Page 218 of Sexting His Assistant

“If you ask me how my head is, I’ll scream.”

Luka says, “How is your head?”

I glare at him.

His mouth moves slightly. “You’re improving.”

“That was a trap,” I say.

“Yes,” Luka says.

He comes closer and places a paper bag on the side table. “Clothes. Your dress is at my house. It needed cleaning.”

I look at the bag. “At your house?”

“Yes,” Luka says.

“Why is my dress at your house?”

“Because my mother sent someone to collect your things from the hospital before I could stop her,” Luka says.

I blink. “Your mother has my dress?”

“My mother has opinions about everything,” Luka says. “The dress is one of them.”

I almost smile, then remember everything else. “Any word from Misha?”

Luka’s expression shifts. That is answer enough. “No.”

I look down at my phone. “His location is still off.”

“I know,” Luka says.

My eyes lift. “You know?”

“I checked,” Luka says.

“Of course you did,” I say, but I’m too tired to be properly angry.

Luka studies me for a second. “Did you call your parents?”

“No.”

His face doesn’t judge me.

I appreciate that more than I want to admit. “They don’t live here,” I say. “If I call now, they’ll panic, and I don’t know what to tell them. I don’t even know where Misha is.”

“We will find him.”

I frown. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I mean it.”

I look away before my face does something embarrassing.

Another knock comes at the door, and Mirov enters without waiting for permission. He checks my chart, asks me questions, shines a light in my eyes, annoys me professionally, and tells me I can leave if I promise to come back immediately for vomiting, confusion, fainting, severe headache, or any symptom he lists in a tone that suggests I might purposely ignore all of them.

“I’m not stupid,” I say.