Chapter 24
Jordan
Lighthouse is a vault. No, more than that.
This cathedral of excess rises above us, the air rich with silence and heavy as velvet.
Dark paneling lines the walls, climbing higher than you’d expect and swallowing sound so every table lives in its own private little bubble. The lighting shines on elegant white plates, while shadows gather everywhere else.
My mother would call the ambiance “tasteful” but would mean expensive, which, underneath, would mean exclusive.
I spent a lifetime running from this kind of establishment, where privilege doesn’t have to strut or shout. Power is assumed the moment you waltz through the door. So woven in, nobody even bothers to question if you belong.
After all, the staff and prices keep the rabble out.
Kirill’s solid hand settles at my back. I wait for the old reflex places like this always bring—the clench, the dread—but it never comes.
Instead, a quiet calmness centers me, a realization that I find terrifying.
The ma?tre d’ stands by his podium like a penguin in a perfect suit with hair the color of old silver. He’s all smiles for a couple in thousands of dollars of silk and tailoring. But when his eyes flicker to Kirill, his pupils dilate just slightly and his jaw tightens.
He knows. No question.
And suddenly, the rich couple no longer matters. He leaves them mid-sentence and steps toward us with deliberate caution.
He inclines his head like a butler in an old movie. “Mr. Kozlov’s man. What an unexpected pleasure.”
Kirill nods. The smallest possible acceptance. “Best table.” He doesn’t even pretend to request.
The ma?tre d’ never blinks. “Of course. Right this way.”
He leads us past the velvet ropes, past the waiting people who must have lived in anticipation for months.
Kirill doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.
I wonder what it’s like to float through the world so sure of your own gravity that you never question where you belong.
I thought I’d overcome my feelings of inadequacy, but now that I’m back in the world of the “haves,” I realize the old insecurities never truly faded.
I sense every stare as I weave between the tables, following Kirill’s lead.
I’m careful not to let my skirt touch the pristine white tablecloths or catch my shoes on the curved legs of the thick, padded chairs.
My mother’s voice repeats lesson after lesson in my mind. Chin up. Eyes forward. Shoulders straight. Don’t stare at the food or the heavy, polished silverware on the tables.
I can meditate all day and night, but that doesn’t erase the memory of her disapproval or the sting of her glare when I failed to reach perfection.
I straighten my shoulders and force my chin high. Even if I was never good enough for Mom’s eyes, I won’t let these strangers see me waver.
A carved wooden screen partially obscures our corner table. A crystal vase with a single orchid sits in the middle, the white petals glowing in the gloom.
I don’t wait for the ma?tre d’ to pull out my chair.
Kirill doesn’t comment on my act of independence, though the edge of his mouth twitches.
The moment we’re seated, a server materializes with a bottle of red wine.
“Mr. Kozlov’s selection.” No further explanation required.
This Kozlov guy must have a lot of money and power. Though I already figured that out when that ma?tre d’ identified Kirill as Kozlov’s man. Commanding a man like Kirill would require serious influence.
The wine they pour is ruby red, starlight shivering in the crystal. I haven’t even touched the thick, ridiculously tall leather menu yet. Neither has Kirill. He just sits, all shadow and certainty, those winter-pale eyes fixed on me.
I want to glance away from the searing intensity, but I won’t.
Another server, one with an immaculate dark bun and a hint of a polite smile, comes to the edge of the alcove.
Kirill speaks without turning. “Halibut.” He hesitates just long enough to peer up at me. “Right?”
The air in my lungs freezes.
One throwaway line blurted in the middle of a breakdown. A simple wish for real food: halibut and real, fresh vegetables.
He remembers those words and is literally offering me what I want on a silver platter.
Because I can’t trust my voice not to shatter, I just nod.
“And lots of vegetables.” Kirill’s eyes never stray from me.
My hand trembles as I grab the wine glass. This gesture, while minor, strips something raw and tender inside me.
I feel naked. Unmoored.
Seen.
Tears prick my eyes, and I gaze up at the cathedral ceiling to keep them from falling. Subtle geometric patterns blink back at me from the pale plaster.
Kirill’s brow furrows. “So…no vegetables?” He chooses his words carefully, like he’s navigating with a map he’s never read before.
A helpless laugh boils over, and I dash the tears away. “No, I want them. Lots. All you can find.”
He addresses the server. “Every vegetable side you have.”
A pause. “All of them, sir?”
Kirill’s cold, knife-like stare sharpens. “Did I stutter?”
“No, sir. All the vegetables. Right away.” The woman vanishes, almost tripping over the air in her haste.
I know how places like this work. Sides are à la carte and cost upward of twenty dollars a plate. And Kirill just ordered the whole garden without a second thought. Because I mattered enough for him to remember.
A comfortable silence descends. The layers of thick fabric on the chairs, walls, and decorative hangings from the alcoves buffer the sounds.
I cradle my wine glass, turning it by the stem, examining how threads of light weave through the crystal. There’s still one question burrowed in me, a kernel of dread I can’t let go.
“Ashley. My friend. Is she—”
“She’s safe.” Kirill waves the question away. “I called off the men following her.”
