Chapter 3 Lila #2
He steps closer, his gaze never leaving mine. “Because I can.”
His answer shouldn’t make my heart race, but it does.
“I don’t even know you,” I say weakly.
“You know enough,” he counters, and the way he says it makes me feel like he’s the one in control—not just of this moment, but of me.
My instincts scream at me to walk away, but my body seems to have other ideas.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Against my better judgment, I trail behind Mikhail as we make our way through the terminal. My brain is screaming at me to rethink this decision—who agrees to ride four hours with a stranger? But my feet keep moving, following his confident strides like I don’t have a choice in the matter.
When we reach the baggage claim, I step toward the carousel to grab my suitcase, but Mikhail stops beside me, his hand resting lightly on my arm.
“You don’t need to worry about that,” he says.
Before I can argue, the massive, beefy man from our flight (whose seat I stole, apparently) steps forward like he’s been summoned by some invisible signal. Without a word, he snatches my suitcase off the belt and hefts it like it weighs nothing.
“Uh, thanks?” I say, blinking at the sheer size of the man. He looks like he could bench-press the carousel itself.
Mikhail chuckles, the sound low and amused.
“Is he your bodyguard or something?” I ask, only half joking.
“Something like that,” Mikhail replies, his smirk firmly in place.
The beefy man gestures for us to follow, and we step outside into the brisk air. A sleek, black luxury car—no, scratch that, a fortress on wheels—is parked at the curb, gleaming under the airport lights.
“Wait,” I say, stopping in my tracks. “We’re going in that?”
Mikhail glances over his shoulder at me, one brow raised. “Of course.”
Of course. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
The car is massive, all tinted windows and sharp lines, the kind of vehicle that screams untouchable. The driver stands by the door, holding it open like we’re royalty.
Mikhail gestures for me to step in first, and I hesitate, my brain scrambling to process what’s happening. I’ve been on school buses more luxurious than the car I drive, and now I’m about to climb into something that probably costs more than my entire life.
“Go ahead, kiska,” he says, his tone both commanding and impossibly smooth.
I slide into the back seat, trying to look like I belong there, but the buttery leather and spacious interior make it abundantly clear that I don’t.
I can’t stop myself from sneaking a glance at him.
“How rich are you?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He turns to me, one corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. “Rich enough.”
“That’s not an answer,” I counter, though my voice lacks conviction.
“It’s the only one you’re getting,” he says, leaning back in his seat, his gaze flicking to me briefly before settling on the window.
I bite my lip, staring out the opposite window, trying to piece together the puzzle that is Mikhail. He’s clearly wealthy—ridiculously wealthy. And the way that man from the plane responded to him? Yeah, there’s more to him than he’s letting on.
“What do you do for work?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.
His eyes slide back to me, and for a moment, I swear I see something dark flicker there, something he doesn’t want me to see. “Business,” he says simply.
“Business,” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”
“And you? What do you do, Lila?”
I hesitate, glancing at him. His tone is casual, but his gaze is sharp, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s genuinely interested. Still, I’m not sure how much I want to share. “I’m a teacher,” I say, keeping it simple.
He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “What kind of teacher?”
“Elementary,” I reply, glancing out the window. “Kindergarten, mostly.”
“Ah,” he says, his tone softening. “That suits you.”
I blink, turning back to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You seem patient,” he says with a faint smile, “and kind. Qualities not everyone has.”
I don’t know why, but the compliment catches me off guard. “Well, it’s not as glamorous as what you do,” I say, deflecting.
“No,” he agrees, his smirk returning. “But I’d argue it’s more important.”
Before I can decide how to respond to that, my phone buzzes in my lap, the screen lighting up with a name I’d hoped to avoid for a little longer: Randall. My stomach twists.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, swiping to answer.
“Where are you?” Randall’s voice barks through the line, loud and agitated.
“I’m on my way,” I say quickly, trying to keep my tone calm. “There was an issue with my flight, but I’m driving to New York now. I’ll be there—”
“You better be!” he cuts me off. “Do you have any idea how much pressure I’m under right now? I can’t handle this on my own, Lila! You should’ve been here hours ago!”
