CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
LILA
The streets are buzzing with chaos. It’s pure overstimulation to my already exhausted body.
Anxiety coils in my chest, threatening to burst free, but I don’t have time for it.
I’m already running late, and the last thing I need is for Kage to have my head mounted above his fireplace like a damn trophy.
My eyes are heavy, bruised from a night of restless tossing and turning.
I spent half of it replaying everything…
Leon, Kage, the kiss, the sex. The emotional whiplash of it all.
The other half I spent sobbing about my mom, spiraling into the kind of panic that tightens your chest until it feels like breathing is optional.
And underneath it all? The lurking fear that Volkov, the man who kidnapped me, is still out there. Hunting for me. Convinced I’m the one who put him behind bars. His final victim. His unfinished business.
At this point, my life is a literal shit show.
I push through the wall of bodies swirling through New York like a current I can’t swim against. The noise is relentless.
Too loud. Too fast. Too much. Every honk, shout, and step echoes like a fire alarm in my skull.
My heart races. I feel the heat rise in my cheeks, the prickling chill that shoots down my arms to my fingertips. The panic is coming. Creeping.
I clench my fists.
Work is just three blocks away. You can make it.
I turn the corner fast, trying to outrun the rising tide beneath my skin. Then pain throbs through my left shoulder… and my ass ?
I blink, dazed, and realize I’m on the cold, wet concrete, sprawled beneath the towering presence of a woman who looks like she just walked off a runway. Glowing hazel-gold eyes, designer heels, and dark brown curls that fall past her chest in tight, shiny spirals.
She’s rich. That much is obvious. Her pristine black dress hugs every sensual curve as she hovers above me like I belong exactly where I’ve landed, the damn sidewalk.
That fall felt personal… like it wasn’t an accident. And where’s my purse?
She offers me her hand, her voice soft and honey-smooth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I must’ve run into you while I was checking my phone.”
I swat her apology away with words that come too fast and too sharp.
“Hey! Maybe look where you’re going next time…
” I pause, giving her a once-over. “Miss Couture.” The venom in my voice surprises even me.
But it’s too late. My nerves are frazzled, and my body reacted as if it were under attack. Fight or flight chose violence today.
She blinks, stunned. So am I. But then something shifts. Her expression hardens like she’s recalibrating right in front of me. She bends down, now eye level, holding my old thrift-store college purse like it’s something she scraped off her shoe.
"How about you stay on the ground with the dirt… where you belong," she says, voice calm and polished but cutting like glass into my confidence. A wicked smile stretches across her flawless face as she drops the purse in my lap. She doesn’t hand it to me. Just lets it fall like she’s tossing trash into a bin.
I wrinkle my nose and squint up at her, too stunned to hide the disgust.
How rude. The whole thing feels calculated, aimed right at me. Maybe I deserved it after snapping at her, but something about this feels too intentional .
And then, of course, the sky opens. One drop. Two. Then a complete downpour.
Dammit. I forgot my umbrella.
She pops hers open like magic, shielding her perfectly blown-out curls, while I sit there, soaked and slumped like a drenched alley cat.
Of course. Just perfect. I swear the universe has it out for me today.
Her eyes never leave mine. That same slow, spine-chilling smile lingers like perfume. She turns in her designer shoes and walks away. Heels clicking. Hips swaying. Completely unbothered by my presence. And she knows I’m still watching. She wants me to.
Do I know her? Does she know me?
I try to think back to my ex’s girlfriends, and nothing rings a bell.
Well, at least the panic attack is gone.
Rain clings to my skin as I get to my feet. Soaked. Humiliated. Kicked when I was already down. My hair, my makeup, and my cream blazer… all ruined for work today. I take off running, as if I can outrun shame itself.
Please don’t fall again. Please don’t fall again.
I lift my purse over my head in a pathetic attempt at coverage, praying my mascara isn’t streaked down my face and staining my blazer. On top of that, I’m already ten minutes late.
When I finally reach the building, the elderly doorman, the one who greeted me on my first day, rushes out with an umbrella like he’s about to save my life.
