Page 35 of Take Me Darkly

“Saturday works,” I decided, the event taking shape in my mind. Then, deciding to give Alexander a heads up on the situation, I added, “I’ll arrange a private booth. The more secure the better. I know you typically ignore the tabloids, but there’s been some media attention around my date. To say it’s been intense is putting it mildly.”

“Oh?” Alexander’s tone sharpened.

“I’ll brief you in person this weekend.”

“Alright, then. It’s been a while since Krystina and I attended that club. Is there a theme on Saturday?”

“It hasn’t been announced yet, but plan on a Carnevale masquerade. Black tie, full Venetian masks required.”

A heavy pause lingered on the line. When Alexander spoke again, his voice was lower, laced with deep understanding. “Does your date’s current situation have anything to do with Hale Fulton’s recent tactical inquiries in Europe?”

I should have known Alexander would connect the dots. He may not read tabloid filth, but his intelligence network was vast.

“It’s complex, and not something I can discuss over the phone,” I said firmly. “I appreciate your discretion.”

“You have it. Always,” Alexander assured me without hesitation. “A masquerade is brilliant, Anton. Krystina has been looking for an excuse to wear an antique Venetian piece we picked up in Italy last year. We’ll see you Saturday.”

We ended the call, and I stood there for a moment, phone still gripped in my hand as I contemplated how to handle Myla. After a moment of indecision, I pulled out my phone and called her.

She answered on the first ring. “Anton.”

“My office. Now.”

I hung up before she could respond and made my way to my office.

Five minutes later, Myla stood in front of me. Her expression was a mask of cool, professional composure, but the slight lift of her chin told me she knew damn well she had overstepped. She wouldn’t apologize—Myla didn’t offer hollow contriteness—but she stood ready to defend her ground.

“Alexander Stone called,” I began, my voice dangerously quiet as I leaned against the front of my mahogany desk, my arms crossed over my chest. “He wanted to confirm the VIP invitation you extended without my knowledge.”

Myla didn’t flinch. Her eyes met mine with unflinching resolve. “Serena is suffocating up in that apartment, Anton. You told me to keep an eye on her well-being. That’s what I’m doing.”

“You come to me first,” I growled, the darkness in my voice echoing off the walls. “Every variable concerning Serena passes through me. You know this.”

“You know I would do anything for you,” Myla fired back, her voice steady but laced with raw emotion. “But your need for absolute control is blinding you to what’s happening right under your nose. Serena is drowning up in that apartment. I know that look, Anton. I spent half my life wearing it. It’s the look of a woman who feels entirely trapped by circumstances beyond her control. She doesn’t just need armed guards. She needs human connection. She needs female allies who understand what it means to live in a world governed by powerful, dangerous men.”

Her words struck a nerve.

Drowning.

The word echoed in the quiet of my mind, burning like acid.

I’d told myself I was protecting Serena, and that every decision had been necessary. But Myla was right. Protection without freedom wasn’t sanctuary—it was a gilded prison.

I thought about how Serena had been acting since we arrived in New York. She’d been quiet and withdrawn most of the time, her fire only flaring on rare occasions. Her light was dimming because I was smothering it. She’d lost her mother, her home, and her sense of belonging. In response, I had wrapped my heavy, possessive hands around her throat, demanding total compliance in the name of security.

Control was my native language. It was how I survived.

But Serena didn’t need a warden. She needed to feel seen. She needed to breathe.

I forced a slow, deep breath into my lungs, the anger draining out of me, replaced by a dark, resolute clarity.

“Saturday is confirmed with Alexander,” I said, deliberately shifting the tone before my expression betrayed the crack in my armor. “We’re turning the evening into an unannounced Venetian masquerade. I need custom Carnevale masks delivered to the apartment by Friday—something exquisite for Serena, and something simple for me. Coordinate with Zeke on VIP guest filters. Keep the headcount restricted. I want triple security on the perimeter.”

Surprise flickered across Myla’s features before she expertly smoothed it away. “Consider it done.”

I began to pace the room, my mind no longer on logistics. I was thinking about Serena and all the ways I could let her know that I did see her—perhaps more than she realized.

“I also need a secondary arrangement for tonight,” I added, stepping around my desk.