Below the words is a hastily scrawled number. It all reeks of regret and forced politeness. I can’t shake the disappointed feeling that starts in the pit of my stomach. It’s ridiculous, but she’s already gotten under my skin, and I don’t even know her name.
I scrub my hands over my face and go find my phone. I pick it up and press the contact for Vlad, my head of security. The line only rings once.
“What’s up, boss?” Vlad answers.
“I need you to keep tabs on someone,” I say. My voice is flat and controlled, but heat lingers beneath it. I can only hope he doesn’t hear it. “I don’t have a name, but I have a phone number. She has dark hair and brown eyes. If you check my security feed, you’ll see her leaving my penthouse this morning.”
There’s a short pause on the other end.
“Do you want her followed?”
“Yes,” I say. “Get as much information on her as you can.”
“Do you want a protection detail for her?”
“For now, just surveillance,” I confirm. “Unless there is a need, then make contact.”
“I’ll get it taken care of,” he says.
I end the call and go back into my bedroom, staring at the empty space beside me, my jaw tight.
How can I already be this far gone over someone when I don’t even know her name? This isn’t me, and if I were smart, I’d shut the door on this and move on with my life.
But I can still feel her body clenching around me, still taste her breath in my mouth, still hear the soft, broken sounds she made when she shattered beneath me. I can still feel her head on my chest as she slept.
She’s already gotten under my skin, and I don’t think there’s any coming back from it.
6
MOLLY
As the weeks go by, I finally come to terms with the fact that Samuil isn’t going to call me. It’s disappointing, but it’s nothing I’m not used to. I put myself back together and pick up the pieces, just like I always have.
Somehow, my world starts to return to normal, but there’s still this lingering sense that everything is different now. I keep telling myself to stop being ridiculous. These things happen. Sometimes you just meet incredible strangers, have the best sex of your life, and never hear from them again.
Then I wonder if it was all just a fever dream. I tell myself that I’m fine, that everything is fine. My life is back to normal, no different than it was before I met Samuil. I go into work every morning an hour before school starts. I teach classes all day long, keep an eye on my most troubled students, and stay late when I have to. It’s all completely mundane.
Nobody knows any different. Kelly, my friend and mentor, says I seem different in a way she can’t even define, but I tell her it’s just the change in the weather and nothing else.
A month stretches, sliding between lesson planning, cafeteria duty, parent conferences, math tests, and the endless cycle of trying to keep twenty-two kids safe and learning with half the resources we need.
There are days when I’m so busy I barely look up from my desk, days when I forget to eat lunch until Kelly throws a granola bar on my table and gives me that very specific look she reserves for when she thinks I’m about to pass out. She’s usually right. I haven’t had time to have a real lunch with her in ages.
A couple of times this month, I’ve been sure I saw the man who attacked me. Twice I’ve caught a glimpse of someone with the same build, the same jacket, the same cruel angle of his jaw, walking across the grocery store parking lot or leaning against the bus shelter near my apartment. Both times, my breath evaporated instantly, leaving me cold and dizzy and unable to move for a few seconds. When I blinked, he was gone, or he’d turn out to be someone else entirely, a stranger who looked nothing like him.
It makes me feel ridiculous, walking around jumpy and paranoid, seeing danger where there is none. But I still walk faster, still keep my keys clutched tight between my fingers, still take the long way home if I catch even a fragment of a shadow out of the corner of my eye. I know I won’t get so lucky twice. Seeing Samuil again is definitely not worth putting myself in danger.
I haven’t told anyone about what happened that night.
By the time Saturday arrives, I’m so frayed around the edges that Kelly texts me twice just to make sure I’m alive. We decide to meet for coffee at the place near the park, the one with the mismatched chairs, the chalkboard menu, and the barista with purple hair who is always humming something under her breath.
When I step inside, the rich, warm smell of roasted coffee doesn’t give me the same hit of dopamine it usually does. In fact, I feel like I’m going to vomit the second the smell hits my nose.
My stomach twists sharply, an immediate rolling wave that sends me stumbling back a half step. I press a hand to my stomach instinctively, trying to steady my breathing. It’s unusual and irrational. I drink coffee every day. I basically live on it. I need it to survive the morning chaos of fifth graders. Why is the smell so cloying today?
Kelly spots me the instant I hesitate and waves me over.
“Girl, you look exhausted,” she says as soon as I drop into the chair across from her. “And a little green. You feeling okay?”
