain-bin leather dress. But none of it could hide the fire in those green eyes—panic, defiance, and a curiosity she didn't even recognize.
I'd already had Ivan investigate her—21, intern at the New York Daily, living in a South Side shithole even rats would avoid. No boyfriend, no criminal history, clean as fresh paper. An ordinary girl who'd dared to point a camera at me on my own turf.
I chuckled softly. How long had it been since anyone dared look me in the eye, let alone capture me through a lens? The politicians who trembled before me, the business partners desperate to please me, the subordinates who bowed and scraped—they all knew who I was, what crossing me meant.
But she didn't know.
