I’m not fine,I pushed back.
No response.
Typical.
I had stared at his messages for a long time.
Not because I was mad.
Okay, I was mad.
But mostly?
I was confused.
What was his deal? Was he interested in me or just messing with my head?
Still, I wasn’t about to fall apart.
I’d survived The Sacrifice. I’d survived Delgado. I’d survived being stripped down, humiliated, and nearly sold to the highest bidder.
What were a few days alone in a luxury prison?
But after three full days of pacing, poking around, and obsessively checking my phone like a lunatic ex-girlfriend, I realized the penthouse was not only spotless, but also absolutely devoid of clues as to who this man was. I’d snooped in every single drawer and cabinet in the place and let my imagination run wild searching for hidden doors or compartments.
The place was sterile.
Like a perfectly staged showroom that no one actually lived in.
There was no trash. No personal photos. No clues as to who Nik was besides a bratva stalker hacker man.
I wouldn’t be getting any more information about him until he chose to return.
I mean, he had to at some point. This was his home, right?
So I did what any bored, pissed-off theater nerd would do.
I redecorated the set.
The living room furniture? Moved.
Kitchen? Completely reorganized for someone under five-foot-four.
If I had to live in this place, I would make it mine.
Maybe I could provoke a reaction. I could feel his eyes on me, just like when he’d been following me around Manhattan before.
After his house had been thoroughly feng shui-ed, I threw myself into becoming a yoga master. I completed my latest flow and padded barefoot into the kitchen, wiping sweat from my brow with the hem of my tank top. My calves were on fire, and I was pretty sure my hamstrings would hold a grudge until tomorrow. Pulling open the fridge, I reached for one of the sparkling waters Henri had stocked for me—dragonfruit-lime flavored. My current obsession. Cracking it open, I took a longsip and leaned against the cool marble island. All of a sudden, when I heard a familiar chime from my phone.
It was Henri.
The first time he’d shown up, I hadn’t known what to expect—some gruff, silent soldier in all black, maybe. Someone with a scowl on his face and a gun tucked into his waistband.
Instead, I’d gotten a dark-haired, tall, ridiculously French snack with kind eyes and the patience of a saint.
I’d gawked like a middle schooler when he walked off the elevator. He was immaculate, dressed to perfection, like a French James Bond. I hadn’t known what to say when he asked me what I needed.
“Food?” I’d offered, blinking at him like an idiot.
