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One corner of her mouth lifts.

“I assume that, since you decided to come back, there is something you would like to discuss.”

“Not really.” I shrug, trying to sound careless. “I’m only here because you called my father, and now he’s threatening to send me to Russia if I don’t come and listen to your annoying voice.”

Her smile deepens, just enough to annoy me.

“What can I say?” she says. “I missed your charming personality and your very expressive face.”

My mouth twitches before I can stop it.

Jesus Christ.

I look away quickly, before she sees that she got me. My eyes land on the tall window behind her. Sunlight pours through it in wide pale bars, catching dust in the air and making the room look softer than it deserves. The office smells different today. Rose, maybe or jasmine. It’s floral layered over amber and citrus.

It hits me so suddenly that I stop breathing for a second.

Tristan.

Not him, exactly. Not his cologne, not the scent of his clothes. Just the vague warmth of something familiar, something expensive, clean, and impossible to hold onto.

My insides tighten.

Fuck.

When I look back at Joanna, she is watching me differently.

Not staring or judging.

Just noticing.

Her gaze drops briefly toward my knees. I follow it and realize they are bouncing hard enough to shake the couch cushion beneath me.

I force them to stay still, but the effort leaves my whole body feeling wrong, as if I am trying to hold down a live wire with my bare hands.

“I’m not here because of my father,” I say.

The words come out low.

Joanna shifts back in her chair, giving me space without making it obvious.

“I don’t give a fuck if he sends me to Russia to join the military.”

“I don’t believe that last part,” she says, with the calm certainty of someone who has spent years listening to me lie when I am scared. “But I do believe you are not here because of your father.”

Her expression softens.

“What happened, Maksim?”

She knows me too well.

My knees start bouncing again before I can stop them. I blink a few times, trying to sort through the noise in my head. The anger, restlessness, shame, fear, and the sour, electric feeling beneath it all that says I need to leave, need to do something, need to make the room stop closing in around me.

I drag a hand down my face.

“I had a fight with Alex,” I say finally.

It is the safest thing in my head and the easiest door to open.