I shake my head to clear the thoughts. My life was fine before Alina, and it will be fine after she’s gone. Because, I’m sure after all this is over, she isn’t going to want to stick around. She’ll want to get back to her old life and far away from mine.
I read the same paragraph three times before I realize I haven’t absorbed a single word. My jaw tightens.Focus, Andrei.
This isn’t about her. It was never supposed to be about her. The threat is directed at me, at my position, at everything I’ve built. She is a variable inside that equation, nothing more. A civilian who was used to get close. A convenient pressure point.
Now I’m worried about her safety. Have I made a mistake in using her as bait? Of course I did. It was a stupid thing to do. What the hell was I thinking? How could I be so callous? Even with a silent alarm and her guards, anything could happen.
There are so many scenarios racing through my head. So many possibilities of this plan going wrong. What the hell have I done? Why did I think this was a good idea?
My grip tightens on the edge of the desk before I force it to loosen. This is the plan. A controlled risk. Necessary. Calculated. We can’t keep hiding in borrowed spaces forever. Weakness invites attack. Visibility, used correctly, invites mistakes from the enemy instead.
I know this. I’ve lived by it for years. So why does letting her out of my sight feel like the first genuine miscalculation I’ve made in a long time?
I exhale slowly through my nose and turn another page in the report, forcing my eyes to track the words whether my mind cooperates or not. The letters blur for a moment before settling back into meaning.
I still have an empire to run, and business to attend to. Nicolai has had to deal with so much while I’ve been in hiding. Shipments are rerouted, and payments are coming late. He’s kept the accounts stable, though, and I’m thankful for that. There’s been no unusual movement in Brighton, according to this report. He’s kept our business running smoothly when I’ve been unavailable. I can’t thank him enough for that.
If only I could clone him and get him on this assassination attempt. It apparently takes a rocket scientist to figure out their movements. I can only control so much, which I hate. I want to control everything. I want to make it all right and normal and functional.
My gaze drifts, uninvited, toward the empty space of the room. Toward the couch where Alina would inevitably be sitting with her sketchbook, legs tucked under her, humming quietly if she were here. I look toward the kitchen, where she would probably stand barefoot, drinking tap water in the middle of the night when she’s had a bad dream.
Without even being in my apartment, the very thought of her haunts this space. I’m going out of my mind waiting for news. I look down at my phone and realize it’s only been two hours since we dropped her off at her place. I want to bring her back in immediately, but that wasn’t the deal. The deal was time. The deal was a chance for her be back in her own space, among her own things.
She trusts me. When I give her my word, she believes in me and knows I’m not going to break it. That’s how we’ve survived this long in hiding. That’s how we’ll get to the end of this nightmare without falling apart.
The image of her in bed last night pops into my head without permission. She was so warm and inviting, so trusting in a way she didn’t even realize. I remember the sound she made when she came, the screams and grunts of sheer relief as her orgasm took her. The way her body softened afterward, like the world couldn’t reach her as long as I was there.
Heat moves through me, sudden and unwelcome. I lean back in the chair and close my eyes for a single controlled breath, forcing the reaction down before it can spread into something harder to manage. This is physical. Temporary. A biological response to proximity and stress and the illusion of comfort.
An obsession, maybe. Obsession can be discarded as easily as yesterday’s trash. Love cannot.
The word lands hard enough in my chest that my eyes open immediately, like I’ve been struck. No. Absolutely not. Love is the greatest weakness to exist. Love turns powerful men into simpering cowards who are too afraid to make a move when the time is right.
If I allow that to exist, even quietly, I don’t just endanger myself, I endanger her. Which means the only acceptable answer has to be a lie. She is a fling. A temporary complication. A distraction that will end the moment this threat is eliminated. She means nothing to me beyond that. Anything else would be irresponsible.
I repeat the thought until it becomes a mantra. Until the words are seared onto the inside of my mind. I do not love her. I cannot love her. I cannot allow her to become a tool my enemies can use against me. I’m only protecting her out of duty.
That doesn’t stop me from imagining her coming back here when she’s done packing. Thinking about her waiting for me at the end of the day. Lying on my couch, wearing one of my shirts after we’ve just had sex. Redecorating my living room into something cozier and homier.
I picture her in my bed, reaching out for me when I come home at the end of a long, stressful day. Opening up to me, letting me inside of her, becoming a safe space. Happy to see me, desperate to have me, screaming out my name at all hours of the night.
My throat tightens before I can stop it.
Jesus.
I drag a hand down my face, rougher than necessary, like friction might erase the thought. Loneliness isn’t something I’ve ever considered. I’ve never desired to be a man who comes home to a woman at the end of the day. All these years, I’ve liked having my own space and my meaningless, carefully coordinated flings.
And yet living beside her in those cramped, temporary rooms forced a kind of closeness I haven’t felt in years. We’ve shared quiet, peaceful mornings together, reading newspapers and eating breakfast. We’ve worked in silence next to one another, her working on her sketches. I’ve gotten used to the sound of her breathing as my soundtrack.
I didn’t realize how empty my life had become until something briefly occupied the space.
The realization settles low in my chest, heavy and unfamiliar. I swallow against it and stand abruptly, movement the only reliable way to break a line of thought that’s going somewhere dangerous.
The bar is only a few steps away. I pick up one of the clean, crystal glasses and fill it with amber liquid. The first swallow burns all the way down, sharp enough to feel like punishment. Good.
Pain clarifies thoughts. Heat replaces softness. Burning reminds me of who I really am and what I’m capable of. This is a language I understand.
Across the room, my phone remains silent on the desk. Silence is a good thing, I remind myself. It means there’s no movement. No danger. She’s safe in her apartment, and likely will be until I order my guards to bring her home.
