She's silent.
"It means that every man in that room either works for the Morozovs or pays them tribute. If you run, they'll find you. If you go to the police, they'll find you. If you try to disappear, they'll find you." I hold her gaze. "I'm the only thing standing between you and a fate far worse than anything I represent. So you can hate me—you should hate me—but you're going to do it from somewhere safe. Are we clear?"
Her eyes search my face. Looking for the man she used to know, the man who danced with her in her kitchen and kissed her like she was air.
He's still here. Buried deep. But she can't see him tonight. Tonight she needs to see the monster.
"What do you want from me?" she whispers.
Everything, I think. Every breath, every heartbeat, every piece of you I was too cowardly to claim two years ago.
"Right now?" I step back, giving her space to breathe. "I want you to walk out of this building with me. Get in my car. Let me take you somewhere safe." I pause. "Everything else can wait until morning."
She's silent for a long moment. I watch the war play out across her face—pride versus survival, fury versus fear.
Finally, she pushes off the wall.
"This isn't forgiveness," she says.
"I know."
"And I want answers. All of them. Tomorrow."
"You'll have them."
She takes a shaky breath. Then she starts walking toward the exit, not waiting to see if I follow.
I do. I always will.
Outside, the night air is cool and clean after the suffocating atmosphere of the auction. Alexei's car idles at the curb—black, armored, indistinguishable from a dozen other luxury vehicles in this part of the city.
Bianca stops at the door, her hand on the handle. She doesn't look at me.
"Two years," she says quietly. "I waited for you for two years."
The words hit me like a knife between the ribs.
"I know," I say. "I was watching."
She flinches. Opens the door. Slides inside without another word.
I stand in the darkness for a moment, letting the cold air fill my lungs.
Then I get in beside her, and we drive away from the wreckage of her old life and into whatever comes next.
Chapter 3 - Bianca
The car is a tomb.
Black leather seats. Tinted windows so dark the city lights are reduced to smears of color. A partition separating us from the driver, who I haven't seen and who hasn't spoken. The soft hum of an engine I can barely hear.
And Misha, sitting three feet away from me, as still as a statue carved from ice.
I press myself against the door, putting as much distance between us as the backseat allows. My heart is still racing—one forty, maybe one fifty. I should be coming down from the adrenaline by now, finding my equilibrium, but every time I start to calm, I remember where I am and who I'm with, and my pulse spikes all over again.
He's different.
I study him in the darkness, stealing glances when I think he isn't looking. The Misha I knew wore his charm like a tailored suit—easy smiles, warm eyes, a way of making me feel like the only person in the room. This man has none of that softness. His jaw is a hard line. His hands rest on his thighs, perfectly still, like a predator conserving energy. Even his breathing is controlled—slow, measured, deliberate.
