Chapter 7Jenny
CHAPTER 7
JENNY
A fter storming out of “Markov Entertainment” and getting on a random bus—which led to a prolonged, three-hour ride trying to get back to my place—I step into my apartment, firmly shutting the door behind me. The silence envelops me, which is a wild contrast to the chaos of emotions swirling inside. My hands shake when I slide the deadbolt into place, though it’s a flimsy barrier against the threats lurking in my mind.
“There’s no one watching you,” I mutter, kicking off my shoes. In spite of that, I remember the feeling of being watched. It’s a feeling I always have these days, if I’m honest with myself—and I need to be, no matter how frightened I am.
“No,” I say sharply aloud. “You’re imagining things.” Just learning my boss is a criminal might support the fear I’ve been watched, but that makes no sense. He didn’t even know me until yesterday, aside from my personnel file. He probably kept me on because he identified me as meek and willing to do whatever without asking questions.
Sadly, he’s probably right, or at least, that’s who I used to be. After my epiphany yesterday that the reason my coworkers treated me so terribly is because I let them, I’m not going to backslide.
Still, the conversation I overheard between Ivan and Marcus plays on repeat in my head. Their words, laden with hidden meanings and veiled threats, paint a picture I can’t ignore. I pace the living room, my stockinged feet silent on the LVP floor. “There has to be an explanation,” I say to the empty room. “Something I’m missing.”
Try as I might, I can’t conjure up a scenario where their words are innocent. The pieces fit together too neatly, forming a picture of illegal activities and dangerous connections. My stomach churns at the implications.
I glance at the clock. It’s already past four p.m., and I haven’t eaten since breakfast. The gnawing in my stomach competes with the anxiety twisting my insides. “Food first, then figure out this mess.”
I head to the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the fridge. The familiar motions of chopping vegetables and seasoning chicken soothe my frayed nerves. As the aroma of sautéing garlic and onions fills the air, my thoughts drift back to Ivan.
As the chicken sizzles in the pan, I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “What are you going to do, Jenny? You can’t just ignore this.” I ask the question aloud, as I often do when alone, but of course, I have no answer.
The obvious answer is to quit, to walk away from “Markov Entertainment” and never look back, which I’ve already done—but is that enough? If Ivan and his associates are involved in something illegal, do I have an obligation to report it? And if I do, what proof do I have beyond a snippet of overheard conversation? If I just mind my own business, will they let me go quietly? Or do I need to…what? Run away? Assume a new identity? Be a fugitive in a sense? How dramatic, but…
The timer dings, jolting me from my thoughts. I plate the chicken and vegetables, the sight and smell reminding me how hungry I am. As I sit at my small dining table, the familiar decor is soothing—but boring. The realization that it’s November 2nd hits me. “Might as well make the place look nice while I figure this out,” I mutter between bites.
After finishing my meal, I head to the hall closet, where I keep my seasonal decorations. I pull out the tote marked “Autumn” and open it. The autumn wreath is on top, and holding it in my hands brings a smile to my face. I hang it on the front door, rustling the silk leaves softly. I’d put it outside, but I learned my lesson the first year I lived alone. It was in a considerably less-nice neighborhood, but someone had stolen my wreath within an hour of hanging it.
Back in the living room, I unpack more decorations. A garland of fall leaves drapes across the mantel, and ceramic pumpkins find homes on end tables. I switch out the white vanilla candles for burnt orange pumpkin spice-scented ones and inhale, though I don’t light them. The routine of decorating helps calm my speeding thoughts, giving my hands something to do while my mind works.
I place a cornucopia centerpiece on the tiny dining table, arranging the faux fruits and vegetables just so. The burst of autumnal colors brightens the room, offering a welcome relief from the gray clouds of uncertainty hanging over me.
I sink onto the couch, surrounded by the warm colors of fall, feeling anything but warm inside. My gaze falls on my phone, sitting innocently on the coffee table. I could call the police to report what I heard, but what would I say? That I overheard my boss talking about something that sounded suspicious? It’s hardly concrete evidence.
“And what if I’m wrong?” I ask the empty room. “What if there’s a perfectly innocent explanation for everything?” But deep down, I know that’s unlikely. The pieces fit together too well, forming a picture I can’t unsee. Ivan Markov, with his intense gaze and commanding presence, is involved in something dangerous and illegal.
