Chapter 16 Zatanna
ZATANNA
The call ends. Or at least I think it does.
I stare at my phone for a second, the silence in my apartment settling around me. I kick off my shoes and drop my bag on the chair.
Then the reality of the conversation catches up with me.
A date. Within twenty-four hours. For him.
“Ugh,” I groan, dragging a hand through my hair. “That man is impossible.”
I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. “You kissed me in an elevator and now you want me to plan your romantic dinner like some kind of—”
There’s a faint crackle from the phone.
Then his voice.
“…Zatanna.”
I freeze. My stomach drops.
“I’m still here,” he says.
I sit bolt upright.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, staring at the phone like it just bit me. “I thought I cut the call. I swear it dropped.”
There’s a small pause.
Then I hear him say, faint but unmistakable, “I thought so too, but…”
Panic detonates in my chest. “Oh my god.” I jab the screen and end the call before he can finish the sentence.
Silence floods the room.
For a full five seconds I just sit there, breathing. Then I slowly fall backward onto the mattress and stare at the ceiling again.
I totally just insulted my boss.
My terrifying, powerful, very dangerous boss.
And then I hung up on him.
“Great,” I mutter into the empty apartment. “Perfect. Excellent career move, Zee.”
The man who signs my paycheck.
The man who apparently wants me to arrange dates for him.
The man I kissed in an elevator like I’d completely lost my mind.
And now I’ve basically told him he’s insane… before cutting him off mid-sentence.
I groan into the pillow. My heart is still racing, part panic, part something warmer I don’t want to examine too closely.
Surely, he’s going to call back. Surely, he’s going to say something like Ms. DeLaurentis, you’re fired, or maybe just breathe in that slow, controlled way that somehow makes me feel like I’ve already disappointed him.
But the phone stays quiet.
No call. No text. Nothing.
“Okay,” I mutter to the empty apartment. “That’s almost worse.”
I sit up on the bed and rub my face again. Sleep is clearly not happening tonight. My brain is running too fast, replaying every humiliating second of the evening.
The elevator.
The kiss.
The call.
The way he said my name.
I shove the thoughts away and push myself off the bed.
“If I’m going to be fired tomorrow,” I mumble, “I might as well go down swinging.”
Five minutes later I’m in the kitchen making coffee like it’s three in the afternoon instead of nearly one in the morning. My apartment is tiny, barely big enough for the little table and couch that came with the place, but the familiar clutter helps calm me down.
The iPad he gave me sits on the counter.
I pick it up.
“Well,” I sigh, tapping the screen awake. “Let’s find Mr. Vasiliev a wife.”
Profiles fill the screen instantly.
Dozens of them.
No—hundreds.
Beautiful women. Perfectly styled photos. Elegant smiles. Ivy League degrees. Last names that sound like old money and country clubs. Some of them are models, some are lawyers, some are daughters of politicians or CEOs.
All of them look like they stepped out of a magazine.
I scroll. And scroll. And scroll.
The more I look, the quieter my apartment feels.
I stare at a woman with sleek black hair and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Another with blonde waves and a body that probably lives in a Pilates studio. A third with a doctorate, a charity foundation, and a family estate in Connecticut.
I catch my reflection in the dark microwave door across the kitchen.
Plain brown hair. Loose sweater. Bare face.
“Mousy,” I mutter under my breath. The word slips out before I can stop it.
Compared to these women, I might as well be invisible. They’re polished. Perfect. The kind of women who belong on Aleksei Vasiliev’s arm at a gala.
Women who understand men like him. Women who wouldn’t panic in an elevator. Women who definitely wouldn’t insult him on the phone and hang up in the middle of his sentence.
I scroll again, slower this time. Each face feels like another reminder of how ridiculous tonight was. Because what was that kiss?
I press my lips together unconsciously, remembering the way his mouth felt. The way he picked me up like I weighed nothing. The heat in his voice when he said my name.
It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t the kind of kiss a man gives someone he barely notices. It was desperate and hungry, like he wanted me.
Which makes absolutely no sense.
I glance back at the screen, at the endless parade of flawless women. “Seriously,” I whisper to the empty kitchen. My finger hovers over the tablet. “If he has all of this…” I bite my lip. “Then why did Aleksei Vasiliev kiss me like that?”
By the time I finally force myself to choose a candidate, my coffee has gone cold and the sky outside my tiny apartment window has gone from black to the faintest shade of blue. Morning is creeping in, slow and unforgiving.
“Congratulations,” I mumble to the woman on the screen, some flawless brunette philanthropist with a jawline sculpted by the gods. “You get the privilege of dating a man who terrifies me and kisses like he’s trying to ruin my life.”
I close the iPad, push it away, and stumble to my bed.
My body feels heavy, exhausted, but my mind refuses to quiet. Every thought circles back to Aleksei. Eventually though, I drift off, sinking into that hazy border between sleep and waking where everything feels too real.
And then—
He’s there.
Aleksei.
