Chapter 18 Bella
BELLA
END OF WEEK
The universe is playing a cruel joke on me. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense.
My sheets are tangled around my legs like they’ve been fighting me all night.
Honestly, knowing how I sleep these days, they probably have.
My heart’s still racing and my skin is still hot to the touch.
Between my thighs, there’s a wet hungry ache so persistent that I don’t know whether to scream or cry.
It’s 3:47 AM. I know this without looking at my phone because I’ve been waking up at almost the exact same time every night this week.
Every. Single. Night.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes until I see stars. But it doesn’t work. It never works. Instead, the fragments of the dream reassemble themselves like a puzzle the moment I close my eyes.
And the most fucked up part is no matter how many fucking fantasies I have about him, I always wake up right before his cock enters me.
Fuck.
I throw off the covers and sit up, my feet hitting the cool hardwood floor. The shock of it helps a little, but it’s not enough. Not by a long shot.
I stand up and walk over to the kitchen to fill a glass of water. Outside my window, New York pretends to rest, and I wish I could do the same.
I finish the glass of water, but my skin is still sensitive from the denied orgasm.
I sink into the living room sofa, letting the faux leather stick to my sweaty thighs.
I debate whether I should masturbate until I come, but then I look down at the oversized t-shirt that used to be Luca’s and fresh guilt claws at my heart.
It’s one of the few things I kept after clearing out his apartment.
I’m sorry, I think, pressing my palm flat against my chest where the fabric is thinnest. I’m sorry, Luca. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.
Ever since Slava bent me over his desk, it’s like some switch in my brain has been flipped that I can’t turn off. But the real problem, I think, is that Ludmilla humanized him.
Before her story, Slava Romanov was nothing more than a monster in a tailored suit. I was able to look at him and see only Luca’s absence and feel the burning need for justice that’s kept me going for five years.
And my fantasies then had a distinct theme: power, control, and dominance.
But now?
Somehow, without even trying, he’s given me a glimpse of the man underneath the monster.
Now I look at him and see complexity. And my fantasies have changed. Where I used to dream about his hand around my throat on a hard unfeeling desk, now I dream of deep kisses and indecipherable Russian words that suspiciously feel like lovemaking.
I’ve gotten so disturbed by these dreams that I even went and looked up what the word was in Russian, which only resulted in dream-Slava whispering it in my ear as he fans the flames hotter and hotter every night.
I hate it.
But the part that I hate most of all is that on some level, I’m starting to feel sympathy for him, and I want him to look at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the world.
To make matters even worse, I haven’t had a chance to get inside the safe at all.
I lie to myself that it’s because I’m memorizing his schedule so that I can find the time to do what I need to do. But I already have it memorized to the minute ever since I started working for him.
And the entire time, Nico has been getting impatient.
I’m living on borrowed time.
But I’m no closer to a solution than the first day that I saw the safe.
Think, Bella. Think.
My hand grabs the glass, only to find that it’s empty. Sighing, I peel myself off the sofa and walk to the kitchen. Outside my apartment, a firetruck rushes by, and sends red and white lights dancing over my ceiling.
The light bounces off my glass, and I rub absent-mindedly at it with my thumb, leaving a dull streak across the smooth surface.
My eyes suddenly widen.
The glass.
When I picked it up and drank from it while he watched, his lip print was on the rim. But that couldn’t have been the only marks he left behind.
Slowly, I squeeze my fist around the glass in my hand. When I open them, I see them.
Five fingerprints.
Holy shit.
I start rummaging through the kitchen and quickly find what I’m looking for: a bottle of Elmer’s glue.
With bated breath, I brush a thin layer over the glass right where my thumb is. It takes a few minutes to dry, and another few minutes for me to gently peel it off without breaking.
And when I hold it up to the light, I see it.
A single perfectly-preserved thumbprint.
Suddenly, I’m too wired to go back to sleep. My mind is racing now, not with dreams but with plans. I need to get my hands on a glass that Slava has held—specifically one that he’s squeezed hard enough to leave a thumbprint—and I need to do it without him noticing.
Slowly, an idea starts to take shape in my mind.
It’s insane and reckless.
But also happens to be the best idea I’ve had in months.
I rush back into my room, and start planning what I’m going to wear.
The elevator feels smaller than usual this morning as it hurtles towards Slava’s penthouse.
I catch my reflection in the polished doors and barely recognize myself.
My pencil skirt is still black like always, but this one sits higher on my waist and clings tighter to my hips.
