Chapter 12
GABBY
The car glides through downtown, city lights smearing against the tinted glass. I’m wedged in the back seat, wishing I were anywhere else.
Bogdan’s behind the wheel, stoic as ever. His posture is perfect—military-straight, with hands at ten and two, eyes scanning traffic with robotic calm. He hasn’t said a single word since we left the office.
I glance at the back of his head, noticing a small scar beneath his hairline.
“So,” I say, “do you get paid extra to look that serious, or is it a personal preference?”
He flicks his eyes up to the rearview mirror. It’s nighttime, so he doesn’t have his sunglasses on, for once. His eyes are a watery shade of blue. Kind of nice, really.
“Seriousness works better for the job. And so does silence.”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s being a little wry. “Good to know.”
He doesn’t reply. Just takes a turn with surgical precision, the glow of the city flicking across his chiseled face.
I watch the skyline slide past. My thoughts are totally scrambled, half of them replaying the car that nearly hit me this morning, the other half wondering what waits ahead.
I press my palms to my knees, trying to anchor myself. “It’s just temporary,” I whisper under my breath.
Bogdan glances up. “Something on your mind?”
“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”
“Well, make sure you listen,” he says, flat and final.
I almost laugh. Almost.
The sedan stops in front of a downtown high-rise of glass, steel, and power. The valet takes one look at Bogdan and instantly moves to take the car. Bogdan gets out, leaving the keys in the ignition, then steps around to open the door for me.
The valet slides into the car and is soon gone.
I step out and tilt my head back. The tower seems to stretch endlessly into the evening sky, like a blade cutting into the murky clouds above.
Bogdan moves ahead, scanning the perimeter before leading me through a marble lobby so tall, it could house a damn cathedral.
There’s no music, no chatter, just a quiet hum of pure luxury.
It’s more than a little overwhelming.
We reach a private elevator tucked behind a minimalist black wall. Bogdan swipes a keycard, presses PH. The display doesn’t even show numbers. It’s a smooth, silent ascent.
When the doors open, my breath catches. The penthouse is unreal. Two stories of open space, windows on each side. Chicago sprawls around us in every direction—river glittering, skyscrapers glowing.
Everything in the penthouse is black, gray, or steel. Minimalist, masculine, expensive. The kind of design that screams calm control. A suspended fireplace divides the living area, surrounded by low leather furniture.
I take a step forward, and my reflection follows me across the polished marble floor.
“It’s… cozy,” I say with a hint of sarcasm.
Bogdan’s mouth twitches. I get the impression that, for him, that’s practically a laugh.
To my right, a staircase floats upward to the mezzanine, glass railings catching the skyline’s shimmer.
“Welcome to the tower,” Bogdan says.
He leads me down a hallway lined with dark wood and recessed lighting. Every inch of this place is precise, intentional. And more than a little cold.
At the end, he taps a keycard to a door. “This is your room,” he says, stepping inside.
I walk in behind him and just… stop.
It’s gorgeous. Unlike the straight functionality of the rest of the apartment, my room is inviting.
Warm wood floors, soft amber lighting, and a panoramic view of the river.
The bed is huge, covered in luxuriously soft linen.
There’s a little sitting area by the window with a loveseat, a small table, and a vase of lilies.
And then I see the office nook—a glass desk, a high-end laptop already set up and ready to go, shelves lined with supplies.
Everything’s arranged exactly how I’d need it, like someone studied my office and recreated it here better.
Hell, that’s probably exactly what happened.
However, it’s the bathroom that really does me in. Marble counters. A rainfall shower. A soaking tub big enough to drown in. It’s easily twice the size of my old bathroom.
“This is mine?” I ask, still processing everything.
“For now,” Bogdan says. His tone is neutral, but there’s something else to it. “He wanted you close. It’s safer here than anywhere else. And you’re not to leave for now.”
I turn to him. He’s standing like a statue at the door to the room. Part of me wonders what he would do if I tried to run past him and leave. Would he grab me, tackle me to the ground?
“I’m not allowed to leave?”
“For the time being. We can discuss excursions outside of the apartment after speaking with Sasha. Surely you see the wisdom in staying here after what happened this morning.”
I open my mouth, wanting to argue, wanting to tell him that no one puts me in a damn cage.
But I remember the fear I felt as the car raced toward me.
The idea of being essentially a prisoner here doesn’t sit right with me in the slightest, but if my life is truly in danger, maybe it’s the best option?
Then there’s the little matter of the baby. It’s strange having something like him or her, reminding me that my decisions aren’t my own anymore. I have someone else to think about now.
