He almost smirks. “You’re sharper than you think. Just don’t overthink it.”
Easy for him to say. He’s been trained for this. I’m just a nurse who still triple-checks a dosage before giving an injection.
The silence between us thickens until the driver finally turns off the main road and pulls into an underground parking lot, the tires echoing against the concrete walls. The place is spotless, lit by soft white lights that make everything look a little unreal. Artyom gets out first, and I follow, the chill in the air creeping through my sweater. He nods to the driver, then walks toward a private elevator tucked behind a set of silver doors.
I step inside after him, still trying to wake up.
“Why are we even here this early?” I ask.
He presses a button without looking at me. “Because you need clothes.”
“I got that part,” I say, crossing my arms. “But why now? These places don’t even open till ten.”
He glances at me then, that small, unreadable smile flickering across his face. “They’re not open.”
I frown. “Then how are we?—”
“They work for me,” he says, low and matter-of-fact, the kind of tone that fills the space between us without effort.
The elevator doors slide open before I can answer, and warm air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of perfume and polished marble. We step into a bright lobby, empty except for a few employees standing near the storefronts, waiting like they knew he was coming. My sneakers squeak against the floor, the sound too loud in the quiet.
A tall brunette in a fitted dress spots us from across the lobby and waves, her smile bright and easy. “Tyoma!”
Artyom’s expression softens for the first time since I met him. “Calina.”
She walks straight up to him, kisses his cheek, and turns to me with eyes the same sharp gray as his but warmer. “So this is her?”
Her tone is playful, but I freeze anyway.
“This is my sister,” Artyom says simply.
Before I can react, another woman joins us, younger, with hair so dark it almost shines blue under the lights. “You didn’t tell me she was pretty,” she says to him, grinning.
“This is Milana, my other sister,” Artyom says, his voice dry. “Don’t encourage her.”
Milana rolls her eyes. “You’re always so serious.” Then to me, “Don’t worry, he’s only this charming before noon.”
Something in me unclenches. “I see where he gets it.”
Calina laughs softly, looping her arm through mine like we’ve known each other for years. “Come on, Kira. We have work to do.”
“Work?”
“She means clothes,” Artyom says, stepping aside to let us pass.
What follows is pure chaos. The sisters know exactly what they’re doing, moving through stores like a well-trained army, handing me dresses, skirts, shoes, things I didn’t even know existed outside of fashion week.
Every time I step out of the fitting room, his sisters react first—gasps and claps or mutters about color or cut. But he doesn’t move. Artyom sits back in a chair near the mirror, one arm resting along the back, his eyes following me in slow, deliberate passes that make my skin feel too tight. He doesn’t look away when I catch him staring; if anything, he takes his time.
His gaze drags from my collarbone down the line of the dress, slow enough that I feel every inch of it, and by the time his eyes reach my legs, I forget what I’m supposed to be doing. He says almost nothing, just small, clipped verdicts that slice through the air.
“Too short.”
“Too plain.”
“Better.”
He studies me like I’m something he already owns, deciding how much to reveal, and it shouldn’t make my stomach twist the way it does. Every time his gaze finds mine in the mirror, I feel heat crawl up my neck, and I hate that he can see it.
