“Ten seconds,” he says, counting softly in a language I don’t know and want to. It sounds like Russian, but I can’t be sure.
I hate that my body chooses this moment to memorize him. The press of his abdomen against my aching pussy, the steady rhythm in his chest that I feel under my palm, the possessive way his hand spreads over my hip as if I’m his.
Ten seconds pass. He steps away.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod because yes, I can breathe. The world isn’t tilting. The mirror shows a girl with kiss-flushed lips instead of red-rimmed eyes, and that’s a scandal everyone forgives.
“Good,” he says, and reaches for a tissue like he lives here. He dabs under one eye with disarming care, demolishing a trail of mascara with a surgeon’s focus. He does the other, dabbing until my cheeks are free of mascara stains. His knuckle grazes the corner of my mouth, and every time that happens, a blaze erupts in my groin. His fingers are steady, rough, and gentle at the same time. He holds my face with one hand, digging his fingers into my jaw as he works.
I don’t utter any protests. I’m stunned and speechless.
Being cared for by a man is a novel experience for me. I could get addicted to this, to having my face caressed, to someone letting me fall apart and being there to clean up the mess. Mydad never wiped my tears after I cried. He never put on a Band-Aid when I scraped my knee, either. But this man I don’t even know cleans my face like we’ve loved each other for twenty years.
A tender emotion grows in my heart, filling my chest with warmth.
“Thank you,” I say. The tears have dried. The proof of my breakdown is gone, too. My eyes look like a raccoon’s, but at least there’s nothing on my cheeks. He did a good job.
Dmitry straightens, tossing the stained napkin into the trash can. Heat rushes through my stomach when I notice how wide his shoulders are. He towers over me like a sentinel. “Don’t thank me. I’m not your friend. I didn’t come here to save you.”
I draw myself back up, spine steel under silk. His tone has shifted. It’s cold, harsh, raspy. That sets off the warning bells in my head. He wasn’t friendly before, but now he’s looking at me like he’s a predator and I’m his prey. “If this is the part where you tell me to be more careful because you’re a bad guy, I’m fully booked for condescension this week.”
His mouth inches into what could be a smile if he believed in them. “I think you are very careful, Callista Vale.”
The way he says my name makes it feel less like a signature and more like a possession.
He nods toward the door. “They’re gone. Five minutes. Then you will walk out looking perfect, and look at them like nothing in the world could reach you.”
“I know how to do my job.”
He studies me, pleased and bored at once. “Yes. You’re excellent at pretending to be untouchable.” His gaze skims the clasp at my nape, returns to my eyes. “And now you owe me.”
The floor shifts one inch.
I laugh, a soft, practiced sound that buys time. “Owe you? For what? Trespassing? Invasion of privacy? An unasked-for kiss?”
“For leverage,” he says simply. “I helped you keep your image.” He nods at the mirror. “If I told them what I saw, you would bleed out by morning. You’re not who they think you are. You are just a desperate girl trying to hang out with people who are nothing like you. Your Daddy is not old money, nor is he a businessman.”
My pulse bangs loud enough to embarrass me. “I never said he was any of those things.”
“But you know that’s what they all think. Because you let them believe that you’re one of them. I suppose you want to fit in, to be popular.”
I bite my lip. I’m doing all this for the sake of my future business, but he doesn’t need to know that. The last thing I want is to give him more leverage.
“Is it a crime to want to be popular? I work hard for it. Also, how do you know about my Dad?”
He tilts his head. “I’ve heard things. And you don’t act like a girl who comes from money. You’re way too cautious and too much of a people pleaser. You see, real wealthy people are all entitled assholes like me.”
His smile is sharp with teeth. His canines shimmer under the light, making him look like an actual monster.
He takes his phone from his pocket, unlocks it with a thumbprint, and taps twice. He holds up the screen.
A photograph of me crying, and another one of the two of us in the mirror, his mouth on mine, my fists curled in his shirt like I planned to rip it, my wet lashes spiked. He must have taken it when my eyes were closed.
Panic punches the air from my lungs.
My voice is very calm. “Delete it.”
