Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Blue
Not much time passes before my cell door opens again. An officer announces, "Time to go, Ms. Ivanov."
"Ivanvov? Like in the Ivanovs?" the annoying woman who hasn't moved off her seat chirps.
I ignore her and step past the bars, following him through the stale-aired hallways. When we get to the final door, Aunt Kora waits in front of it.
Sympathy and worry flare in her expression, yet to the outside world, they wouldn't see it. She stands with a clipboard, posture perfect, and eyes level. Her coat hangs perfectly, dark and unwrinkled. She reeks of authority and a warning for anyone attempting to mess with her.
The officer nods when we get closer. "She's all yours."
"Thank you," Aunt Kora states. The door buzzes, and she motions with her arm for me to move forward.
I need to find Red.
"Where is he?" I ask, stepping past her.
The plainclothes officer who interrogated me before Aunt Kora arrived stands in the corner.
"Not here," she cautions, then holds out a clipboard and pen. "I need you to sign."
I take the pen, sign where she points, and hand it back to her.
She steps toward the officer and gives it to him. "Send a copy to me for my records."
"Yes, ma'am," he replies.
She puts her arm on my back, steers me through the station, and out the exit.
Her black SUV sits at the entrance. Her driver opens the passenger door, and I climb inside. She slides next to me, shuts the divider window, and turns. "Are you okay?"
"Where is Red?" I repeat, my voice cracking, eyes tearing.
The car pulls away from the curb.
"Blue—"
"Where?" I beg.
"I suspect he'll be out soon," she offers.
My pulse rises. I blurt out, "He didn't do anything."
Her face turns stern. "He broke his ethical oath to his profession."
"He didn't!"
"Did you sleep with him?" She arches her eyebrows.
"None of your business," I hiss.
Her tone stays stern, but softens. "Blue, I know this might be hard to understand, but a therapist can't sleep with their patients."
"You act like he sexually assaulted me. He didn't! And I went after him! If you want to blame someone, blame me!" I cry out.
She sighs. "It doesn't matter if you gave him consent. He should have resisted your advances and transferred you to another therapist."
"He tried, but I didn't want another therapist! He's the only one who can help me! And he did! I haven't..." I turn toward the window, my jaw shaking so hard it hurts, and my vision turning blurry.
"You haven't what?" she pushes.
"Nothing."
"Please tell me."
I shake my head and wipe my face. "The only thing you need to know is that I'm safer because of him."
Silence fills the car.
I try to get control of my emotions. The city passes by in clean lines and glass. People move along the sidewalk, unaware of how easily routines fracture, or how the world just shifted.
Aunt Kora lowers her voice. "You need to know something."
I turn toward her. "What?"
She hesitates, then states, "I think it's impossible for your parents not to find out what happened."
My breath catches, and I have to force it back into rhythm. "Why?"
Disapproval fills her expression. She exhales through her nose and claims, "Mikhail Volkov is Red's attorney."
"Mikhail?" I gape at her.
"Seems like Demi went behind my back and stuck her nose in your business," she sneers.
My parents will know.
Mikhail will get Red out!
If Mikhail is involved, Uncle Obrecht knows.
He'll tell my father!
"My father will kill Red the minute he gets out of jail!" I fret.
"I think it's wise you tell them. I'll come with you and help," she offers.
"They don't know yet?" I ask, surprised.
Disapproval passes in her expression.
"What aren't you telling me?" I push.
She studies me for another moment, then neutralizes her tone. "Apparently, Demi went to Mikhail and had him sign a confidentiality form. Due to client-attorney rules, at this time, your father and uncles don't know."
Relief hits me. When Red and I figure this out and eventually get married, they'll have to know. Right now, I'm not ready to share my secret with them.
"It should come from you," Aunt Kora insists.
I snap, "They aren't to know anything."
"Blue—"
"I'm not telling them. Not until Red and I are ready."
"You can't keep seeing him," she declares.
I scoff. "You can't stop love, Aunt Kora. And Red and I love each other."
Her jaw tightens as if she's restraining a response she doesn't allow herself. She carefully asserts, "If you see him, you're putting both of yourselves in danger."
"I'm not arguing with you. Next topic," I declare.
"Honey—"
"End of conversation," I say again, glaring at her.
She takes a few deep breaths, then hands me my purse. "I assume everything is in your bag, but you should check."
