She’s still talking, something about the reservation being moved to a quieter room, but I barely hear it over the echo of that one impossible image.
Dangerous. Stupid. Too late.
“Mr. Vasiliev?”
I realize she’s stopped and is looking up at me now, wary because I’ve gone silent too long. “Yes,” I say.
Her brows draw together slightly. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
“Enough.”
Which is not an answer, and she knows it.
I see the irritation flicker. Good. Irritation is easier for her than whatever else is sitting underneath it.
I straighten my cuffs. “You did well.”
She nods once. Her eyes do not quite meet mine when she says, “Of course.”
That is somehow worse than if she’d snapped at me.
I lean one hand on the back of her chair, close enough to smell her perfume, not close enough to touch. “You don’t have to sound like you hate me.”
That brings her gaze up fast. “I don’t hate you.” Then she looks away and adds, “It would probably be easier if I did.”
Yes. It would.
I step back before I say something ruinous. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Her laugh is soft and sharp at once. “Please don’t.”
That almost makes me smile.
I then leave before I can change my mind about the date, the office, the week, the whole goddamn future.
The driver is waiting downstairs. Rain glosses the street in black and gold as I slide into the backseat and give the address she arranged.
The car pulls away from the curb in a smooth glide, rain stippling the windows, the city all wet light and blurred reflections. I loosen my tie a fraction and stare out at the street, watching the building disappear behind us.
The date is still on the calendar. The woman is still waiting. The future is still supposed to look exactly the way I planned it. So why does it already feel like I’m driving in the wrong direction?
I take out my phone, turn it over once in my hand, then say, “Circle back.”
The driver glances at me in the mirror. He’s learned better than to ask questions. “Yes, sir.”
The car keeps moving another half block, then eases into the next turn and starts heading back toward the office.
I look down at the phone again.
There are things I need arranged. Quietly. Efficiently. Not the kind of things I can hand to an assistant by email and pretendthey mean nothing. Travel, timing, privacy, security, a route that does not look like a route until it’s already underway.
Not for tonight. Soon.
I type one message to Sergei.
I may need transport and accommodations arranged on short notice. Outside the city. Discreet. I’ll confirm.
He replies almost immediately.