I stare, struggling to process the news. “When?”
“After the detective came.” His gaze stays flat as glass. “And went.”
After I protected him and chose him over my freedom. Loyalty for loyalty. A balance restored.
I still don’t understand. “Why?”
He drops his eyes and lines up the silverware. A tiny, needless correction. “The detective left.”
And that’s all the explanation I’ll ever get. This is the closest this man who lives in commands and silences can come to softness.
I nod in acceptance. The ball of fear that’s sat in my chest since the night he walked into my apartment begins to unravel. My mind races as I sip more wine.
Maybe this changes everything. Maybe he can be different.
Maybe I can be too.
The servers return with their arms full of plated halibut drizzled with a lemon butter sauce and dish after dish of vegetables. Perfectly roasted asparagus, sweet and glossy carrots, creamy mushrooms, and some complicated ruby thing I can’t even identify.
I laugh, helpless in the face of so much abundance.
With the faintest curve of a smile, Kirill watches me.
What would I do to see that smile in full?
The charity gala.
My stepfather’s annual event. Next week, the crème de le crème of Chicago will flock to his and my mother’s estate. Showing off. Chatting about how to handle money, spend money, make money, and save money. So many people.
The perfect way in. The only way in, really. I could help Kirill get what he’s after.
But that would require walking back into the world I swore I’d never enter again. Wearing the mask. Putting on the costume. Smiling just right. Moving just right. Thinking and listening and obeying.
The wine slides down my throat, the warmth chasing away the bitter aftertaste of old dread.
If he can show me care with fish and vegetables, I can help him too.
No half measures. I’m in. All the way.
“Okay. So about my mother’s estate.” I lean forward. “I was thinking—”
“I’m on it.” Kirill starts typing on his phone before I’m even finished. “I’ll get satellite imagery. Schematics are on the way.”
I clear my throat and try again. “Maybe—”
“What’s the alarm system?” Kirill doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even notice that I’m attempting to talk. Just plows forward.
“I don’t really remember—”
“That’s fine. We can figure that out. I’ll locate blind spots in the camera coverage.” His tone is so sure, so absolute. As if my answers are irrelevant. “Do they have outside security? Guards?”
I think back, and the memory comes into focus. “It’s been a long time, but they had security back then. But, listen, I was thinking—”
“I’ll find out.” He flicks his wrist like that settles everything. “There’s always a way in.”
Every time my mouth opens, he’s three steps ahead of me. Planning for problems I haven’t named and may not even know about. His thoughts race elsewhere, already enmeshed in my mother’s estate, untwisting locks and bypassing alarms.
“Kirill—”
He brushes my interjection away to talk about weak points, tree cover, the way every estate has a vulnerable north boundary, and how long it takes for private security to arrive.
I eat while waiting for him to breathe. When he continues rattling on, I barge in. “I might have an idea.”
He’s lost in the blue glow of the screen, in his own orbit, not even pretending to hear me.
The realization wedges between my ribs like a sharpened knife.
He brought me here because I’m a problem to be managed. An issue to be tuned up and then sent back out like one of his gadgets.
He values me enough to feed me and not threaten me, but he’s still holding all the cards. Always working alone.
I prod at my halibut, the immaculate, glistening flesh dissolving into bland nothingness with each bite. As my throat squeezes, refusing more food, I look across the table at Kirill, the man who touched me like I was irreplaceable, who killed for me, who gave me safety.
He never offered me partnership, though. Not even once.
By the time we get back to our room at the hotel, everything has become clear.
Kirill’s not just a control freak. He’s a loner. He doesn’t do partnerships, trust, or teams.
He doesn’t need or want me.
Whatever happened in bed earlier, that’s over.
And that’s why he should scare me. Not because he’d intentionally hurt me, but because I will never be anything more than another task for him to deal with. I’ll never stand at his side as an equal.
He tosses his coat on the chair, his attention glued to his laptop. The screen spits up satellite images of the estate, the windows, the grounds. He starts pacing, that restless energy filling every inch of the room.
I catch him mid-step and position myself where he can’t miss me. “You don’t get it. It’s not a normal house. You can’t just get in.”
He stops and frowns. “Every wall has a crack. Every guard has a price. Simple math.”
I shake my head, heat building behind my eyes. “The estate is a fortress. It’s designed to keep the messy world out.” I inch closer. Try to reach him. “You’re the messiest thing there is. You can’t break in with brute force. If you would just listen to me—”
But he won’t.
He assesses me with measured calculation, like a parent waiting for a tantrum to pass. “You handle the auras. I’ll handle the walls.”
I flinch. Ouch.
Just like that, I’m locked in the silly Vibes and Feelings box while he works the “real” job.
I cross my arms. “Fine.”
I learned my lesson the hard way. If he refuses to listen, then I guess he can too.
He glances over with a wary expression before grabbing his coat and heading out the door. “Stay here.”
The door clicks shut, soft but final.
I flop onto the bed as pain squeezes my lungs. Kirill would rather run every risk himself than admit he needs a partner. Admit that he needs me.
And that truth hurts far more than it should.