Bogdan strides into the room, stepping over to the window and scanning the skyline, as if a sniper might be waiting for me in the wings. If I wanted to bolt, now would be the time.
I don’t.
“Kitchen’s stocked,” he says. “Help yourself to whatever you want. And I’ll have the rest of your things brought up once they’re cleared.”
“Cleared?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Standard security.”
“What, you think I’m going to smuggle a bomb in my hair dryer or something?”
He doesn’t bite. Instead, he straightens his sleeves and continues. “The west wing’s off-limits. That’s Sasha’s private space.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You make it sound like he’s Dracula or something.”
Bogdan’s expression doesn’t change. “He values privacy.”
“Sure. I’ll be sure to keep some garlic on me anyway.”
“That’s in the kitchen, too,” he says, his tone dry as a bone. He steps closer. “Sasha will be home later tonight. Until then, stay inside. No balcony. No calls from unknown numbers.”
“Right,” I say, folding my arms. “Totally normal.”
“It is in this life.” Bogdan’s tone is a little sharp, and he seems to realize in the moment that it’s not the right angle to take.
He closes his eyes, takes a breath, then starts again.
“I know this is all strange and a little scary, but you don’t see the front lines like Sasha and I do.
” He raises a finger. “Correction—you got a taste of the front lines this morning. Unless you want to deal with that again, you’ll do what Sasha asks. It’s for your own protection.”
For once, I have nothing smart to say. Any retort I could possibly come up with is immediately countered by the mental image of a black sedan nearly ending my life.
Bogdan nods, sensing he’s made his point. “Eat something, take a bath. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
With that, he leaves me alone, shutting the door with a soft click.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
The room feels too perfect, too still. I cross to the window and look out over the city.
The lights stretch on forever, orange and glittering, beautiful and indifferent.
Somewhere down there is the person who tried to kill me today.
And now I’m here, trapped in a castle of glass and steel, owned by the man who scares me almost as much as he turns me on.
“Temporary,” I whisper. “It’s only temporary.”
I decide to go for a little stroll. Might as well get a sense of my floating prison. I step out into the hallway. The penthouse is quiet. But not peaceful quiet—sterile quiet.
My footsteps echo off the marble as I wander back into the living room, every sound too crisp, like the space itself was acoustically designed not to let you relax.
Everything gleams: the glass, the steel, the modern art that looks way too expensive to touch.
It’s the kind of apartment that’s never known mess or warmth. It feels curated, like a museum.
I drift toward the kitchen, half expecting a fingerprint scanner to guard the room.
But it’s open, and just as clinical as the rest of the apartment.
Neat in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t do much cooking.
I see rows of imported ingredients, artisanal oils, and bottled water lined up on the counter like soldiers.
No sign of junk food or takeout. Not even a rogue coffee mug is to be found.
“This man doesn’t eat,” I say to myself. “Maybe he is Dracula.”
As I make my way through the massive kitchen, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the backsplash. I’m pale, tense, my eyes rimmed with fatigue. I lean forward, gripping the counter, a little tremor of anxiety rushing through me.
However, I do have to admit to myself that I feel safer here. And I kind of hate that I do.
Even though Sasha’s not home, his presence hums in the symmetry of everything—the sharp edges, the silence, the impossible neatness.
But I want him here. I want him to step through the elevator doors and take me into his arms and tell me everything’s going to be fine. And then another part of me wants to slap him, tell him it’s his fault that I’m in this stupid mess.
“Fine,” I say, trying to reassure myself. “This is all totally fine.”
My voice bounces off the walls.
Once back in my room, I drop onto the bed, grab my phone, and start scrolling through notifications. Angie’s texts light up the screen—half worry, half nosy best friend energy: You OK? Reads the most recent one.
I start to type back—I’m fine, just a little shaken up. I quickly delete it. How do I even begin to describe the rest of my day? And the fact is, I’m not fine. I’m still scared out of my mind.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling. The past few hours replay in my head, like a montage from hell—the screech of tires, Bogdan pulling me off my feet, the flash of metal. The fear.
And the thought of Sasha walking through the door hits me low and hot in my stomach, equal parts dread and something else I don’t want to name. Because the truth is, as terrifying as he is, he makes me feel safe. Anchored. Like the chaos all pauses for him.
It’s totally maddening. I should hate him. But I don’t. I can’t.
I roll onto my side and get up to my feet. Bogdan’s voice won’t leave my head. You don’t see the front lines.
Maybe not. But I can feel them now. I’ve tasted the danger.
I glance toward my bedroom door, half expecting it to open. It doesn’t. The only thing that greets me is the low thrum of the building.
I can’t shake the feeling that something is moving toward me, something big, unstoppable, and already too close to turn away from.