Standing at the foot of my bed like he stepped out of the shadows, his expression dark and unreadable. The room around us is dim, washed in the pale blue of early dawn. I sit up, heart pounding.
“What… what are you doing here?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
He just walks toward me, the mattress dipping under his weight as he climbs onto the bed. My breath catches as his hand slides up my calf, fingers strong and warm, tracing higher until they graze the inside of my thigh.
“Aleksei,” I breathe.
Still no answer.
His gaze is fixed on me—hungry, intent—as if my question doesn’t matter, as if the only thing that exists is the heat sparking between us. His touch travels higher, pushing the hem of my sleep shirt up, baring more of my skin.
My pulse stutters.
He leans over me, bracing one hand beside my head. His breath skims my cheek, warm and slow, sending a tremor through me. His other hand slides beneath the thin cotton of my shirt, fingertips brushing the underside of my breast.
I arch involuntarily, a quiet whimper escaping me.
He lowers his mouth to my neck and kisses me—slow at first, then deeper, biting gently at my pulse point. My thighs press together instinctively, heat pooling low in my belly.
“Aleksei…” My voice is breathless now. “You shouldn’t—”
His thumb grazes my nipple, sending a sharp, electric jolt through me. My protest melts into a soft moan. He kisses down my collarbone, his teeth scraping lightly, his hand moving lower, sliding between my legs, and finding the heat waiting for him there.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
All I can do is feel him—his fingers stroking me through my panties, slow and sure, like he already knows exactly how to touch me.
My head tips back, lips parted, a desperate sound slipping free.
He murmurs against my skin, voice low and rough, “You’re already so wet for me.”
God. My hips lift into his hand, seeking more, craving him with an intensity that borders on painful. His mouth trails down my chest, open-mouthed kisses that make me shiver, and I reach for him, grabbing the front of his shirt, dragging him closer.
He presses his body against mine—hot, hard, overwhelming—and I gasp as he grinds against my thigh, letting me feel exactly how much he wants me.
“Aleksei…” I whisper.
He lifts his head, eyes dark and burning. “Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and sin.
My lips part—
And once again, I wake with a jolt.
Heart pounding. Sheets tangled around my legs. Skin flushed and aching. I stare at the ceiling, breath shaking, my pulse still thundering in my ears.
It was a dream. Only a dream.
But ugh… it didn’t feel like one.
My heart is still racing when my phone lights up beside me on the bed.
I jolt like I’ve been caught doing something wrong—even though technically all I did was dream about my boss licking his way down my body. But the sudden buzz drags me out of the haze, snaps all that delicious warmth into cold reality.
Mom flashes on the screen.
My stomach twists.
I almost let it ring. Almost toss the phone into the blanket and pretend I didn’t see it. Calls from her never end well. They mean guilt trips or accusations or thinly veiled commands to come home and be the daughter she thinks I’m supposed to be.
But she’ll just keep calling.
So, I swipe to answer.
“Hello,” I say, trying to sound normal.
There’s a clatter in the background—pots, maybe, or her TV. Then her voice, blunt as ever. “Zatanna. You’re awake.”
Barely.
“Yeah,” I murmur, rubbing my face. “What’s up?”
She doesn’t ask how I am. She never does.
Instead, she sighs dramatically. “Listen, I need you to send some money.”
I sit up straight.
Money?
Of all the things I expected—guilt, pressure, a speech about coming home to help around the house—this wasn’t it. She’s never asked me for money before. Just obedience.
For a second I forget how to speak.
“…Okay,” I finally manage. “How much?”
She rattles off a number that makes my coffee go sour in my stomach.
Christ.
My rent is barely paid. My fridge is empty. I’m hanging onto this job by a thread. And now…
“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell her quietly.
It’s all I can say.
She doesn’t thank me. Just tells me when she needs it, then hangs up like she’s ordering something online.
I stare at the dead screen, pulse sinking.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the ceiling as the quiet settles in again.
Of course, she asked for money.
Of course, she didn’t ask if I’m okay. She never has.
I breathe out, long and shaky.
Growing up in that house meant performing—being the quiet daughter, the obedient daughter, the good daughter. My father’s temper made sure of that. My mother’s silence made it worse. They never cared what I wanted, only what I could provide. How useful I could be. How presentable. How controllable.
Leaving home was the first real decision I ever made for myself.
And they’ve resented me for it ever since.
I press my hands over my eyes.
I came to New York to breathe. To be someone other than the girl locked in her bedroom crying so no one would hear. Someone other than the daughter who was told she was too sensitive, too dramatic, too plain to ever make something of herself.
A life on my own was supposed to mean freedom.
But right now, all it feels like is sinking.
Of course. Of course this would happen now. When my life is a mess, when I’m dreaming about my boss touching me, when I’m trying not to get fired before the week ends.
I fall back onto the pillow, covering my face with my hands.
I can still feel Aleksei’s dream-hands on my thighs.
And now I need to magically find money I don’t have.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.