I shake my head. “Wasn’t hungry.”
She gestures to a bowl of soup on the stove, the same recipe she’s made since I was a boy. I sit, let her ladle it out, and let her fuss because it makes her feel needed.
She sits beside me, silent while I eat. When I push the bowl away, she puts her hand on mine, gentle but firm. “Aleksei. I know you. I know when something is wrong.”
For a long time, I say nothing. Then the words come out rough. “He wants me married. With a child. By next year.”
She doesn’t flinch. She only sighs, eyes sad but knowing. “Your grandfather was always a hard man. Too hard.”
I look at her hands, the lines of age and the strength there. “How did you do it? With him? With all of this?” I wave at the city, the weight of our name.
She smiles, just a little. “You learn to live with what you cannot change. And you do what you must, for family.”
I close my eyes, feeling the truth of it settle like another stone on my chest.
She squeezes my hand. “You do not have to do it alone, Alyosha.”
I nod. The silence grows warm between us, full of old memories, things we never say out loud.
When she leaves, I linger at the window, watching the city lights flicker on. Somewhere in this mess, I need to find a wife. Someone who fits, and who will not make this harder than it already is.
I need help. Not from family, not from friends.
An assistant. Someone who can take care of the details, the meetings, the sorting, the chaos. Someone efficient, invisible—someone who won’t ask questions.
Maybe that’s where I start.
I watch the night swallow Manhattan, and for the first time today, I almost feel hope.
And maybe a little dread, too.
2
ZATANNA
His hands slidebeneath the silk of her robe, palms hot, mouth hotter. She gasps, arching into him as his lips find the soft hollow of her throat, then lower, tasting, teasing, making her beg without words. Her thighs part instinctively, the ache building—one rough hand cups her breast, thumb flicking over a nipple until she whimpers, her whole body shivering at the promise in his touch.
He pushes her back onto the bed, hair spilling wild across the sheets. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, voice thick and low, accent curling the words like smoke.
She wants everything—his mouth between her legs, his cock stretching her open, the delicious weight of him pressing her down, claiming her. She moans as he slides lower, his tongue tracing the inside of her thigh, breath hot, fingers spreading her open. She’s already dripping for him, desperate, hips lifting in silent plea…
“God, yes, right there…”My own voice echoes in my ears, breathless, urgent, and just a touch theatrical. I force myself to keep going, forcing every ounce of tension into the words.
I drop my voice to a whisper, drawling into the dark, “That’s it, baby. Don’t stop. Fill me up. Make me yours.”
I hold the silence for a beat to let it simmer. Then I click off the mic, stretch my jaw, and sigh. Another session done.
The taste of sex still clings to my tongue, even though it’s just words, just a fantasy piped through cheap headphones to some stranger probably jerking off in a dimly lit room. My rent is late, my stomach’s empty, but at least for a few minutes I can pretend I’m someone who gets exactly what she wants.
I take a breath, lean back in my rickety chair, and glance at the audio levels.Good enough.The little red “REC” light goes dark. I click “send” and scrub a hand through my hair, already thinking of the next story.
I’m still catching my breath when I look up and see Jake, my producer, grinning through the glass. He flashes me a double thumbs up, practically vibrating in his chair.
“Perfect, Zee,” he says through the intercom, his voice a low rumble I’ve come to associate with approval—and payday. “Seriously. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a whole man hiding in there with you.”
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “Just me, Jake. You want it again for backup?”
He nods, eyes bright. “Always. You know the drill.”
