Page 289 of Sexting His Assistant

There is no other word for it.

She spends most of her days in the guest wing where Misha is recovering, reading beside his bed, arguing with him about soup, bringing him medicine he pretends not to need, and sitting silently with her hand on her stomach when he sleeps. I let her stay because Misha wants her there, because Nina asked me not to make the house harder for them, and because Alina has told us everything she knows twice over, once shaking, once with Mirov glaring at her like he could extract truth by disappointment alone.

Still, when she and I run into each other in hallways, she looks like she expects me to change my mind and put a bullet in her.

I have considered it less often lately.

That is personal growth, according to my mother.

“Doctor said you are supposed to be lying down,” I say to Misha.

“Doctor also said I would not be allowed whiskey for a month, so his credibility is poor.”

Alina says quietly, “Misha.”

He looks at her. “What?”

“You promised.”

“I promised not to drink. I did not promise not to complain.”

She gives him a look.

He shuts up.

I watch it happen with mild irritation because Misha has ignored my orders for sixteen years, but one disappointed glance from the woman who nearly got him killed makes him behave like a chastised schoolboy.

He catches my expression and scowls. “Don’t start.”

Alina clears her throat. “We’re going to the garden nearby for a little while and thought of dropping by.”

I nod. I know she’s trying to make things better between us, but I also it’s going to take more time than two weeks. But I no longer hold any grudge against her.

At the door, Misha pauses and looks back at me. The irritation drops from his face for half a second.

We still haven’t spoken properly about everything that happened.

There are too many things between us right now, and most of them bleed if touched.

So he only says, “Stop staring at that file.”

I look at the desk.

“She fooled all of us,” he says.

“No,” I say. “She fooled me.”

Misha’s mouth tightens. “Fine. Be dramatic. Very on brand.”

Then he leaves before I can answer. Alina follows him. The door shuts.

I put the glass down before I crush it.

A minute later, my mother enters.

She is dressed to go out, which is unusual because my mother has spent the last two weeks ruling this house like a military hospital with better food. She wears a cream blouse, black trousers, low heels, and the expression she gets when she has already made a decision and is only informing me as a courtesy.

“I’m leaving for the day,” she says.