Something changes between us after that night. We don’t talk about it. Don’t acknowledge what happened. But there’s an ease now, a rhythm to our interactions that wasn’t there before.
In the office, we work together seamlessly. He anticipates what I need before I ask. I catch references he makes without requiring explanation. When he hands me a file, our fingers brush, and neither of us flinches. When I bring him coffee, he thanks me with a smile that makes my stomach do things it shouldn’t.
It’s comfortable. Too comfortable.
So I compensate by avoiding him at home. I retreat to my room as soon as we get back from work, claiming exhaustion or a headache or just the need for alone time. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand anything, but I catch him watching me sometimes.
I tell myself this is for the best. Clear boundaries. Separate spaces. No more blurred lines.
Then one Thursday, he doesn’t come home.
I notice around eight o’clock, when I venture out of my room for a glass of water and find the penthouse dark and silent.His briefcase isn’t by the door. His jacket isn’t on the hook. The kitchen is empty, with no signs that anyone has been here since we left for work this morning.
He didn’t mention any late meetings or dinners. Any Bratva business that might keep him out.
I check my phone. No messages.
By nine, I’m pacing the length of the living room, wearing a path in the expensive carpet. This is ridiculous. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t owe me an explanation for his whereabouts. We’re not really married—not in any way that counts.
But what if something happened? What if the Volkovs retaliated? What if he’s lying in an alley somewhere, bleeding out, and I’m just sitting here like an idiot waiting for him to walk through the door?
I try calling. Straight to voicemail.
I text:Is everything okay?
No response.
The minutes crawl by. I make tea I don’t drink. I flip through channels I don’t watch. I tell myself I’ll go to bed at eleven. Then midnight. Then one.
At some point, exhaustion wins, and I drift off on the couch with my phone clutched in my hand and my tea gone cold on the coffee table.
I wake to the sensation of being lifted.
“What—” I blink, disoriented, and find Menlow’s face inches from mine. He’s carrying me down the hallway toward my bedroom. “What time is it?”
“Late. Go back to sleep.”
“Where were you? I tried calling—”
“I said go back to sleep.”
I look at him more closely. Really look. His jaw is set like granite, his eyes are hard, and there’s something simmering beneath his surface that I’ve never seen before. Something dark and dangerous.
“What happened?” I ask, more awake now. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look—”
“Don’t ask questions tonight, Kirsten.” He shoulders open my bedroom door, and the movement jostles me against his chest. “I’m not in the mood.”
The coldness in his tone catches me off guard. After everything—after the dinner, after the night we shared, after the easy rhythm we’d fallen into at work—he’s shutting me out like I’m nothing. Like I’m just some stranger he tolerates.
Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it.
“Put me down.” I push against his chest, hard. “I can walk.”
He sets me on my feet without argument, and I step back to put distance between us. He looks exhausted, I realize now. There are dark circles under his eyes and a tightness around his mouth, like he’s been clenching his teeth for hours.
