The words land sharply, leaving me staring.
“Scared men do stupid things,” he goes on, quieter now. “They push away the things that matter. Because keeping them close…” He shakes his head. “In our world, caring about someone is the fastest way to get them killed.”
I can’t breathe for a second. “What are you saying?”
Dima looks at me straight on, and for once, his expression softens. Not much. Just enough to make me see it—understanding. Maybe even pity.
“I’m saying you matter to him,” he says. “More than he knows how to handle.”
The second Plan B tastes the same as the first: chalky, bitter, like swallowing regret. I chase it with water from the kitchen sink. The penthouse is quiet now. Too quiet.
Dima and Boris are gone, leaving me alone with the wreckage of tonight. The kitchen counter is spotless except for one empty pan in the sink. Boris didn’t just eat my pasta—he licked the fucking pan clean. Every drop of sauce, every strand of linguine.
I dump the pan in with the rest of the dishes. The wooden spoon clatters against the steel. I grab the CVS bag—still heavy with the remaining boxes Anton bought—and shove it into one of the upper cupboards behind the fancy dishes I’ll never use. The empty Plan B box goes in the trash where it belongs.
My hands move on autopilot. Rinse the pan. Wipe the counter. Put away the olive oil I left out like I was planning to cook here again.
Like I was planning to stay.
The dishtowel goes back on its hook. Everything perfect and sterile, like I was never here at all. Like I didn’t spend twenty minutes thinking I mattered.
I drag myself out of the kitchen, legs heavy as lead. Each step feels like walking through mud.
I stumble back to the bedroom and fall face-first onto the bed. Still in my clothes. Still smelling like garlic and humiliation. The mattress is too soft, too expensive, like everything else in this place that isn’t mine.
My chest feels hollow. Scraped out. Like someone took a spoon to my insides and left me empty.
Gordo materializes from whatever shadow cats hide in when humans lose their shit. He hops onto the bed with zero fucks given about my breakdown. Lands right on my back like I’m furniture.
“Ow.” I don’t move. Can’t move.
He walks up my spine like I’m a piece of furniture, paws pressing into my shoulder blades until I roll over. Then he plants himself on my chest. All fifteen pounds of spoiled cat parked like he’s my warden.
His green eyes stare straight into mine.
I groan and cover my face with my hand. “Great. Even you’ve got green eyes. Exactly what I needed—another reminder of him.”
I slap my own cheek lightly, muttering, “Stop it. Not everything is about Anton.”
Gordo slow-blinks at me. Cat for“Duh, human.”
“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. “I fucked up.”
His purr kicks on, low and steady, vibrating through my ribs. It’s ridiculous how much comfort I get out of it. Real, solid, uncomplicated. Everything Anton isn’t.
I scratch under his chin, and he tilts his head, pressing into my fingers like a spoiled king. Purr gets louder.
More pets, peasant.
“You saw it all, didn’t you?” My voice is scratchy, the words scraping their way out. “Me cooking like some wannabe housewife. Acting like I belonged here.”
He headbutts my palm when I stop scratching.
“Right. Sorry. Your emotional breakdown can wait. Pet the cat first.”
A laugh slips out, broken but real. At least he doesn’t care if I cry into my garlic-smelling shirt.
He kneads at my chest, claws snagging in the fabric. Press, release. Press, release. Like he’s trying to dig the humiliation out of me.
