Mike sits beside me in the back seat.
Neither of us speaks.
The city lights blur past the window while my thoughts churn in tight, angry circles.
The moment the car stops in front of the house, I open the door before anyone can help me and march inside.
I hear his footsteps behind me as I take the stairs.
Fast.
Heavy.
He’s following.
Good.
Because I’m not done being angry.
By the time I reach our suite, my pulse is hammering in my chest.
I push the door open and step inside.
Before I can move any farther, a hand closes around my arm.
I gasp as Mike spins me around.
His other hand comes up, cupping my chin firmly and forcing me to look at him.
“Solntse,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “Tell me what I did wrong.”
My anger surges immediately.
“You flirted with her.”
His brows pull together.
“With who?”
“Don’t play dumb, Mike,” I snap. “Anya.”
His grip tightens slightly, not painful—just enough to hold my attention. “I did no such thing.”
“Yes, you did,” I fire back. “She was practically in your arms.”
“She leaned close to speak,” he says flatly. “That’s not flirting.”
“She touched you.”
“And I moved her hand.”
“You still stood there letting her whisper in your ear!”
The words burst out sharper than I intended.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, breathing harder now.
His jaw tightens. “But you handled it.”
