Caleb fucking Whitfield.
And soon, he’ll know mine.
27
Mary
My phone vibrates during the afternoon slump when I’m staring at spreadsheet cells that might as well be hieroglyphics. Last task of the day: reconciling account discrepancies that make no sense and probably don’t matter. The kind of busy work that exists purely to fill time between now and five-thirty.
Dima will pick you up after work. Grocery shopping. - A
I blink at the screen. Read it again. Then one more time, just to make sure I’m not having some kind of work-induced hallucination.
Right.“A” must mean Anton.I save the number in my contacts under his full name before my brain can talk me out of it, then immediately wish I’d added something snarky instead.
Grocery shopping? With Dima? The man who speaks in monosyllables and looks like he could bench-press a refrigerator?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I type:
I can buy my own groceries.
The response comes so fast that he must have been waiting for me to argue.
Anton: No.
That’s it. JustNo.Like I suggested we rob a bank instead of buying cereal. Like the concept of me wandering through Safeway alone is somehow more dangerous than my current situation, which involves being surveilled by men who probably keep spare ammunition in their glove compartments.
I stare at my phone until the screen goes black, showing my own confused reflection in the dark glass. My hair’s a mess. I have that glazed look people get when they’ve been staring at computers too long. And somewhere in my eyes is the expression of someone who’s slowly realizing her life has been hijacked by people who text in complete sentences but refuse to explain anything.
When did my life become a place where Russian men dictate my produce purchases? When did I become someone who doesn’t argue harder about it?
The worst part? I’m kind of relieved.
My fridge has been making that weird humming noise again, the one that sounds like it’s plotting something. I’ve been living off energy bars for three days, telling myself I’ll go shopping tomorrow, then tomorrow, then maybe this weekend, then definitely next week. But next week keeps not coming. Meanwhile, my stomach’s been having philosophical debates with itself about whether expired yogurt counts as a meal.
So yeah. Maybe letting someone else handle the grocery situation isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me lately.
Though it’s definitely in the top ten weirdest.
I glance around the office. Stephanie’s at her desk, typing with the kind of aggressive finger-stabbing that suggests she’s composing hate mail. Janice is on the phone, laughing too loudly at something that’s probably not funny.
Dave’s door is closed. Correction: Caleb’s door is closed.
Nobody’s paying attention to me. Nobody cares that I just received a text that sounds like a kidnapping with benefits.
My phone buzzes again.
5:30. Employee parking garage. Level 2.
Another new number. I’m guessing this one’s Dima. I add it to my contacts, same as the others, because apparently, I’m collecting Bratva men in my phone like it’s some twisted loyalty program.
I stare at the message for a long moment. Then type back:
Ok.
Because what else am I going to say?
That I have other plans?
