But there’s something about Anya Sokolova that irritates me because I can’t place it. She looks shallow. She acts composed in that polished society-girl way. She’s engaged to Dmitri, which already tells me her standards are questionable.
And still?—
I remember exactly how she looked at me in that corridor.
Like she was trying not to.
Alexei hops down from the ring and walks closer. “What’s the girl’s name?”
“Anya.”
“Pretty name.”
I say nothing.
“She know who you are?”
“Yes.”
“When’s the wedding?”
“In two weeks.”
The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
Two weeks. Fourteen days until Dmitri puts a ring on her finger in front of half the city and pretends he deserves her.
Alexei studies me for another second before speaking carefully this time. “And why exactly do you care?”
I open my mouth to answer. Nothing comes out.
Because the truth is ugly. I barely know the girl. I know what she looks like in sunlight. I know the sound of her voice. I know she gets defensive when she’s embarrassed. I know she wears my mother’s ring and somehow manages not to look consumed by it.
And I know I haven’t stopped thinking about her since I left that restaurant.
Which is ridiculous.
I exhale slowly and reach for the water bottle near the bench. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s usually how obsessions start.”
I throw him another look.
Alexei laughs. “Fine. Keep pretending.” He heads toward the locker room, still smiling to himself. “Try not to steal your brother’s fiancée, Yaromir. Your father would finally have the heart attack we’ve all been waiting for.”
The door swings shut behind him, and the gym goes quiet. I stay there alone for another ten minutes, hitting the heavy bag until my shoulders burn.
It doesn’t help.
By the time I get home, the city is dark and wet from recent rain. My penthouse overlooks the river, all glass and black marble and silence. The kind of place people think powerful men want.
Most nights, I like the silence. Tonight it feels restless.
I pour myself a drink and loosen the collar of my shirt as I walk toward the windows. Below me, headlights slide through the streets in long white streaks.
Two weeks.
I take a slow sip of whiskey, and a stupid thought slips into my head before I can stop it.