I scoop up the phone anyway and call up my mom’s number. With everything I’ve learned threatening to crush me, I need to hear her voice, to feel some semblance of normal, though I can’t tell her what’s going on. With a deep breath, I tap the call button.
“Jenny? What a lovely surprise,” Mom’s warm voice fills the line after two rings.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “How are you?”
“Oh, you know me, dear. The kids in the Peds Unit keep me hopping. Busy as always. How about you? Is everything all right?”
I hesitate, the truth burning on my tongue, but I can’t burden her with this. Not yet. “Yeah, I’m...I’m okay. Just had a crazy day at work yesterday.”
“Oh? What happened?”
“We have a new owner.” I sink onto the couch, pulling a throw pillow onto my lap. “He fired pretty much everyone. It was pretty intense.”
Mom gasps. “Oh, no. Jenny, were you?—?”
“No, no,” I cut her off quickly. “I wasn’t fired. Actually...” I trail off, the words sticking in my throat.
“Actually what, sweetie?”
“I got promoted.”
“Promoted?” Mom’s voice rises with excitement. “That’s wonderful news. Why do you sound so...uncertain?”
I force a laugh, hating how fake it sounds. “Just overwhelmed, I guess. It’s a big change.”
“I’m sure it is, but you’ll do great, honey. You always do.”
Her faith in me makes my chest ache. “Thanks, Mom.”
“So, tell me about this new position. What will you be doing?”
I swallow hard. “It’s...a personal assistant role. Executive assistant to the owner of the company.”
“Wow. That’s quite a step up. I’m so proud of you.”
My voice breaks as I consider what’s happening at my company. I hope she’ll dismiss the cracking as a positive feeling of being overwhelmed. “Thanks.”
“When are you coming to visit? Your father and I miss you.”
Guilt twists in my stomach. “I miss you too. Things are pretty hectic right now with the new job, but I’ll come see you both as soon as things calm down.”
“All right, dear. Just don’t work too hard, okay?”
“I won’t, Mom. I love you.”
“Love you too, sweetie.”
I end the call, feeling worse than before. The lies of omission threaten to suffocate me.
A sudden noise breaks through my thoughts—the jarring sound of metal scraping against metal. My heart leaps into my throat when I realize it’s coming from my front door.
Someone’s trying to pick the lock.
A second later, the alarm starts to flash to alert me. I hurry over to shut it off before it can become audible, not wanting the burglar to know I have a security system in my apartment.
I creep toward the door, my pulse hammering erratically. Pressing my eye to the peephole, I freeze.
The fisheye lens reveals a distorted but unmistakable Stephen standing there. He’s wearing a delivery driver’s cap and a coverall for a local mailing company. That must be how he got up here. Probably some neighbor let him in. It’s not like we have a doorman or security here.
“Jenny, darling.” He practically purrs through the door, but there’s a menacing undercurrent to his words. “I can smell your cooking. You’re not much of a cook, but that smells delicious.”
I glance at the stove automatically, reassuring myself I turned off the burner. Then I shake my head, realizing how trivial that concern is right now. “Stephen,” I call out, hating how my voice shakes. “Go away. I’ll call the police if you don’t leave right now.” What is he doing here? He’s supposed to be in London. I guess he wasn’t lying when he said he was back.
A tense silence follows, but the scratching at my lock stops.
I fumble for my phone, ready to dial nine-one-one. My fingers shake when I try to unlock the screen.
Suddenly, the front door explodes inward, wood splintering as Stephen barrels through. He fills the doorway, eyes wild with rage and an unsettling hunger. A scream tears from my throat. I reach for the alarm panel, wishing I’d hit the “Call Police” button when I silenced it, but before I can grasp it, I’m distracted by a third presence.
Stephen is nowhere near me before a blur of motion streaks past. Ivan materializes between us, his stance predatory. Without hesitation, he launches at Stephen. The two men collide with brutal force.
I stumble backward, my heart thundering while I watch Ivan take Stephen down with terrifying efficiency. His movements are precise, calculated—the actions of a man who’s no stranger to violence. In mere seconds, Stephen lies crumpled on the floor, groaning in pain. I appreciate the rescue, but what is he doing here?