I take it, tug the zipper, and grab my phone. I turn it on, hoping Red's texted or tried to call me. I search the text and phone logs, and my breath tightens. I steady it through my nose and lift my eyes to my aunt. "Aunt Kora, why is my phone scrubbed?"
She firmly replies, "Because it needed to be."
My fingers curl around the phone. "What did you do?"
She doesn't flinch. "I cleaned up your situation."
"You erased it. That's not cleaning."
The car turns and accelerates.
She declares, "I'm protecting my client."
I turn fully toward her. "You didn't ask."
"I didn't need to. You're my client, remember?"
I exhale sharply and press my tongue to the roof of my mouth until it steadies. My voice trembles. "You had no right!"
Warning edges into her tone. "This is a very serious situation, Blue. Red can go to prison for what occurred between the two of you. Is that what you want?"
"Prison!"
"Yes. Is that what you want?" she repeats.
My insides quiver. "No. Of course not!"
"Then listen to me closely. It's over between the two of you. Understand?" She lifts her eyebrows.
I look back down at my phone and open my camera. All the photos I took for Red are gone. Even the ones I never shared and kept because they anchored something I wasn't ready to explain.
My eyes burn. I blink. Tears fall anyway, quiet and hot, landing on the screen. I don't wipe them away.
My voice breaks despite my effort to hold it together. "You didn't protect me. You decided for me."
"I'm sorry, but that's my job," she claims as the SUV pulls up to my building.
Tension coils low in my abdomen and climbs fast. My body locks, nerves firing all at once.
Aunt Kora's driver opens the door.
She asks, "Do you want to stay at my place?"
"No thanks." I jump out of the SUV and turn. "Thanks for helping me."
She nods. "Are you sure you don't want me to talk to your parents with you?"
"No. It's not time for them to know yet." I turn and lunge toward my building, not wanting to argue with her anymore.
I make my way through the building and step into my apartment, and lean against the door, closing my eyes, trying to remember Red's phone number.
Where is he?
I open my eyes and hold still. The silence presses in, too complete, forcing my attention outward instead of letting it settle. I step away from the door and pause, my gaze moving methodically across the room.
Everything looks untouched, which doesn't help my anxiety. The chair, the table, and the counter all sit exactly as they should, and the precision makes my chest tighten.
My eyes fall on the knives, and the urge to run a blade over my upper thigh takes hold.
Don't do it, Red's voice says in my head.
I close my eyes again, breathing as he taught me until I feel safe enough to open them. Then I glance around my apartment until the urge fades to an itch. I move farther inside and freeze.
A man sits in the breakfast nook, facing the window, his arm on my dining table, his posture upright, ankles crossed, hands folded neatly in front of him like he's waiting for a meeting to start.
A tailored black suit fits him precisely, pressed sharp enough to hold a line, and taut against his broad shoulders.
His dark hair is swept back, not a strand out of place.
As if he can see through the back of his head, he turns. "You're home."
My breath stutters. I force it steadily and shove off the door without taking my eyes off him. "Mikhail. How did you get in here?"
He inclines his head slightly. "You gave permission earlier."
I don't remember doing that, and the certainty in his tone tells me it doesn't matter. So I warn, "You don't have permission to be here when I'm not."
He scoots his chair out so his body faces me. His mouth curves slightly as confidence settles in his gaze. "So you say."
I step in front of him, my pulse hammering, and I clasp my hands together to keep them from shaking. "Where is he?"
Mikhail studies me for a moment longer than necessary. "He's being handled."
My jaw tightens. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you get."
My stomach flips. The air between us tightens. I'm not naive to what my family is capable of, and Mikhail might be an attorney, but Ivanovs choose their legal counsel with precision. I threaten, "If you hurt him—"
"I insulated him."
Anger flares hot and sharp. "You don't get to unravel my life."
His eyes narrow. "You invited attention. Attention invites consequence."
My voice catches. "You have no right to hide him from me."
A corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile. "Rights are flexible in this family."
I cross my arms, grounding myself. "You represent him?"
"Yes."
"So he's out of jail?"
"Of course. With stipulations," he adds.
I breathe in through my nose and swallow, forcing the air deeper when it won't settle on its own. "But Uncle Obrecht doesn't know?"
"As of now," he threatens with a smile.
"Do I need to remind you that you work for the Ivanovs?"
"Not at all."
"I'm an Ivanov," I remind him, lifting my chin higher.
"That's correct."
My stomach twists. "Then start acting like it."
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms now, mirroring me without effort. "That's exactly what I'm doing."