It was fun, pretending to belong in that club, and be Kirill’s girlfriend. Relaxing into the illusion that I’m the object of Kirill’s devotion, but it was a fantasy.
“I’m glad you’ve joined the London Maths Club,” I say as we walk to the front door of the house. I feel weirdly protective of Kirill, and I think those men will help him spend less time with his victims, because that’s not healthy.
“Yes?” he replies, sounding amused. “Why is that?”
He lets us in but pauses in the entrance hall with its white marble floor, curtainless windows that look out onto the black of the night, and high ceiling. And when I don’t reply immediately, he takes my shoulder and turns me towards him.
I draw in a deep but shaky breath.
“I think it’ll be good company for you when I’ve left.” It comes out in a rush.
His fingers tighten on me.
“We both know that I believe you. I could have escaped this evening. I’m not going to tell anyone about your ‘hobby’,” I hurry on so I won’t lose my courage and say something else, like that I want to stay with him. “You can let me go safely. You don’t have to pretend, or do deals every day, or waste your time monitoring my social media messages.”
Even if leaving him will break my heart. Because it turns out, the one thing worse than thinking Kirill doesn’t trust me is pretending to be his girlfriend when I’d love for our fake relationship to be real.
He’s silent, and I don’t know how to interpret that.
“If you coming after me isn’t enough incentive to not tell anyone, then there this too—I think you’re doing a good thing. And now you have the Maths Club to share the burden of dealing with the men you catch, you won’t need my company anymore.”
I realised tonight that was all this is. I told him he should get some friends rather than hang out with his captives, and he’s replacing me with exactly what I suggested, and using me to cement his place in the group.
Clever me did myself out of a role. I thought he was beginning to warm to me, but I’ve just facilitated my replacement. What a genius.
It’s like when I was in my teens and I encouraged my mother to try dating apps, only to find myself discarded and ignored when she found a new family.
I don’t want to go through that with Kirill. I’d rather leave now than see his interest in me wane.
He scowls.
“I won’t need you anymore?” he repeats sceptically.
“Exactly. You don’t want a prisoner, and don’t need one to talk to. You can call up Mayfair or whoever.” I’m not jealous. I’m not.
I am.
“You don’t think I want you?” he says in a throaty whisper.
I shrug. “You’re keeping me around because I saw you kill that man, and your weird honour system means you can’t kill me. That’s not actually wanting me. You should let me go. You can’t chase me every day, forever.” Not that I would mind that option, but he’s a billionaire mafia boss. He has more important things to do.
His brows lower further, darkening his face.
“Change your shoes.”
“What?” I’m taken aback by his abrupt shift of topic.
“Put the shoes you run in on. I’m going to chase you, and you can’t run in those.” He points at the expensive high heels I’m wearing.
I don’t move, confused by the demand.
“Now,” he snaps.
I slip off the heels and dash to get the flat, comfy shoes I was wearing the night Kirill kidnapped me, and have cleaned twice since he chased me through the mud.
By the time I’m back in the entrance hall, Kirill has discarded his suit jacket and tie, and rolled up his sleeves. And he has the neon mask hanging from one finger.
“My dress!” I suddenly realise. It’s pink knee-length silk chiffon. Hardly practical for running in.
