The sight is almost beautiful if you squint.
My apartment is still a shithole. The paint peels in long, curling strips. The ancient, aching pipes whine and moan. Even on a good day, the shower can’t be bothered to run anything but lukewarm.
But it’smyshithole.
Not a sterile penthouse with a pristine, lifeless shine bought and paid for by a man who thought he could fob me off with high thread count sheets, room service, and state-of-the-art podcast equipment.
As if I didn’t recognize a cage, no matter how fancily my name is stenciled on the mail slot. Every surface still belonged to him.
I inhale and push my heels down into the floor, slowly rising into a warrior pose. The strain sets my whole body trembling.My muscles threaten to rebel. I breathe through the tension, concentrating on the pull, the burn, the moment. Centering myself here, on this battered rug, in this battered room.
I am strong. I am focused.
I. Am. Furious.
Ugh. Yoga’s not helping.
Nothing is.
Ever since I walked out of that hotel late last night, the same three emotions keep playing on repeat.
Raw, howling anger, hurt so deep I’m not sure the knot in my stomach will ever unravel, and a stubborn, unfamiliar pride that simmers like the pilot light of a stove.
I left the pro-grade podcast setup, the brand-new laptop, the complimentary champagne, and the view behind. Walked out, caught the train home, and climbed the stairs to my own door like I was coming back to the only thing that had ever been real.
And I guess I was leaving behind a world and people I had no place among.
The Russian mafia. Not Italian like in the movies. I’d tangled myself up with the actual Russian mob. And their enforcer.
I shift, my balance shaking as I stretch into the triangle pose. My ankle wobbles, but I close my eyes and seek the quiet space that sometimes comes with extensive practice.
Instead of my happy blank place, my mind clings to Kirill.
His hands in my hair. The hard, determined set of his jaw when he’s thinking. The way his fingers circled my wrist, not to hurt, but to keep me steady. The rough scrape of his low voice saying my name.
Jordan.
The memory comes slicing through the meditation, through every brittle attempt at stillness.
Prize in hand, soaked to the bone, but still alive, I stood beside him, our lungs burning, our hearts rattling in our chests.For one brutal second, I’d felt the click. The us. The ignition of a team. Partners. I thought we were?—
No!
I open my eyes and lose control of my breathing. The pose collapses.
This isn’t working.
Because I can’t stop thinking of that stupid shark.
I swear he saw me. Not just as a shadow at his side or a useful tool, but really sawme. Jordan. Not Alistair’s daughter. Or heir to the Hearst fortune.
But he proved me wrong.
I was only a problem, a pesky knot. When the dust settled and he had what he wanted, he cut me out. Efficiently. Almost elegantly.
He paid me off like a lover who’d lingered too long. Might as well have tossed money on the dresser on his way out.
He didn’t kill me. A mercy, I guess, for someone like him. But the message was crystal clear.
