I take it, letting my fingers graze hers. “You mean the office?”
She gives me a look. “Yes. Ivanov Holdings. Suits. Spreadsheets. Appropriate workplace conduct.”
“Sounds boring,” I say, sipping.
“Yes, but it’s necessary,” she replies, curling up beside me, her knees tucked under her bare thighs. “No favoritism. I want to earn my place there.”
God, she’s magnificent.
“All right,” I say. “Professional all the way. No one will suspect a thing.”
“Good.” But her smile betrays her pride—and her affection.
We fall into silence, sipping our coffee. The world outside is moving and shaking, but here, in this sunlit pocket of morning, there’s only her skin against mine, and the sharp ache of everything still left unsaid.
I’ll tell her soon. I have to.
But not now.
CHAPTER 15
ASTRID
The lighting in the executive bathroom is cruel in the way only fluorescent bulbs can be—bright, revealing, probing.
I’m standing in front of the mirror, shirt lifted just enough to see the slight curve of my stomach. I trace it softly with my fingertips.
I’ve never had a perfectly flat belly, and God knows I’ve never cared. But this is different. The difference between soft and expectant. Between bloated and beginning. It’s subtle. Barely there. But I know. And soon, others will too.
How am I going to tell Yuri?
That question has been looping in the back of my mind ever since I saw those two pink lines in Paris. It’s louder now. I press my hand flat over the slight swell and stare at my reflection, searching for a version of myself that might have the answer.
The door creaks open. I drop my shirt hastily, stepping away from the mirror just as two women from the logistics department stroll in, chattering about weekend plans and a newPeruvian place on West Randolph. Neither of them notice me. Good. I’m not in the mood for small talk.
I slip out into the hallway, heels clicking loudly on the polished floors. As I pass Yuri’s office, I instinctively glance toward the glass panels. Dark. Empty. The room is cast in shadow, the blinds half-drawn, desk untouched. He’s been gone all day.
Ivanov Holdings business, or Bratva business?
Not that there’s much of a line between the two. Sometimes I wonder if the spreadsheets I’m working on are more about laundering than ledgers, that if I stare long enough, I’ll find blood in the margins.
I push that thought away. Not today.
Back in my office, I plant myself at the desk and try to disappear into the neat rows of numbers on my screen. Budgets, forecasts, a trailing acquisition in Zurich. Data is comfortingly neutral. Emotionless. It doesn’t kiss your throat or whisper Russian against your skin.
Stop it,I tell myself. But I can’t.
I blink, and suddenly I’m in my apartment, his hand cupping the back of my neck, thumb tracing the corner of my jaw, the memories of last night filling my mind’s eye. His mouth had been urgent, insistent. He kissed me like he was starving.
And this morning, how he'd woken me up with his fingers teasing along my inner thigh, his voice a low rumble against my spine. I hadn’t even been fully awake before I was gasping into the pillow, legs parted, heart thundering as he drove into me like the world was ending.
And what he did with his mouth…
His hair was still damp from the shower as he kissed me goodbye, promising he’d only be out of the office for a few hours.
Liar, I think to myself, but there’s no anger in it. Only longing.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of him. I’ve got work to do. A baby to hide. A past to understand.And a future that’s starting to press against my shirt.
