Chapter 27
Alexei
The skyline lightens on the other side of my desk, the city coming alive as dawn creeps across Chicago. My monitors flicker with surveillance footage, financial reports, and inventory logs. All the machinery of an empire operating smoothly despite my distraction.
Yesterday’s coffee shop excursion confirmed what I already expected. Samantha Bailey is exactly as Aurora described, and very much like her sister.
Bright, vibrant, and passionate.
During their visit, I detected no threats. Yet Aurora was different on our walk back to the Lexus, her wary gaze darting to car windows and passing strangers.
Was her edginess a reaction to being forced back into my world after the brief reprieve with her sister? Or is she naturally a little jaded after her recent experiences?
A crash from the kitchen propels me from my chair. Burning butter permeates the air, followed by a soft curse in Aurora’s musical voice.
I check the time. She’s awake earlier than usual. I should go back to work and ignore whatever fresh disaster she’s creating in my previously spotless kitchen.
Instead, I find myself drawn toward her chaos like a moth to flame.
Her back is to me, showing off the messy pile of hair atop her head, and she’s wearing another of my t-shirts. This one hangs to her mid-thigh, exposing her slender yet muscular legs.
Heat jolts straight to my groin.
The counter around her resembles a war zone. Eggshells scattered like shrapnel…flour dusting surfaces like fallout…an open gallon of milk too close to the edge. She leans over the center island, focused on a sizzling pan.
Pixie sits at her feet licking her whiskers.
“What are you doing?” The question elicits a yelp.
She jumps, spinning toward me with the spatula raised like a weapon. “Sheesh! Make a noise when you walk.”
I raise an eyebrow at the destruction surrounding her. “I thought I did. What is all this?”
“Pancakes. Well, I gave it a shot anyway.” Her smile is hesitant but genuine.
I should have stopped her pathetic attempts at cooking right from the start.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed as she returns to her culinary battlefield. “I see.”
She oozes nervous energy, humming an upbeat tune as she flips a sad, misshapen circle.
She motions toward two mugs. “Coffee’s fresh. I figured out your fancy machine.”
I pour myself a cup from the carafe she filled, the rich aroma a stark contrast to the burned stench wafting from the pan. The first sip is perfect. Strong, black, no sugar. At least she’s learned that much.
“Breakfast is served!”
She slides her creations onto a plate, a stack of uneven circles with charred edges and pale, lumpy centers.
After adding a pat of butter that refuses to melt on the undercooked surface, she drizzles syrup over the whole sorry mess and places the plate in front of me as if presenting a masterpiece.
Still humming, she floats back over to the island and scoops up discarded eggshells.
“It’s good.” I declare this without even touching the fork.
She spins around. “Really?”
I push the plate back with a grimace and watch the butter sink into the uncooked batter. “No. It’s fucking atrocious.”
She examines the butter-killing monstrosity for a beat.
I brace for anger or the wounded look that usually follows when I fail to perform the expected social niceties.
Her laugh startles me. The genuine, melodic sound bursts from her like sunlight through clouds. “You’re right. I’m a terrible cook.”
“Truly.”
The admission settles between us, oddly comfortable in its honesty.
“And you are a terrible,” she waves the spatula around, searching for the word, “conversationalist.”
I shrug and grunt, which inspires a second peal of laughter. “I’ll order breakfast.”
“Thank God.” She sags against the counter. “I was afraid the pancakes wouldn’t be good, but you’d still try to eat them out of some misguided attempt at politeness.”
I pull out my phone. “I’m not known for my politeness.”
She gathers the debris of her failed cooking project and piles dishes in the sink. “You don’t say.”
My silence is answer enough as I check a notification.
The deliveries. I’d almost forgotten. The supplies she requested, plus clothes, essentials…
everything she might need to make her stay more comfortable.
They all arrive today, and I’ve arranged another surprise too.
The idea occurred to me during the coffee shop visit while she chatted with her sister.
I couldn’t help but notice the ease with which she moves, speaks, and breathes when she’s free.
I can’t grant her freedom, but I can give her space.
I finish my coffee and set the mug down. “They’ll be here soon.”
“The food?” She doesn’t bother to glance up as she scrapes the remnants of the burned pancake batter from the nonstick pan.
“Yes. And your supplies.”
