Boris cut me off.
"No?" I froze.
He glanced at the gawkers, face twisting. He leaned in, almost pleading. "Critical meeting right now. Can't have... outsiders around."
Outsiders.
He was avoiding me... and saw me as an outsider.
Blood rushed to my head, then drained, leaving ice.
"Okay, got it." I choked back hurt, refusing to cry in front of them.
How could I forget? My husband didn't like me, didn't want to marry me.
"So," Boris sighed, stiffly following orders, "need a ride back?"
Eager to hustle me out, like saying—don't embarrass us here.
"No, I'm good. I'll go." I swallowed a sob, whispering.
Snickers echoed. I didn't need to look—their faces were smug.
I felt like a stripped clown under spotlights, for everyone's amusement.
Tears welled, but I bit my tongue, the sting keeping me sharp.
I shoved the bag into Boris's arms. Too rough—the thermos thumped his chest, soup sloshing dully. I'd slaved over that stew. Cooking wasn't my thing—you can't expect gourmet from someone living on frozen meals—but love for Kirill pushed me through.
"Here. This is for you." I stared him down. "If you don't want to eat it, toss it in the trash."
Then I remembered the cookies in my bag. Some for Aiden, but part for him.
I yanked out the bag and jammed it at Boris.
"And this."
Done, I felt drained.
"Harper—" Boris fumbled with thestuff, lost.
I didn't look at him or anyone. I turned, back straight, marched to the doors.
Behind, the blonde's sharp voice. "Told you it was a takeout delivery."
A heavy smash—like something slammed on marble—then Boris's growl, fury low. "Shut your mouth."
I sped up, fleeing that suffocating glass tower.
Into the evening chill, Manhattan's roar hit. Traffic drowned everything.
Around the corner, alone, I slumped against cold brick, tears finally breaking.
Not just for the uneaten soup, but my pathetic one-sided feelings.
"Kirill, you're an asshole." I choked into the air. "A total fucking asshole."
Chapter Nine