Ivan grabs Stephen by the collar, hauling him up and dragging him toward the door. Outside, I hear muffled voices speaking rapid Russian. Ivan’s tone is sharp, biting. Though I can’t understand the words, the anger is unmistakable.
Two male voices respond, sounding subdued, and speaking simultaneously. “ Izvinite , boss.”
He says something else to them, and then his footsteps are approaching again. He appears a moment later, and his gray eyes are cold. His expression is blank and unreadable, but underneath that, he’s vibrating with what appears to be rage. Or fear. Maybe both. He crosses the room in three long strides, his shoulders rigid beneath his tailored suit jacket.
“Ivan, what—” The words die in my throat as he swoops down. In one fluid motion, he slides his arms beneath my knees and around my back, lifting me against his chest. The spicy notes of his cologne flood my senses, and this close, I recognize them. They were what I smelled in my apartment yesterday. “You’ve been in my place,” I say angrily.
“ Da , to ensure your security was suitable. Cleary, it’s not.” He doesn’t even apologize for violating my space. “I straightened your book too. It was going to fall.”
“Put me down.” I push against his shoulders, but it’s like trying to move a mountain. His muscles don’t even flex under my hands. “Ivan, what are you doing?” My voice pitches higher with each word, but he might as well be carved from stone for all the reaction he gives.
His arms tighten, pressing me closer. “Be still, malyshka .”
“Ivan, this is ridiculous. Let me go right now and explain yourself!” I squirm in his arms as he strides down the hallway, but his grip remains unshakeable. The fluorescent lights overhead flash across his sharp features, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw.
Fortunately, we don’t encounter any of my neighbors before reaching the lift. The elevator chimes, and he steps inside, shifting me closer as he hits the button for the lobby. My shoulder presses against the mirrored wall, and I catch our reflection—me, disheveled and fuming, him, radiating calm control.
“You can’t just kidnap people because you feel like it,” I mutter, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the descending floor numbers. When we exit the lobby, an elderly couple is waiting to get on the elevator. They stare, mouths agape, but he doesn’t pause, and he certainly doesn’t offer an explanation. He just strides past them, heading toward…where? Not knowing terrifies me.
A blast of November air slaps my cheeks as the glass doors whoosh open. The night wraps around us, carrying the scent of rain-washed asphalt, though it’s not actively raining right now. Ivan’s shoes click against the pavement as he crosses the street, dodging gaping pedestrians with ease. My weight seems like nothing to him.
He doesn’t stop except for the crosswalk. All the time, he remains silent. When I struggle to get down again, he glares at me, quelling my urge to rebel. He resumes walking and stops at a building that’s across the street from mine, but it might as well be across the world. It’s considerably nicer than the place I live, all glass and steel reaching toward the stars. The doorman nods as Ivan sweeps past, saying a casual, “Good evening, Ed,” and we enter a private elevator. Twenty floors up, the doors part to reveal a space that steals my breath.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase Atlanta’s glittering skyline. Discreetly positioned lamps highlight Italian marble floors and sleek leather furniture. A crystal chandelier catches the city lights, scattering rainbow prisms across cream-colored walls.
Ivan finally sets me on my feet. His palm lingers at the base of my spine, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. My legs wobble, adjusting to standing, and his fingers press slightly firmer—steadying me without words. “Welcome home,” he says softly.
I whirl to face him, anger and confusion warring within me. “Home? What are you talking about? You live here?”
A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Sometimes, though my home is technically on the thirtieth floor. I bought this apartment to keep a closer eye on you, kotik .”
The Russian endearment makes me tremble with fear. Just fear, I assure myself. I stare at him, breathless. “You’ve been watching me,” I whisper. “All this time... You were right across the street. I knew someone… And in my apartment…”
He doesn’t blink or look away. “I made a promise to protect you, Jenny. I intend to keep it.”
I shake my head, overwhelmed. I have so many questions, but I’m not cogent enough to verbalize any of them intelligently. A garbled mess escapes my mouth that sounds almost like, “But why? Why go to all this trouble?”
He steps closer, cupping my cheek. “Because you’re mine,” he says simply, obviously understanding my verbal vomit.
“I don’t understand,” I say, sounding clear this time.
He traces my lower lip with his thumb. “You will, kotik . I’ll make sure of it.”