Page 113 of Sexting His Assistant

Tap. A blurry video of someone’s hand holding a dessert spoon.

Tap. Another hallway clip.

I keep going, bored now, annoyed, and already feeling stupid.

Then Luka’s hand closes suddenly around my wrist. “Stop.”

I freeze.

Not because he hurts me. He doesn’t. His grip is firm but careful.

Because his voice has changed.

I look over at him. “What?”

“Go back.”

I glance at the screen. “To what?”

“The last story.”

I tap back.

The video starts again. It’s only a few seconds long, ill-framed, the camera moving too quickly as Alina laughs near the private dining rooms. There are people in the background, mostly blurred. Waiters. A woman in silver. A man in a dark coat standing partly out of frame.

I see nothing important.

Luka does.

His whole body goes still.

The tired man in my bed disappears so completely it is frightening. His face empties first, then sharpens, as if whatever pain he was feeling has been pushed somewhere else. His eyes fix on the screen with a focus that makes my stomach tighten.

“What?” I ask.

“Play it again.”

I do.

Alina laughs.

The camera shifts. The man in the dark coat turns slightly.

The clip ends.

Luka says, “Again.”

I play it again, slower this time, dragging the bar back with my thumb.

“Pause there,” he says.

I pause.

The image is blurry, but the man’s profile is visible for half a second. Dark hair. Hard jaw. Expensive coat. One gloved hand near Alina’s wrist.

I look at the screen, then at Luka. “Do you know him?”

“Yes.”