Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline like a painting, the city lights sparkling beyond the glass. I could get used to this view, but right now, it just makes me feel small.
I flop onto the oversized sectional in the living room. I dig around for the remote and land on something brainless:Love Is Blind: Sweden. Perfect. Glossy and emotionally bankrupt. Exactly what I need. I press play and let it wash over me. Gorgeous people making terrible choices in glass pods. It’s so far from my world, it almost feels like therapy.
But the noise doesn’t block out the dark thoughts. Spalding’s voice won’t leave me.You’re pregnant, aren’t you?That awful smirk. The implication that if I didn’t play along, someone might get hurt.
What if that someone is me? Or worse—what if it’s my baby?
I pull the throw blanket tighter around me and sink deeper into the couch. I should be writing everything down. Planning. Preparing. But all I can do is sit there, letting the glow of reality TV flicker across my face while my mind spins.
Eventually, I give in to the exhaustion. The show blurs into a lull of Scandinavian accents and overly dramatic music. My eyes close. My breathing evens out.
I drift into a deep sleep.
I wake slowly, blinking into the soft morning light.
It takes me a second to realize something’s off. The couch I fell asleep on was leather and angled toward a massive TV. This… is not that. I’m in a bed with downy pillows and high-thread-count sheets, the kind that feel cool no matter how long you’ve been in them. The air smells faintly like lavender and cedar wood.
Yuri must’ve carried me up.
The thought warms something deep in my chest. I sit up and stretch, arms reaching above my head. The view out the window is all golden skyline, just beginning to soften into blue.
For a moment, I wish he were here. But my eyes catch on something near the door, and the thought dissolves. A work outfit hangs neatly from a hook—blouse, blazer, tailored trousers. Not just nice.Exquisite.I swing my legs out of bed and pad over to it, brushing my fingers along the fabric.
The blouse is ivory silk, light as breath. The blazer is dove gray, sharply cut but feminine, with matching slacks, crisp with a subtle high waist. Ivory Louboutin kitten heels. Everything is timeless. Understated. Classy. Expensive in thatyou only know if you knowkind of way. The kind of outfit a woman wears when she wants to walk into a boardroom and own it.
A box sits on top of the dresser. I open it to find a lovely bra and panty set. Feminine and soft.
I blink, touched in a way I didn’t expect to be.
Then I notice the note on the nightstand. Folded in half, resting neatly beneath a glass of water. The handwriting is bold, clear, and unmistakably his.
Astrid,
I hope you slept well. I noticed you didn’t bring anything to wear for work today, so I asked my sister Elena to pick something up from a boutique she trusts downtown and bring it over. I hope it fits.
The apartment has an arrangement with a car service—just call the front desk when you’re ready to leave, and they’ll send one.
–Yuri
I stare at the note a moment longer, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. It’s all so Yuri.No fuss. Just thoughtful, seamless competence with a side of quiet care.
I press the note between my fingers for a moment, then set it gently back down.
After a quick shower, I get dressed. Every piece fits like it was made for me. The silk skims my skin, the blazer sharpens my posture, the slacks hug all the right places. I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself—not because I look different, but because I look like the woman I’ve always wanted to be.
I take a breath, smooth my hair, and call the front desk. I take one last look around Yuri’s penthouse before I leave. The morning sun glints off the glass walls, making the space appear golden.
When I step into the lobby, a sleek, obsidian-colored sedan waits at the curb. The man standing beside it wears a tailored suit and a stone expression. He’s clean-shaven, built like a linebacker, and most definitely armed.
As I approach, he opens the door without a word.
I slide inside, greeted by leather seats that feel like butter and tinted windows that wrap me in a quiet embrace. Soft music is playing—something string-heavy and orchestral.
The drive is short. Smooth. Not a single jolt or bump. It’s so absurdly luxurious it makes me want to laugh until we pull up to Ivanov Holdings and a brief spike of anxiety thrums through me.
The building looks the same. Modern steel and glass, pristine sidewalks, security at the door. But the second I step into the lobby, I feel it.
Something’s off. The energy’s wrong. It’stootense, too still. More so than normal. The receptionist avoids my eyes. People are speaking in clipped tones, movements too quick or too slow.
