A small sitting area sits near the window, velvet couches in soft gray, an unopened bottle of wine on the table beside them. The curtains are heavy, gold-lined, and look like they could shut the whole world out if I let them. Even the silence feels expensive.
It’s too much, too perfect, a reminder of exactly how out of place I am.
I kick my shoes off and drop onto the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. My pulse hasn’t stopped racing since the lobby, and now that it’s just me, I can feel every leftover piece of it.
What the hell was that?
He lost it down there. Completely. I can still see his hand fisted in Boris’s collar, the tension in his shoulders, the look in his eyes right before he let go. It felt as if the anger stripped him bare—it was raw and personal. That kind of rage doesn’t come from nowhere, and I’m certain that it wasn’t just about me. Couldn’t have been. There was something else behind it, something thathad nothing to do with the insult and everything to do with whatever’s eating him alive under all that control.
And I hate that I even noticed. I hate that I keep replaying it, the sound of his voice, the way he said my name like he was trying not to care and failing.
I stand up too fast, the room tilting. My skin feels too tight, my chest too heavy, like the air itself doesn’t want to stay in my lungs. I need to move, to do something, anything to get the image of him out of my head.
I walk to the bathroom, flip on the light, and turn the water on before I even think about it. The pipes groan, the steam starts to rise, and within seconds the mirror blurs. My reflection fades until there’s nothing left but shapes and movement. Good. I don’t want to see myself right now. I look like I’ve seen a ghost.
The jeans I wore cling to my skin as I peel them off, and for a second, I almost hate them. Of course, Boris and Irina would have something to say about me, wearing those. I step under the spray, and the first rush of heat makes me shiver. It runs down my back in steady sheets, washing off the last of the adrenaline, but not what’s underneath.
I close my eyes and let my head fall forward, the water hitting the back of my neck in steady, punishing streams.
I remember Artyom, stepping in between us. The shift in the air when he moved in that quiet but charged way, like the whole room was holding its breath. I could feel it before I even lookedat him, that pull he carries, the kind that makes everything else fade until there’s only him. His voice cut through the noise with that low, steady certainty, every word like a warning shot.Watch your mouth.
I didn’t need him to defend me. I didn’t ask for it. But the second he did, something inside me unraveled. It felt like breathing after holding it too long, like heat spreading under my skin where there shouldn’t have been any.
I hate that. I hate how close he was, how the sound of his voice got under my skin and stayed there. I hate that part of me wanted him to keep going, to say something else, to move closer, just to see what would’ve happened if he hadn’t stopped.
The water hits my face, and I breathe it in, trying to burn that feeling out of me. He shouldn’t have said a word. He should’ve stayed quiet, should’ve let Boris choke on his own ego without dragging me into it. But he didn’t, and now I can’t tell if I’m angry because of what happened, or because of what it meant.
He said it was business. He always says that. Every look, every touch, every word—everything is always business. But then he goes and does something like that, something reckless and raw and human, and it doesn’t feel like business anymore. It feels like the exact opposite.
I tilt my face up into the water and stay there until the heat starts to fade. When I finally step out, my reflection is just a blur, a shape I don’t recognize. I wipe a circle clear with my palm andstare at myself. My cheeks are flushed, my lips swollen from biting them. I look alive in a way that pisses me off.
I wrap a towel around myself and stand there, dripping. My heartbeat won’t slow down.
“Get a grip,” I whisper.
But the thing about Artyom Morozov is that he makes it impossible to get a grip. He pulls you in and pushes you away in the same breath. He looks at you like he’s trying not to want you, touches you like he already does, and by the time you start to believe it, he’s gone cold again, like none of it ever happened. He does it without effort, like it’s just the way he’s built. And maybe it is. Maybe he doesn’t even notice what it does to me.
I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, the fabric soft against skin that still feels too aware. I towel-dry my hair, twist it up, but it keeps falling loosely around my face. I feel raw, exposed—it’s not just frustration or confusion anymore. It’s something else that I’m not supposed to feel.
The knock at the door makes me flinch.
“Kira?” It’s Milana’s voice, light and teasing. “You alive?”
I pull the door open, and both sisters are standing there—Calina calm as ever, Milana grinning like she’s been waiting all morning for a reason to talk. Calina’s hair is still damp from her shower, pulled back neatly, while Milana’s in silk shorts and a hoodie twosizes too big, already holding a coffee cup like it’s her third one of the day.
“Barely,” I say, rubbing at the back of my neck.
Milana lifts a tray like it’s a peace offering. “We brought breakfast. You look like you need it.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, stepping aside to let them in.
They sweep in like they own the place—Calina setting the tray down on the small table near the window, Milana immediately pulling the curtains wider to let the sun in. The light spills across the room, warm and intrusive, catching on the gold trim of the furniture. It makes everything look even more expensive, and somehow I hate it for that.
Calina starts arranging the plates with quiet precision while Milana drops into one of the chairs, tucking her bare legs underneath her. She looks up at me with that look of mischief and curiosity all in one.
“So,” she says, breaking off a piece of croissant. “You want to tell us what the hell that was earlier?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Earlier?”