“I couldn’t control the flight delay—”
“I don’t care!” he snaps, his words sharp and grating. “If you’re not here on time, this whole thing will fall apart, and guess who’s going to take the blame? Not me!”
The line goes dead before I can respond. I stare at my phone, stunned, the weight of his words settling heavily on my shoulders.
“Trouble?”
I jump slightly, turning to find Mikhail watching me. His expression is calm, but there’s a glint of something dangerous in his eyes.
“Just my boss,” I say, forcing a weak smile.
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Your boss is the one who just yelled at you?”
I flush, realizing he must have heard the entire conversation. “Yeah. He’s…not the most patient person.”
“Who is he?”
I hesitate, not sure why I feel reluctant to explain.
But Mikhail’s gaze is unrelenting, and the words spill out before I can stop them.
“Randall. He’s my school principal. There’s this big educational conference happening in New York, and I’m supposed to be there to help run things.
Except he dumped most of the responsibilities on me last minute, so now it’s my problem if anything goes wrong. ”
Mikhail leans back in his seat, his expression unreadable. “Skip it.”
I blink at him, certain I misheard. “What?”
“Skip it,” he repeats, his tone firm. “Why go through the trouble? Let him handle it himself.”
“That’s outrageous,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have a responsibility,” I argue, my voice rising slightly.
“Are you one of the organizers?” he asks, his brow arching.
“No,” I admit reluctantly. “But Randall set me up to deal with it all.”
“Exactly,” he says, his smirk returning. “Then you can miss it. Would teach him not to speak to you like that.”
I gape at him, unable to believe what I’m hearing. “You can’t just…skip something like this because someone was rude to you.”
“Why not?” he counters, his tone calm but unyielding. “You’re not obligated to tolerate disrespect.”
His words throw me off-balance, and I don’t know how to respond. The idea of defying Randall, of walking away from a responsibility—even one unfairly dumped on me—feels so foreign. But at the same time, there’s something liberating about it.
“I can’t,” I say finally, though the conviction in my voice wavers. “I just…can’t.”
Mikhail studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Suit yourself, kiska. But remember—respect is earned, not owed.”
Those words stay with me, echoing in the quiet moments as the car speeds down the highway.
Respect is earned, not owed. It’s such a simple idea, yet it cuts through the years of me bending over backward for people like Randall, people who take and take because they know I won’t say no.
Could I really skip the conference? No, I tell myself.
I’d never hear the end of it. But still, the thought lingers, tugging at something buried deep inside me.
My stomach growls, loud enough to cut through my thoughts, and I flush, clutching my midsection. I haven’t eaten since the plane, and the anxiety hasn’t exactly helped.
“Uh…any chance we can stop for food?” I ask hesitantly. “I’m starving.”
He glances up, his expression unreadable for a moment before nodding. “Torres,” he says, his tone sharp and decisive.
The beefy guy from earlier, who’s been riding up front in silence like some kind of stoic sentinel, glances at Mikhail in the rearview mirror. “You sure, boss?”
“It’s fine,” Mikhail replies smoothly. “Find somewhere convenient.”
A few minutes later, we pull into a Burger King parking lot, and I can’t help but feel a little awkward as Torres gives Mikhail a pointed look.
Mikhail shrugs, unbothered. “She’s hungry.”
The car rolls to a stop, and I step out, grateful for the chance to stretch my legs.
The smell of fries and grilled burgers wafts through the air, and my stomach growls again.
Mikhail follows me inside, his presence immediately drawing attention.
A few customers glance his way, their gazes lingering.
I can’t blame them—he’s not exactly the usual Burger King crowd.
The tailored suit, the air of authority, the way he carries himself like he owns the ground he walks on… yeah, he’s definitely out of place.
We step up to the counter, and I glance at him. “What do you want?”
“You choose,” he says, his gray eyes steady on mine.
“Seriously?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t have a preference?”
“It’s my first time,” he says casually, like he’s just mentioned the weather.
I blink at him. “No shit.”
He smirks, his lips twitching slightly. “No shit.”
Shaking my head, I turn to the cashier and order a couple of meals—one with a Whopper for him, and a cheeseburger meal for me.
We sit at a booth near the window, the trays of food between us. Mikhail picks up the Whopper, inspecting it like it’s some rare artifact before taking a bite. I watch as his expression flickers, and then he nods.
