22. Ayana
CHAPTER 22
Ayana
V uk’s mansion resembled its owner: large, imposing, and cloaked in silence.
It was one of the rare Manhattan estates with enough space for a front courtyard and a backyard, all of which were nestled behind giant black iron gates.
I’d visited once before with Jordan. I’d been so intimidated by the sheer size and unwelcoming facade that I’d spent the entire dinner on edge. The lovingly home-cooked, gourmet roast had tasted like cardboard.
That’d been a year ago.
This time, the sight of the gates filled me with relief. I wanted to lose myself behind the security of the thick stone walls and locks. I wanted a bubble where the outside world didn’t exist, and men like Wentworth Holt couldn’t touch me. Most of all, I wanted to see the one person who could possibly make me forget what happened, if only for a short while.
I pressed the call button by the entrance and waited for someone to pick up. The sun had set, and twilight bathed the street in cool blue silence.
This was one of the safest neighborhoods in New York, but I’d still rather be inside than outside.
“Can I help you?” A crisp, vaguely British-accented voice floated out of the intercom.
“Hi. I’m here to see Vuk. Markovic,” I added inanely, like there was another Vuk that could’ve possibly resided on the grounds. “I’m a, um, friend.”
Perhaps “friend” was stretching it, but “his friend’s fiancée who tried kissing him after he almost accidentally choked her to death on the night of her bachelorette” didn’t have quite the same ring.
Also, when I put it like that…I winced. God, I was fucked up.
“I see.” The voice sounded politely unimpressed. “I’m afraid Mr. Markovic is busy at the moment, but I’ll let him know you were here. What’s your name?”
“Ayana Kidane.” I swallowed past the embarrassing thickness in my throat. I wasn’t going to cry just because Vuk couldn’t see me when I showed up at his house unannounced. What had I expected? That he would be sitting there waiting for visitors? He was a CEO and the managing director of Valhalla. He had more important things to do.
A long pause followed my response.
To my shock, the gates buzzed open a minute later, followed by a slightly warmer reception. “Please come in.”
I was confused as to what made the gatekeeper change his mind. However, I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I entered the courtyard and walked to the entrance.
A tall, white-haired man in a black suit waited for me by the front doors. I didn’t remember seeing him during my last visit. Then again, Vuk had greeted us himself, and the only staff I’d interacted with were the servers.
“Ms. Kidane, welcome,” he said. “I’m Jeremiah, the butler. Please, come with me. Mr. Markovic is waiting for you.”
Less than a minute had passed since he buzzed me in. How did he have time to inform Vuk already?
It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t here to study Vuk’s household operations.
I followed Jeremiah inside. I’d cleaned up in a department store restroom before I came, but I couldn’t fix my tear-swollen eyes or wipe away the stain of Wentworth’s mouth on mine.
My steps faltered for a beat, and I hoped Jeremiah didn’t notice the slight shake of my hand as I adjusted my bag.
We passed through the foyer and into the main living areas. It was exactly as I remembered. Long marble halls wound around grand rooms dedicated to every activity under the sun. There was a billiards room, a screening room, a sitting room, a living room (I still didn’t know the difference between this and a sitting room), and a room that appeared to have no purpose other than to display different musical instruments.
After a good ten minutes, we finally stopped in front of the library. The doors were ajar. Jeremiah gestured for me to enter. Once I did, he shut them behind me with a quiet snick .
I waited until his footsteps faded into the distance before I breathed normally again. Vuk hadn’t given me a full tour the last time I was here with Jordan, and I’d never seen the library before.
It was beautiful—shelves and shelves of leather-bound books, an emerald carpet so thick I couldn’t hear myself walk, and giant windows overlooking the backyard.
Vuk sat at one of the rosewood tables. His laptop was open in front of him, and a deep furrow dug between his brows. However, it smoothed a fraction when he saw me.
He shut his laptop abruptly and stood, his gaze sweeping over my face and the tight-knuckled grip on my bag. His eyes sharpened.
What’s wrong?
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
I just dropped by to say hi. I have some things to go over for the wedding. I want to talk about last weekend.
I’d rehearsed a dozen different excuses during the train ride. I’d decided it would be better if I didn’t tell Vuk about Wentworth because, truth be told, I was a little scared of what he’d do. I didn’t want him to get into trouble.
But now that I was here, the excuses I’d concocted died in my throat. To my absolute horror, tears welled up instead.
For a brief moment, I thought I could control them. Then a sob tore loose, and that was it.
I broke down, my shoulders heaving, my stomach cramping from the force of my cries. My earlier tears were nothing compared to this. I’d unconsciously held back because I’d been in public, but now that I was in a safe place, it all came rushing out.
