“He said it was fine. Then he stopped speaking to me for a year.”
I raise a brow. “Healthy.”
He smirks. “Everything with him was war in one way or another.”
Our eyes meet. Too long. Too direct. I look away, clearing my throat. “I don’t usually talk about my family.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then, “You don’t usually talk much at all. Not like this.”
“I don’t know you that well,” I counter.
“True. Anyway, Tatiana underestimated you. She thought she could cut you down and walk away untouched.”
I glance down at my tea. “But I still let her ruin my lunch.”
“She didn’t,” he says. “She just reminded you that you’re not here to be liked.”
That makes me smile. “What am I here for then?”
Yuri’s expression shifts into something more serious. “Money? Power? Whatever the hell you want.”
Silence wraps around us for a long, heavy moment before he finally says, “I’ll let you get back to it.”
He stands and leaves, my eyes wandering down to his perfect ass in those tailored slacks. The door shuts, and I let out a sigh.
It’s late. Rain taps at the windows in a slow, steady rhythm.The office is nearly empty, just the low hum of vacuums from the cleaning staff and distant hushed voices in conversation. My body aches from hours of being hunched over spreadsheets and financial reviews.
I gather my things slowly, stretching my neck as I slide my laptop into its sleeve. I feel the weight of him even before I turn around.
Yuri once again stands in the doorway of my office, one hand in his pocket. My pussy clenches at the sight of him.
“You’re here late.”
I glance at the clock—a little after nine. Holy shit. “Damn. I was in the zone, I guess.”
That gets me a quick nod of approval.“I’ll drive you home.”
I blink. “That’s not necessary. I’m a straight shot on the El.”
His head tilts slightly, and something flares behind his gray eyes. “I wasn’t offering. Come. The city’s dangerous at this hour.”
I open my mouth to push back, but the look he gives me stops the protest before it reaches my lips. I nod without argument. Together, without speaking, we take the elevator down to the parking garage. His car—a sleek, black Aston Martin—is parked in a spot reserved for him. He unlocks the door and opens it for me. I slide inside.
The ride is silent at first. His car is pristine, with black leather, dim console lights, the faint sound of classical piano playing low through the speakers. It even smells expensive, woodsy and dark with something I can’t name.
I give him my address and keep my hands in my lap, watching the city blur past in streaks of rain-washed gold.
“You don’t trust me,” he says suddenly.
I glance at him. “Why would I? I don’t know what you are.”
His fingers flex on the steering wheel, catching that I said “what” and not “who.” “What do you think I am?”
I hesitate, then turn back toward the window. “Dangerous. Cold. And apparently somehow entangled with a woman who was comfortable enough to call me fat in public.” I expect anger. A quick, sharp breath. Maybe silence.
“Tatiana is not my lover. Not anymore. Not for a long time.”
I don’t say anything.
