Chapter 15 Olivia
OLIVIA
ONE HOUR EARLIER
I’ve got a bomb in my purse.
Not literally. This bomb is clear, plastic, cylindrical, and completely empty.
But there will be an explosion involved in filling it.
Ew. I’m disgusting even myself. I know I’m only making these jokes in my head because I’m nervous. Not even high school freshmen boys would find them funny, and to say they’d make my mom throw up in her champagne is dramatically understating the issue.
The point is that the specimen cup I’m carrying is occupying ninety-nine point nine percent of my attention.
It’s a miracle I can even walk the straight line into the gleaming lobby of Safonov Holdings.
I have to keep my eyes fixated on my feet just so I don’t trip over them and make an even bigger fool of myself than I already have.
The floor is no help in calming my nerves, though. It’s flawless marble, scrubbed and mopped until it might as well be a mirror. In all of the angles of my reflection that I can see, I look how I feel: utterly terrified.
Men in expensive suits nod as I pass. Their eyes linger a beat too long. Do they know why I’m here? They’re probably trained to smell desperation, to leap at it, tear at the throats of their hapless, helpless victims until they get what they need.
I gulp and pin my purse more tightly to my side. God forbid anyone sneak a peek and see what I’m bringing with me into this chauvinistic den of testosterone and capitalism.
The elevator doors ding open to reveal the glass doors to Stefan’s office suite. His name is embossed at eye level in minimalist silver lettering. No title needed. Everyone knows who rules this place.
I push through the doors. My pulse quickens as I approach his assistant’s desk. The woman is as polished as everything else in this building. I can almost see my reflection in her silver eyeshadow.
She looks up when she sees me standing there.
I’m instantly girl-crushing on her sleek bob, without a hair out of place.
I could shave my legs with the razor’s edge of her bangs.
She looks like a sexy cyborg in haute couture.
I couldn’t be less surprised that this is who Stefan has hired to guard his domain.
Her name tag reads Mikayla. God, that’s sexy, too.
“Dr. Aster.” Her voice is cool, professional, unbothered. Perfectly in the line with the rest of her brand.
I grip the strap of my purse tighter, feeling the hard plastic of the specimen cup through the leather. I’ve transported dozens of these cups between labs and clinics, discussed their contents with countless clients. Why does this one feel radioactive?
“I’m here to see Stef—er, Mr. Safonov,” I manage. “Is he available?”
The woman’s threaded eyebrow arches a fraction. “You don’t have an appointment?”
Apparently, he didn’t tell his receptionist about my late-night text.
Or maybe he didn’t see it. I’m not sure why that thought didn’t occur to me until now.
He didn’t even respond. Maybe he’s no longer interested?
Maybe I took too long to decide, waffled too many times, and now, he’s moving on, and I’ll be left to sink with my sad ship, a failed captain to the very end.
I look helplessly to the shining wooden door behind her. Is he back there? Does he know I’m here? Can he hear how pathetic I sound?
I clear my throat as heat crawls up my neck. “We are supposed to meet. About the, uh… potential… investment.”
She studies me for a moment longer than necessary. Her expression doesn’t change but somehow still conveys entire paragraphs of judgment. Then she presses a button on her desk phone.
“Dr. Aster is here for you, sir.”
My instant relief is swallowed by anxiety at the realization that I’m going to have to face him now.
I wait for his voice to fill the room, for that Russian-tinged baritone that makes my hair stand on end.
But there’s only silence.
Mikayla frowns. Presses the button again. Nothing.
She stands in a single fluid motion and floats ethereally toward the inner office door. “One moment, please.”
I catch a glimpse of Stefan’s office through the gap as she slips inside—expansive windows overlooking the city, a massive desk of what appears to be a single, unbroken slab of black marble shot through with veins of gold.
But I see what’s in there even before she returns: Nothing. The desk chair is vacant. He’s not here.
Mikayla reappears a moment later. Her face betrays nothing. “Mr. Safonov has been called away. Family emergency.”
“He has family?” The words are out of my mouth before I can reel them back. I blow out a breath, trying to steady myself, failing, charging forward anyway. “Sorry. Never mind. Will he be back?”
“Uncertain.” She folds her hands in front of her waist. “If there’s anything you’d like to leave for him, I can pass it along.”
Her non-answer is answer enough. It’s none of my business where Stefan Safonov is and I shouldn’t linger.
Begone, thot. Away with thee.
My skin prickles with humiliation as I extract the specimen cup from my purse. Mikayla-Bot 3000 accepts it and the instruction sheet with the indifference of someone who’s handled far stranger requests.
I wonder what else those hands have passed to Stefan Safonov. Drugs? Weapons? Millions of dollars in unmarked, nonsequential bills?
Her lips—painted with a very chic blood-red lipstain—twitch. Not quite a smile. Not even close, really. “I’ll inform him you came by, Dr. Aster.”
I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from my skirt. “Please do. And remind him the… the sample has a shelf life. So please get it back to me quickly.”
I turn and leave before I can see how she handles that little tidbit.
The walk of shame back to the elevator stretches into infinity. What am I doing? Volunteering myself as the surrogate for a man who couldn’t possibly think any less of me?
A man whose touch at the shooting range is still simmering on my skin three days later?
A man who couldn’t even show up for this meeting, but is supposed to show up for our child?
No—his child.
Not ours. Not mine.
His.
The elevator doors slide open, and I nearly collide with a dark-haired man built like a freight train. Taras, Stefan’s shadow. I saw him briefly at Stefan’s estate. His expression shifts from surprise to something harder when he recognizes me.
“Dr. Aster.” His accent is thicker than Stefan’s, rougher around the edges. “The pakhan is not here.”
Pakhan. The word percolates between us, foreign and dangerous. I’ve heard it before, in whispered conversations at charity galas, in badly sourced tabloid articles.
I’ve got enough context to know that it means something along the lines of “Russian mob boss.”
I’ve got enough common sense to know that it means I should run for my life.
My stomach clenches. Does he assume I already know the gory details?
I guess, in some ways, I do. I have from the start. Willful ignorance isn’t a good excuse. Certainly not legally speaking.
“So I’ve been told.” I step around him, heart jackhammering against my ribs. “His secretary has what he needs.”
Then I make the most dignified run for it I know how to do.