Apparently, he had taken that as a challenge.
The man had then proceeded to bring back half the damn grocery store. It had taken me forever to put it all away. He’d brought three types of peanut butter, two different brands of oat milk, some frozen duck, and an entire shelf of imported condiments I couldn’t even pronounce. Add that to all Nik already had, and I was good on food for months.
But bless him. He’d meant well.
Two days later, when he’d come back to check on me, I was ready. I’d made him sit on the barstool while I crafted the most absurdly specific shopping list I could muster—designer candles, satin pillowcases, erotica books with covers so wild I would have loved to see his face when he handed them to the cashier.
To his credit, Henri never even flinched—just nodded, made notes, and gave me that very French shrug that somehow managed to be both exasperating and amusing.
Poor guy had no clue what to do with a hyperactive Southern girl hellbent on spending Nik’s money.
Thanksgiving had come and gone a few days ago, not that it mattered much to me. Since my parents and sister had died,the holidays had never been the same. I barely celebrated them anymore. This year I’d figured it would just be me, tucked away in the penthouse. I’d texted the Prison Warden to ask him to let my grandpa know I was safe so he wouldn’t worry. He replied that he’d handled it and told me to enjoy the “special meal” I would be receiving.
That “special meal” had arrived in Henri’s hands—a full spread of Thanksgiving classics, complete with a pie box balanced on top. Since he was French, he wasn’t one to celebrate the holiday either, and he’d made some offhand remark about the absurdity of the one day a year Americans cook and eat an entire turkey. He was especially baffled by the concept ofturducken, shaking his head like it was a war crime against poultry. “You stuff a bird…inside another bird…insideanotherbird?” he’d asked, as if I’d personally invented it. I’d nearly choked laughing.
We’d ended up demolishing half the feast between the two of us and watching a couple of movies until late that night. Henri was starting to feel less like Nik’s head of security and more like a big brother I’d never asked for but was secretly glad to have.
“I’m here to serve, Miss Oakley,” he’d said more than once.
“Careful, Henri,” I had teased, “a girl could get used to this level of devotion—all the personal attention.”
He’d chuckled. “Then my boss would surely kill me.”
I hadn’t gotten much out of him beyond that. He wouldn’t tell me Nik’s last name or any other details about him. There were no chinks in the armor. He was polite, professional, and tight-lipped as hell. Infuriating.
So naturally, I had doubled down. The lists had gotten longer. More creative. I’d even tried to talk him into adopting a kitten from the ASPCA. He’d claimed to be allergic. I had teased him, telling him he was weak.
But overall Henri had been a ridiculously good sport about everything. And he was nice to look at too—with that artfully tousled hair and those warm brown eyes. Not to mention he had a voice that made everything sound like poetry. As if Henry Cavill had been raised on Bordeaux and charm.
I could’ve flirted shamelessly with him for hours, if I hadn’t had someone else on my mind.
Because no matter how handsome Henri was, he wasn’t Nik.
Nik didn’t justlookdangerous—hewasdangerous. But that wasn’t what made me so drawn to him. It was the way he wore that danger. He was quiet, coiled with tension but always in control. A predator in Armani. And he had charm—not the flashy kind that made it seem like he was begging for attention, but the lethal kind that drew you in without asking.
Nik didn’t need to speak to own a room.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Henri had fulfilled my every whim and accomplished every task I’d thrown at him, running across Manhattan like some mafia fairy godmother, and yeah…part of me felt guilty. But a bigger part hoped it would eventually provoke a response from Nik. A scolding text. A surprise visit. Anything.
But he had remained silent.
Apart from those first few texts and the note, I’d received not a peep. Not even an emoji.
It was as if he’d disappeared completely.
But strangely—contradictorily—I’d never felt more cared for.
The most surprising thing about his remote caregiving was the therapist he’d sent.
Dr. Maria St. Clair wasn’t what I had expected. She wasn’t an old lady with gray hair wearing a boring navy-blue blazer. She was in her early thirties, chic as hell, with perfectly winged eyeliner and a no-bullshit attitude that reminded me of Nat.
God, I missed Nat and Jae.
Maria didn’t tell me she was connected to the underworld, but she didn’t have to. The way she talked about the violence I’d been subjected to, about men like Nik, made it clear. This wasn’t her first mafia rodeo.
At first, I’d hated that she showed up every day. Her presence felt like surveillance with a side of therapy. But she didn’t pry. She listened. Called me out when I tried to avoid issues. Never made me feel like a project, never had a desire to fix me.
