Timur murmurs, “She’s buffering.”
Arseny doesn’t laugh. He’s too busy watching her like she’s a bomb in heels. Which, to be fair, she kind of is.
Bella paces the hallway once more, pauses by the water cooler, presses the button for cold like she suddenly cares about hydration, then walks three more steps in the wrong direction.
“She’s glitching,” Arseny says flatly.
She starts toward my office again, slower this time.
I don’t move. Just sip my coffee and watch her lie to herself.
Timur crosses his arms. “Why don’t we just ask her?”
“Because I want her to tell me.”
“Statistically, women don’t confess under pressure,” Arseny adds. “They commit. Then cry. Then double down. Then gaslight.”
Timur blinks. “Is that data-driven?”
“My ex-wife had a blog.”
“Shut up, you twomudak!”
I turn—and there she is.
Bella freezes by the copier, caught mid-jab at the blinking green button. The machine stutters and spits out half a page before giving up completely, like it knows better than to get involved.
She’s not fixing anything. She’s running.
Her glance flickers to me—fast, guilty, raw.
I take a slow sip of my coffee, letting her squirm, letting her invent whatever excuse she thinks might save her.
She knows I know something.
I know she knows I know something.
But here we are—pretending her nails aren’t tapping against the glass like Morse code for“I fucked up.”
I wait.
Because when she does tell me—when she finally cracks—it better not be a half-truth. It better not be packaged in sarcasm orserved with a side of I-didn’t-want-to-bother-you. I want it raw. Unfiltered.
“She’s about to do something stupid,” I say low. “Follow her. No contact unless she bleeds.”
Timur nods once and slips away without a sound.
At the copier, Bella glances at the door—hesitates—then bolts.
Straight back to her office.
The door slams so hard that the frame rattles.
I drag a hand over my face, exhaling sharply through my nose. “Christ. She’s really going through with her stupid decision.”
Arseny snorts. “Define stupid.”
I shift my weight, crossing my arms as Bella’s tiny figure paces the cracked asphalt below us. She’s nervous, twitchy. Sneakers on. Jacket zipped up. Like she thinks she’s starring in her own spy thriller.
