Chapter 18 #2
She studies me for a long quiet moment, her gaze moving over my face like she’s searching for confirmation of her doubts. Then she steps closer to the mirror, fixing a strand of her perfect hair, and speaks while watching my reflection instead of me.
“You know,” she says lightly, “something is off between you two.”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you do,” she murmurs, almost amused. “I can see it. Something feels a bit…staged, I just don’t know why.”
She finally turns toward me fully, crossing her arms, leaning her hip against the counter in a casual, elegant way that makes me feel like I’m standing there in ripped jeans and a hoodie instead of an expensive dress.
“You have something on him,” she says quietly, almost thoughtfully. “I just can’t figure out what.”
I swallow, looking away for a second. “I don’t have anything on him. Why would you think that?”
She laughs softly. “Men like Artyom don’t marry for love, Kira. He wouldn’t throw away alliances for affection and wouldn’t choose you as his wife just because he feels something.”
Her voice turns almost soft on the last word, like it hurts to say it.
“If you actually believe he’ll choose you for that,” she adds, “you should be careful. You’re forgetting what kind of world you’re dabbling in and it’s going to end up badly for you.”
For a second, she doesn’t look like the villain in my story, or the girl I’m supposed to be jealous of. She looks… sad. Bitter.
I breathe out slowly. “I’m not na?ve.”
Her eyes soften in a way I don’t expect. “I know you’re not. That’s why I’m telling you.”
Before I can respond, she straightens immediately, lifting her chin, her mask sliding back into place. But as she turns toward the door, she turns around and her lips twitch, like she almost smiles, but she doesn’t stop walking. The door shuts behind her with a soft click.
I stand there for a moment, exhaling hard, letting the silence settle again. My hands are still shaking slightly, but now it’s not only because of Artyom.
I walk back toward the dining room but the second I reach the doorway, Artyom is already getting up.
He doesn’t say a word, just places his hand on the small of my back, and leads me upstairs.
We don’t talk on the way. We don’t touch more than that single point of contact, but something intense ignites between us, impossible to shake.
When the door closes behind us, he lets out a slow breath. “You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He studies me, his eyes dark, searching, like he’s trying to figure out which part of me is lying. But instead of pushing, he just steps closer, lowering his voice.
“Nothing’s going to happen to you, while I’m here,” he says, and there’s something raw in the way he says it, something that makes my chest tighten. “I shouldn’t have let you get that close to danger last night. That’s on me.”
He thinks I’m shaken because of the attack, but he couldn’t be more wrong. He has no idea what’s actually happening inside me and the thought makes me smile.
“Artyom… it wasn’t your fault,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens slightly, in the way he looks at the floor like he’s carrying weight he can’t talk about.
“I’m taking a shower,” he mutters as he just turns and walks into the bathroom.
The shower turns on a moment later—hot water hitting the tile, steam beginning to roll out from under the door. I sit on the edge of the bed, exhaling slowly, my fingers running over the blanket like I need something to hold onto.
The silence feels charged again, so I try to distract myself, grabbing my phone. I lie back against the pillows, getting comfortable, when it buzzes.
For a second, my mind goes straight to Lilly, ready for some harmless message about a patient or a shift, but the moment my eyes land on the number, everything inside me turns cold and tight, like someone reaches straight into my chest and squeezes.
It’s my brother’s number.
I open the text and read.
Kira. I’m fine but I need to see you. I will contact you soon. Don’t let him find out.
My stomach twists so fast it makes me dizzy, and my fingers clamp hard around the phone.
The room feels smaller, the air getting thick as I stare at those words.
Part of me wants to cry, part of me wants to scream, and part of me feels this sick, guilty relief that he’s alive, even if I know better than to trust the way he says it.
I delete the message without thinking, the movement sharp and desperate, like erasing the text will somehow erase the consequences that are already crawling under my skin.
I shove the phone under pillow, because I know Artyom will notice, and I can’t let him see my face right now, not like this, not with my heart racing so loud I can feel it in my fingertips.
My insides feel weak for a second, and I press my palm to the nightstand to steady myself, but the guilt keeps climbing higher, mixing with fear and something else that I don’t want to name, because now that there’s Artyom in the equation, I don’t know how to balance them without losing a part of myself in the process.