Because this isn’t James’ office anymore.
Everything feels different with Konstantin in it.
Konstantin walks ahead of me as if he’s been in this space for years instead of minutes.
Then—he sits.
Like a warrior king settling onto his throne.
The chair is huge, built to dominate the room, but with him in it, it feels like it was made for him.
His expression shifts.
Serious.
I see him more clearly now. Sunlight pours through the window like it has a personal grudge against me, hitting just right—carving out the sharp angles of his jaw, the unfair perfection of his cheekbones, the faint crease near his brow that somehow makes him look even better.
What’s wrong with me?
I shouldn’t be noticing this. I shouldn’t care that time has only made him look better.
He gestures at the chair across from him. “Sit.”
I don’t move.
I can’t.
Because my brain is catching up way too fucking fast—
He’s going to bring it up.
Oh, my God, he’s going to talk about it. Me. Naked. In his mansion. Doing things no woman should ever do when a man is watching.
Fuckfuckfuck.
Heat crawls up my neck, my stomach flips, and suddenly, my entire body is reacting before he’s even said a word—
And before I can stop myself, I blurt out—
“Where’s my wallet?”
I force my spine straight, arms crossed, legs crossed, and my sanity desperately trying to follow.
His lips quirk up at one corner—that predatory half-smile that makes my insides turn to liquid.
“Is… that the only thing you’re concerned about?”
I squeak. Actuallysqueaklike some demented mouse caught in a very expensive, very Russian trap. Because holy shit—he’s talking about my… my…
“You… you’ve stolen the thing!” The accusation bursts out before my brain can stop my mouth. “The… the birthday present!”
Oh God. Did I really just say that out loud?
“Stolen that thing?” He rolls the words around in his mouth like they’re amusing him. LikeI’mamusing him.
“Yes! It’s… it’s creepy that you kept it!” I’m on a roll now, verbal diarrhea in full swing. “What kind of person keeps someone’s personal… personal…equipment? That’s some serial killer-level stuff right there, Mr. Belov. I mean, what are you even doing with it? Actually, no—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. But it’s creepy. You’re creepy. This whole situation is—”
“Creepy?” His voice drops an octave, and suddenly, I remember who the actual creep is here. You know, the one whobroke into his house and got intimate with her new toy while staring at his portrait?