The hem hits mid-thigh instead of the usual knee-length ones I prefer.
My blouse is thin enough that you can see my bra if you look hard enough.
And to sweeten the deal, I’ve decided to leave the top two buttons opened so he can get a glimpse of the fuck-me-red bra I’ve got on.
And for the first time in my life, I’m wearing a pair of four-inch heels. They’re impractical and uncomfortable, but my legs and ass look incredible in them.
I’ve even done my makeup and hair differently too, with a provocatively red shade of lipstick, and an updo that drops a few errant strands of hair by my ear.
Gravity shifts, and the elevator slows.
Show time.
I find Slava standing shirtless in the living room, a glass of water in his hand like usual. He’s busy staring at his phone.
“Good morning, Mr. Romanov,” I put on my sweetest voice possible as my heels click against the floor.
He lowers the glass, turns to look at me, and goes completely still.
His winter-gray eyes travel down my body with slow deliberateness and his jaws clench harder the longer he stares. I’m burning up under his gaze, but I remain absolutely still and let him drink in every detail.
Every time his eyes pause on another deliberate detail of my ridiculous costume, a tiny burst of warm pride balloons in my chest—both at the thought that this is working, and at how he’s staring at me.
By the time his gaze makes it back up to my face, my face is so hot that I’m pretty sure I’m panting.
“Now who’s wearing inappropriate workplace attire?” His lips are pursed together as he speaks and his voice sounds strained.
“At least I’m the one wearing a shirt.” I keep my expression innocent and sweet.
His knuckles have gone white around the glass and his nostrils flare at my defiance.
Feeling emboldened, I take a step closer and feel his gaze settling into my skin. Another step, and his clean sweat invades my nose. A third step, and I can practically hear his heartbeat pounding at his neck.
“And unfortunately, Mr. Romanov,” I put a finger on his chest, letting his body heat ripple across my skin. “I forgot to bring a change of clothing. So even if you want me to change like a good girl into something more appropriate…”
I let the words linger, bite my lips, and look up at him without tilting my face towards him.
The muscle in his jaw ticks. His eyes narrow. And Good. Good.
“Are you trying to provoke me, Ms. Farnassi?”
I smile. “Is it working?”
The air between us grows heavy and charged and I know we’re both playing a dangerous game. Annoyance pours off him in waves, and my heart starts drumming the longer he stays still. His shoulders are tense, and the gray of his eyes is giving way to black as his pupils start dilating.
He’s looking at me like he wants to devour me whole. I feel wetness starting to pool between my legs. But he refuses to move. He’s waiting for me to break.
Fuck you.
A second finger joins the first on his chest, and then slowly, I walk them over the broad muscular expanse until I give his left nipple a quick brush with my nail. He hisses in response but still doesn’t do a thing.
Fuck it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I reach for his glass, and that’s when he grabs my wrist with his other hand. Fire rings my wrist, and our breaths fill the tiny space between us.
“I’m just getting some water,” I whisper.
“Ludmilla will bring you one if you ask.” Has his voice always sounded so strained?
“But what if I want this one?”
He continues to hold me in place. Seconds stretch into minutes. His hand tightens around my wrist, like he’s struggling with his decision to either release me or to keep holding me here all day.
He breaks the silence, voice low and hard. “What are you doing, Bella?”
“Provoking you,” I breathe.
He runs his tongue across his teeth. Then without breaking eye contact, he drains the rest of his water in one long swallow. I watch his throat bobbing as he swallows, and fight the butterflies fluttering in my stomach and the bead of sweat trickling down the back of my neck.
Then, he hands the glass to me. “Looks like you’re going to need a different one.”
“I think I can manage to fill a glass just fine.”
I reach over and take it from his hand, and our fingers touch in the process. He refuses to let go. I step even closer into his heat and his scent.
“Please, Mr. Romanov?”
His jaw tightens, and then he releases the glass slowly, turns, and starts walking down the hallway towards his bedroom without looking back.
I watch him go, victory burning in my chest.
Not yet, I think.
Once the door closes, I turn my prize in the morning light and see exactly what I need:
Five fingerprints and one thumbprint, pressed into the glass as clear as a signature.
I tuck the glass into my bag, nestling it between my tablet and the small bottle of Elmer’s glue I brought from home. Then I straighten, smooth my skirt, and head for the office.
Ludmilla sees me when I walk past her. She takes in my outfit, and raises one eloquent eyebrow.
I smile.
Because I just fucking won.