“Not bad,” he says.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Welcome to the world of fast food, Mr. First Class.”
He arches an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “I assume you’re a seasoned expert?”
“You could say that,” I reply, taking a sip of my soda. “Growing up, we didn’t have much. My mom would take me to places like this because it was cheap, and we could make it work. Burgers, fries, milkshakes…it was our version of fine dining.”
Mikhail sets his burger down, his gaze sharpening. “You didn’t have much?”
I nod, picking at my fries. “My parents had just split, and things were…tight. Really tight. My mom did her best, but there were times we barely scraped by.”
He leans back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Why did they split?”
I hesitate, the old wounds still tender despite the years. “Let’s just say my dad wasn’t the best at being a husband. My mom left, and we had to start over. It wasn’t easy, but we managed.”
Mikhail doesn’t press, but there’s something in his eyes, a flicker of understanding that catches me off guard.
“Your mother sounds strong,” he says finally, his voice softer than I’ve heard it.
“She is,” I say, smiling faintly. “She had to be.”
He’s finished half of his Whopper, eating it with the same deliberate precision he seems to apply to everything.
“What?” he asks, catching me staring.
I shake my head, laughing softly. “Nothing. It’s just funny seeing you here.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Funny how?”
“You look like the kind of guy who has a private chef,” I reply, taking a sip of my soda. “Not someone who eats Whoppers at roadside Burger Kings.”
His lips twitch into that infuriating smirk of his. “I told you, it’s my first time.”
“Right,” I say, leaning forward. “And how’s the grand introduction to fast food?”
He picks up a fry, inspects it closely, and then eats it. “Surprisingly good.”
I laugh, shaking my head.
“Tell me more about you,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “Why teaching? Why children?”
I hesitate, the directness of his attention making me squirm.
He makes it impossible to deflect, his eyes pinning me in place like I’m the only person in the room.
“I’ve always liked kids,” I say finally.
“They’re honest in a way adults aren’t, you know?
And they’re still learning about the world.
I wanted to do something that mattered, even if it’s just in a small way. ”
Mikhail nods, his expression thoughtful. “It’s an important job. One most people wouldn’t take on.”
The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard. I pick at my fries, needing a distraction. “What about Torres?” I ask, nodding toward the car parked outside. “Doesn’t he want to eat?”
Mikhail leans back slightly, his smirk returning. “Torres likes his space. He’ll eat when we’re back on the road.”
“He really isn’t your bodyguard, is he?”
“Not officially,” Mikhail answers.
“Hmm,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’re good at dodging questions, you know that?”
“I only dodge the ones I don’t feel like answering,” he counters smoothly, his gray eyes glinting with amusement.
I laugh softly, but his words stick with me.
I watch him through my lashes. Mikhail seems to realize it and looks up. “Do I have something on my face?” he asks.
“You’re older than I thought,” I blurt out, because no man in his twenties has that level of presence, that confidence that demands the whole damn room. And no man in his twenties looks like he walked out of a Brioni ad with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that could strip you down to nothing.
He chuckles, not looking the least offended. “How old would you say I am?”
I chew before answering. “Is that a trick question?”
He laughs again, and for some reason I feel really good about that. Mikhail doesn’t seem like a person who laughs a lot.
We eat in relative silence after that, though I catch him watching me occasionally, his gaze lingering like he’s trying to decipher me as much as I’m trying to figure him out.
When we finish, I gather the trash and start to stand, but Mikhail is faster. He takes the tray from me without a word, depositing it in the bin by the door as we head back to where Torres is waiting.
The car hums to life, and we’re back on the road. The quiet settles in again, but it’s not uncomfortable. I’m lost in my own thoughts, staring out at the passing landscape, when my phone buzzes loudly in my lap.
I glance at the screen, groaning when Randall’s name flashes across it.
Mikhail’s gaze flicks to me, curious, but he says nothing.
I decline the call and turn toward him. “Mind if I tag along just a little while longer?” I ask, surprising even myself with the words.
His eyebrows lift slightly, and for the first time, I see something like curiosity in his expression. “You’re not going to the conference anymore?”
“I guess I just…changed my mind,” I say.
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