But honestly? There’s nothing left to save.
“Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it,” I say as he shuts the heavy glass door behind us.
“You’re welcome, Ms. Anderson. ”
I smile. His kind spirit doesn’t belong in a place like this, not with people like Kage. “I’m sorry… I don’t know your name.”
“Davey. Call me Davey,” he says with a warm grin.
I take his hand, worn and weathered like he’s lived a hundred lives, and squeeze it gently, hoping he feels how much that small gesture meant to me. “Davey, do you like coffee and bagels?”
“Of course. What New Yorker doesn’t?” he chuckles.
“Good. I’ll bring you some tomorrow, I promise! I hope you have a great day.”
“You too, sweetheart.”
I hurry off, desperate to avoid being twenty minutes late in the first month of working here.
Then I see it. Both elevators are blocked off with orange cones, each marked by a laminated sign swinging slightly from the door.
And my reflection? Horrifying. Soaked hair.
Smudged mascara. Wrinkled clothes. I look like I lost a fight with a car wash.
I step closer and read the sign. “Elevator under maintenance starting at 8:00 AM. Please use the stairs down the hall to the right and then the third door on the left.”
“Really?” I huff and cross my arms, pouting. The universe isn’t just kicking me today. It’s body slamming me on repeat like we’re stuck in an MMA cage match. I groan and head for the stairs, rainwater squishing and squeaking in my heels with every step.
Perfect. Now, I’ll be late and smell like sweat.
I yank the heavy stairwell door open and stare up like it’s Mount Everest.
Each echo of my soaked heels sounds more pitiful than the last. I glance at my watch. My heart rate’s at 160 bpm, not from panic this time, but because I’m actually working out. My thighs are burning. My dignity’s on life support .
I let out a breathless gasp and clutch the railing, one slip away from tumbling back to square one. “Finally,” I gasp, dragging myself up the last step.
Clint is never going to let me live this down.
My arms shake as I pull open the tenth-floor door.
I step into a hallway I don’t recognize, breath still shallow from the stairs.
White walls. Polished marble floors. Outer glass panels stretch along the edge, framing the city like a moving portrait.
It’s quiet up here… too quiet. I glance around, confused.
This isn’t the floor I usually enter from. Oh wait. I’m on the wrong one. Eleventh, not tenth. Figures.
My heart drops.Kage’s office. All glass. Wide open. And I freeze. My knees give out from the climb.
I hit the floor hard, landing on them with a gasp, palms braced against the marble as I struggle to catch my breath. Rain drips from my hair. My chest heaves from climbing the stairs, lungs burning from the desperate sprint to make it on time.
But none of that matters. Because through the glass wall of his office, I see her.
Her back is arched, her arms wrapped tight around his body.
Her black dress hugs every curve as if it were designed for seduction.
She moves against him slowly, deliberately.
Like she knows him. Like she’s done this before.
I don’t see her face. But I don’t need to. It’s her. Miss Couture. The woman who dropped my purse in my lap like I was filth. The one who watched me fall and smiled. Who walked away while I sat drenched in the rain. And of all the people to witness me like this, it had to be them…
She’s here. In his office. With her hands on him.And he is letting her touch him.
Two hands press against the glass on either side of her head, just like he did with me in the elevator.
I can see the scar on his right hand, clear as day.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I don’t need to.
The scene speaks for itself. He’s doing what he does best. Taking women to bed like it means nothing.
Like this isn’t the first time. My stomach twists.
Of course, she’s his type. The kind of woman Kage would touch. She’s elite, polished, and cruel. A flawless reflection of him. A match made in hell, two monsters draped in beauty.
She leans in and presses a kiss to his neck just like I did to him at the club. And when she shifts, tilting her head just enough, I see him. I’m still on the ground, knees bruised against the cold marble. Soaked. Trembling. Frozen.
That face. Those dangerously unreadable green eyes. And they’re locked on mine. Piercing. Still. Unshaken. Like I’m not real. Like I’m a dream he’s been trying to forget, and now I’ve come back to haunt him.