The anger, the disgust, the fear and frustration and anxiety—every emotion that’d plagued me over the past year and more flooded the room. It wasn’t just Wentworth; it was everything . He was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Every gasp for more oxygen failed; every tremble begot more trembles. Chills blanketed my skin, and I was drowning so deep in my anguish that I didn’t notice Vuk’s approach.
Strong arms wrapped around me and held me close. I instinctively buried my face in his chest, taking solace in his warmth and faint, slightly smoky scent. His heart beat a steady rhythm beneath my cheek.
I thought his walls and gates were what made me feel safe, but they weren’t. It was him .
After minutes or hours or perhaps days, my tears slowed to a trickle. I pulled back, my eyes and throat raw. “I’m sorry.” I sniffled. “I didn’t mean to come in and cry all over you like that. I didn’t—I didn’t even say hi first.”
Don’t apologize. His movements were measured, but I detected something I’d never seen before in his eyes: panic. Tell me what happened.
I swallowed. Despite my earlier convictions, I didn’t want to lie to him. Not when he was so worried, and I was so desperate to confide in someone.
What was the worst he would do, assuming he did anything at all? Call in some favors to get Wentworth blacklisted or rough him up a bit? The other man deserved it.
“I was at a photoshoot, and the photographer…” I hiccupped. “After everyone left…he tried to…he…” It took several tries, but I finally got the words out. I told Vuk what happened, starting with Wentworth’s advances after the shoot and ending with my escape. The more I spoke, the stiller Vuk became. By the time I finished, he resembled a statue, his eyes so cold and flat, the hairs on my neck stood up.
“He touched you,” he said softly. There was no inflection or emotion. Just pure ice.
It was so unsettling, I didn’t dwell on the fact that this was his third time speaking to me. “He didn’t…other than the kiss, nothing happened.” I wasn’t trying to defend Wentworth, but Vuk’s eerie calm made me more nervous than if he’d raged and punched something. “I’m okay.”
That wasn’t true. I was physically fine, but my mind and emotions were all over the place. Nevertheless, I felt leagues better than when I’d first arrived.
I braced myself for a further interrogation into the day’s events. To my surprise, it never came.
Vuk typed something on his phone and guided me to the nearest table. I sat, confused, until two staff members showed up minutes later with silver trays. They placed them in front of me and removed the warming domes to reveal a steaming mug of tea, an assortment of fruits and pastries, and, oddly enough, two jars of peanut butter. One creamy, one crunchy.
Eat. Vuk sat across from me after his staff left. It’ll make you feel better.
As if on cue, my stomach growled. I really was starving. “How did you know?”
You were at a photoshoot all day. I doubt they were feeding you properly.
Warmth trickled into my stomach. “And the peanut butter?” It was one of my guilty pleasures.
You mentioned it in your sleep when we were in California. I figured you’d like it.
“I was talking about peanut butter in my sleep?” I asked, mortified. “That’s so—just kill me now.”
A smirk softened Vuk’s mouth. He didn’t say anything else as I tore into a croissant and dipped the apple wedges in peanut butter. Screw the calories. I was going to eat whatever I wanted today and worry about it later.
I was grateful Vuk didn’t ask more questions about Wentworth. I’d gotten the incident off my chest, and it was nice to eat in silence without rehashing my trauma.
This was exactly what I needed at the moment.
I took a sip of tea. My eyes winged up at the taste. “This is almost exactly like the tea I gave you at my house.”
Vuk shrugged. I liked it, so I had someone recreate it as closely as possible.
“How? It’s my mom’s custom blend. She won’t even tell me everything she puts in it.”
I have my ways.
Of course he did.
“Must be nice,” I mumbled. I had to go back to D.C. if I wanted a refill.
Its comforting familiarity sent a wave of nostalgia crashing through me. If only I were home. I missed the simplicity of my younger days, when there was nothing my mother couldn’t soothe with a hug and a hot drink.
Vuk smirked again, but the coldness never quite left his eyes. Wentworth was still at the top of his mind.
Meanwhile, there was another elephant sitting in the room with us. I debated whether to bring it up, but we had to talk about it sooner or later. I might as well rip all the Band-Aids off at once.
“About last Saturday,” I said tentatively. “I didn’t?—”
Nothing happened last Saturday.
I startled at his terse reply. He hadn’t hesitated for a single beat.
Was I delusional? Had I imagined what happened on the street?
No . I hadn’t been that drunk. I’d definitely tried to kiss him, and he’d definitely stopped me. I didn’t know what he’d said in Serbian, but I heard what came before that, loud and clear.
Don’t.
Vuk was giving me a graceful way out by pretending nothing happened. That was, by all accounts, the best-case scenario for both of us.
So why did I feel so disappointed?
