I stare at the screen for a solid ten seconds before I type:
ME: Should I show up on all fours, since that’s clearly the only position you respect?
I stare at it, pulse hammering, then delete it, letter by letter. Can’t give him the satisfaction.
But my fingers twitch like they’ve got something to say, anyway. They move on instinct—petty, pissed-off instinct.
ME: Just curious, do you always text like a warlord, or is this foreplay?
Delete.
A bitter laugh bubbles up, dry in my throat. I rest the phone on my thigh and dig my knuckles into my eyes like that’ll wring the crazy out of me. It doesn’t.
He’s not evenhere, and he still manages to crawl under my skin like a parasite with a Rolex.
I pick the phone back up, thumb hovering. My jaw clenches.
ME: Your dick has more manners than you.
Delete.
God. What is wrong with me?
No, what is wrong withhim?
I toss the phone face-down on the mattress and climb into bed, hoping sleep will show up and take me out of this day like a hitman.
Buzz.Another one.
I roll over, groaning, and check it.
Konstantin: Your car’s in Garage One. Aston Martin. Matte gunmetal. Fingerprint ignition. Manual’s in the glove-box. GPS set to the office. Try not to crash.
I swallow. Slowly. Like I’m trying not to throw the phone out the window. My hand shakes from howmadI am. At him. At myself. At this entire fucking… whateverthisis.
Because this—this—is how he follows up after wrecking me in the front seat like I’m a stress relief toy he keeps in the glove-box. No words. No checking in. Just logistics. A schedule and a sports car, like he’s paying me for services rendered, and now it’s time to get back to work.
Like I’m one of his girls. One of the ones he keeps fed, housed, and dressed—as long as they know their place. And apparently, mine’s on my knees.
I want to scream. I want to call Elena. I want to throw something.
Instead, I’m up again, legs moving before my brain signs off.
I swing open the side door of my suite and stomp straight into the corridor. Beautiful. Quiet. Marble floors and soft light spilling from sconces like it’s a goddamn spa.
I pass through what looks like a private library, except it’s the kind that no one actuallyuses. The kind with books color-coded and untouched, like they’re just props in a billionaire’s personality cosplay.
I don’t slow down.
“Third shelf,” Anya had whispered the other day. “Behind the Russian folklore section. There’s a latch.”
I find it. A tiny brass button disguised as part of the book spine. Of course. Because apparently, only dickheads with multiple enemies and main character syndrome need this many secret passageways.
Who does he think he is, Batman?
The wall clicks open.
And just like that, I’m in his territory.