ALEXEI
The packages arrive all at once. I direct the delivery guys to leave them outside the warehouse, then haul the boxes to the tenth floor myself.
Aurora jumps up from the table where we were eating fluffy Belgium waffles with bacon and fresh fruit. “Is this…?”
“Everything you asked for.” I gesture toward the small mountain. “Art supplies. Clothes.”
She peers from the packages to me and back again, disbelief etched across her features. “All of it?”
“All of it.” I frown. Does she think I wouldn’t honor my end of the bargain?
She drops to her knees beside the nearest box and fumbles with the tape. When it doesn’t give way, she hisses in frustration. “Do you have scissors?”
I pull a tactical knife from my pocket. “Careful, it’s sharp.”
She accepts the knife without hesitation. “I’m used to working with sharp objects.”
Soon, packing materials, tissue paper, and plastic bags fly in all directions as she digs through box after box. My pristine floor disappears beneath an ever-expanding sea of debris. I should be irritated by the chaos.
Instead, I find myself glued to emotions playing across her face.
To the pure, unfiltered joy.
The scene reminds me of Christmas many years ago, when MJ and I would gather around the tree. Now I understand my parents’ smiles.
“Oh my gosh!” Aurora unearths a plier-like tool with wheels instead of flat edges and wields it like a trophy. “Wheeled nippers. Do you know what I can do with these?”
I study the implement, which resembles part of a torture kit more than an art tool. “I know what I can do with it. How do you use it?”
“I can cut curves into glass and tile and ceramic.” Her fingers spin the wheels. “See? Not just straight lines or chunks. Actual curves. I can create so many more designs now.”
She sets the instrument aside reverently and dives into another box.
This one contains the clothes I ordered after rifling through her apartment and closet during my reconnaissance.
With a squeal, she extracts dresses, tops, skirts, and even a few pairs of pants, examining each with mounting excitement.
“Thank you! These are perfect. How did you know my size?” She holds a green sweater against her chest.
“I told you I would get to know every inch of you.” My gaze roams her body, prompting her cheeks to flush pink. “I noticed you seemed to prefer skirts and dresses.”
She blinks. “I do. But I’m surprised you…” When a bundle of multicolored fabric materializes in her hand, her entire demeanor changes. “Fuzzy socks.” Her eyes brighten with unshed tears. “How did you know I liked fuzzy socks?”
I don’t confess how I saw them scattered across her ransacked apartment floor. I refuse to admit how closely I’ve studied every aspect of her life.
For leverage, of course. Control.
My non-response doesn’t deter her. She leaps to her feet, clutching the socks to her chest like they’re precious gems. “I need to put these away.”
She disappears down the hallway toward the guest room—her room now, I suppose—still cradling the socks.
I follow, stopping in the doorway as she kneels beside an open drawer and arranges the colorful bundles into neat rows. A pink and blue pair already adorns her feet.
A warm sensation fills my chest. One I studiously ignore. “Come with me.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Where?”
“You’ll see.”
She trails me to the freight elevator at the back of the loft and joins me inside, still focused on her wiggling toes. I press the button for the ninth floor.
The elevator lurches downward, then jolts to a stop.
The space before us stretches into shadow. Ten thousand square feet of raw, unfinished floor. Support beams rise like steel trees from concrete. Along the far wall, plywood covers windows as massive as those in my loft, blocking all but thin slivers of light that cut across the dusty floor.
Confusion carves into her features. “What is this?”
I shrug, aiming for casual despite my accelerated pulse. “It’s yours.”
Her jaw gapes. “What?”
“You need to do your…smashing art, right?” I gesture at the vast emptiness. “You can do it here. In your…smashing studio.”
Without waiting for her reaction, I cross to the nearest window and grab the edge of the plywood. Nails shriek as I tear the board free before continuing down the line, unveiling the wall of glass that faces the city.
When I glance back, she’s in the center of the floor, mouth hanging open.
Aurora wanders as if entranced, approaching one of the massive support columns and running her palm along the rough concrete. “I’ve never had anything like…never seen anything like this…no one ever gave a gift like this…”
She manages to ramble despite never finishing a sentence.
I bite back a smile. I didn’t originally intend this as a gift but as a provision for an asset.
A practical solution to keep her occupied and out of my hair.
To prevent damage to my living space and maintain control while granting the illusion of freedom.
A way to stop her from attempting to off me with her cooking.
Nothing more.