He switched subjects. Did you tell anyone else what happened with Wentworth?
“Not yet.” Warmth rushed to my cheeks. “You’re the first person I’ve told.”
The naked vulnerability of my admission fluttered between us like torn diary pages in the wind.
Vuk’s eyes softened the tiniest bit.
“I’ll have to tell Hank and Sloane,” I added quickly. “I have to check in with Hank soon anyway. I haven’t heard from him all week.”
Really? Vuk’s expression was neutral. How odd.
“Yeah.” I finished my tea and pushed the mug aside. “Thank you for the food and for listening to me, but I should go. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
Why didn’t you go to Jordan first?
I froze. Logically speaking, I should’ve gone to my fiancé first. But how could I tell Vuk that he was the one I’d wanted to see, not Jordan?
“I will tell him later,” I lied. “But he has, um, a huge board meeting at work today, and I didn’t want to distract him.”
Vuk’s eyes narrowed. It was a flimsy excuse, but fortunately, he didn’t press the issue.
I was already halfway out of my seat when I collapsed again at his next question.
Are you angry?
“What?”
About Wentworth.
My jaw tightened. “Of course I’m angry. He assaulted me, and I’m not the first model he’s harassed. I wish—” I stopped myself and took a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter. Anger won’t get me anywhere. I have to deal with things the…the practical way. Although I am happy that I probably broke his nose.”
I hoped it never reset properly and the asshole had to walk around with a crooked nose for the rest of his life. He was so vain, it would kill him.
Vuk stood abruptly. Come with me. I have something that might help.
The fact I didn’t question him was a testament to how much I’d come to trust him.
My chest prickled with curiosity as I followed him out of the library and downstairs to…
I blinked, unsure what I was looking at.
The basement-level room was twice the size of my apartment, but it was empty save for a table in the middle and crates full of junk. Broken bottles and bottle caps littered the far side of the room, and there was a faint, acrid smell. Almost like burnt toast, but a little smokier.
Vuk walked over to a black chest and popped it open. He motioned for me to join him.
I did. I peered inside, half-expecting to see a dead body or something. Instead, I found a helmet, vest, goggles, and gloves.
My brows pulled together. “What…” I paused and looked around again. It suddenly clicked. “Wait. You have your own rage room?”
He lifted his shoulders. It comes in handy sometimes.
I’d heard of venues where people paid to vent their stress and anger by smashing breakable objects. I’d never been to one, but I’d always been intrigued by the concept. It was definitely better than picking a fight in a bar or lashing out at the people around me.
I eyed the crates of dishware and old electronics surrounding us. My parents had raised me to value our belongings. The thought of indiscriminately breaking those items made me squirm—until my eyes fell on an old camera.
It wasn’t the same brand or model Wentworth had used. It wasn’t even the same color. But the mere sight brought me back to the studio, to the ugliness of his hands on me and the entitlement he’d displayed.
That old fury bubbled to the surface again, grinding and swelling against my insides until I thought I would burst.
I grabbed the safety gear and put it on. I made sure to tie my loose waves back before I put on the helmet so they didn’t get matted. Once I was finished, Vuk handed me a baseball bat and retreated outside without a word.
The door shut.
I stared at the once-empty table. Vuk had piled it with items while I was suiting up. There were wine glasses, dishes, a TV, and that stupid camera. The TV’s dark screen faced me, reflecting my trembling form.
What had Wentworth seen when he looked at me? Someone he could take advantage of because the system was created in his favor. Someone like the other girls, who kept their mouths shut and played nice because they were afraid of rocking the boat.
I didn’t blame them for not coming forward. The world wasn’t kind to those who dared speak up.
But that didn’t mean it was right.
I approached the table, my pulse pounding. With my gear and the bat in hand, I didn’t look as helpless as I often felt. I looked like someone who fought back.
I took a deep breath, swung the bat, and slammed it down on the camera. It broke apart with a terrible crack.
Unsatisfied, I moved on to the TV. I hit it again, and again, and again until the screen was so smashed, it was barely recognizable as a television. After that, I vented my frustration on the dishes, the bottles, the ceramic ornaments. Nothing was safe from my rage.
Yet the fire inside me remained, clawing, desperate for a way out. My heart ran wild. Sweat drenched my skin, and my muscles ached from the force of my blows.
But I kept swinging, taking perverse pleasure in the shower of glass and ceramic shards until finally, finally , there was nothing left for me to break. Only then did I stop.
The bat clattered to the floor. I placed my gloved hands on the table and bent over, my chest heaving. The goggles had fogged up, and beads of sweat rolled down the side of my face. My arms were so sore I struggled to lift them.
It wasn’t comfort; it was something even better.
Catharsis.