Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Blue
My organs feel like they forgot how gravity works. A low, restless humming vibrates under my ribs, refusing to settle, working against the claw tightening its grip on my stomach. I have to swallow twice to get saliva to cooperate so I don't choke.
Shirley's desk sits empty, and it makes me unravel further. I pause, placing my hand on the door trim, my stomach tightening and releasing in short, useless waves, as if it's bracing for impact that never comes.
I need my next session on his calendar.
He's going to try to transfer me to another therapist.
Don't look back at him.
I straighten my spine, push the door open, and carefully shut it, like I'm not unraveling from the inside out. The lie almost convinces me until I turn the corner and my breath stutters.
The hallway feels longer than it did when I walked in.
The lights hum too loudly. The carpet pattern repeats itself in a way that makes my skin itch, like I'm walking in place instead of forward.
I focus on my steps, the click of my heels, and the pressure of my purse strap digging into my shoulder.
Do not cry.
Not here.
Not because of him.
The elevator doors open, and I step inside alone. The mirror catches me from every angle, highlighting my too-pale skin.
No wonder why he doesn't want to admit he loves me.
The doors slide shut. I exhale so hard, my lungs trickle with pain.
Our encounter replays on fast-forward. The taste of his cum lingers on my tongue, growing more potent with the memory of being under his desk. Then his voice hits my ears. "I chose wrong."
He didn't.
What if he meant it?
Sweat pops out on my skin. I straighten my jacket, as if that might straighten the rest of me, and wait for the elevator to stop. When it does, I step out into the lobby and head straight for the exit, push through the glass doors, and the outside world crashes into me all at once.
Sunlight. Traffic. Laughter.
Everything keeps going. It shouldn't. It should come to a screeching halt, the way Red's disdain for me just raised its ugly head.
I stop outside the building, my heels sinking slightly into the concrete, and force myself to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth.
It's the way Red would tell me to do it, and the thought makes my jaw tighten.
I don't need him to tell me how to breathe.
I need him consumed with nothing but me.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and my pulse spikes. For half a second, I'm sure it's him, ready to deliver a perfectly crafted professional message meant to tie things up neatly.
My fingers twitch, and I glance at my screen, my heart sinking further. I blink hard, the word Mom blurring.
I let it ring three times and almost let it go to voicemail just to prove I can and hold onto the illusion that I'm choosing this moment instead of being dragged through it.
At the last second, I answer, barely getting out, "Hi."
"Hi, honey!" Mom's voice is bright, cheerful, too light for the weight pressing behind my ribs. "You out of your appointment?"
"Yes," I say, and the word sounds flat even to me.
There's a pause, then she asks, "How'd it go?"
"Fine." I don't hesitate. Lying is easier when I don't decorate it.
"Well, good. I'm glad." She plows forward like she always does when she senses resistance. "I almost forgot until your dad reminded me that tonight's the grand opening for Demi."
I close my eyes briefly, pressing my lips together. I had forgotten about Uncle Obrecht and Aunt Selena's event. And the idea of smiling through another evening makes my stomach twist. I fib, "I remembered."
"We'll pick you up," she adds, casual like it isn't a decision she's already made.
My eyes snap open. "I can meet you there."
"No, we'll get you. Your father already left work early, and it'll be nice to go together."
"I really don't feel—"
"Your father won't take no for an answer," she says gently, which somehow makes it worse. "We'll pick you up at 6:30."
The call ends before I can argue, and I stare at my phone like it betrayed me.
Then I glance back at the building behind me, at the anonymous windows hiding Red in his office somewhere above.
The urge to turn around and march back in there, demanding something I can't even name, burns sharp and hot.
Don't.
I force myself to hurry home, slip on a cocktail dress I made weeks ago for tonight, and pace my apartment.
My phone vibrates.
Mom: We're here.
Dread fills me. I grab my evening bag, slip a wrap around my shoulders, and head out of my building.
A black SUV sits on the curb. My father jumps out the moment I exit the rotating glass. He grins, steps forward, and tugs me into his arms. "My gorgeous daughter. You look beautiful."
Something in me snaps. I sink into his broad shoulders, hugging him harder than normal, and blink away tears that take me by surprise.
He keeps me pinned against him, teasing, "It's about time I got a good hug."
"Ha, ha." I force myself to smile, retreat from his affection, and slide into the back seat.
"Hey, sweetie. You look great," Mom chirps.
"Thanks. So do you," I reply.
Dad scoots next to me and shuts the door. The car veers into the street.
"You okay, kiddo?" Dad asks, assessing me.
"Fine as always," I reply.
My mom studies me just as intently, her gaze sweeping over my face like she's cataloging micro-cracks. "You look tired."
"I am," I admit, suddenly feeling exhausted.
"We don't have to stay past dinner," she offers.
I shrug. "We can play it by ear."
The SUV turns right and accelerates. Mom blabs about everything Selena told her about the new restaurant, and I nod, pretending to listen.
Thankfully, the ride is short. The SUV pulls up to the curb, and Dad jumps out.
He opens the door, reaches in for me, and helps me out, then does the same for Mom.
He bends both elbows. Mom and I each take one, letting him lead us past the crowd waiting outside, the red rope, and into the restaurant.
Loud chatter, dim lights, and warm air hit me. I don't let go of Dad, giving myself a moment to steady myself from overwhelm.
All I have to do is get through this.
I can pretend better than anyone, I remind myself, find my footing, and let go of Dad's arm.
Voices overlap in a dense, glittering wall of laughter, greetings, glasses clinking, and music pulsing low enough to be felt more than heard.
Warm air scented with citrus, garlic, sea salt, and something sweet swirls around us.
Candles flicker along stone tables. Brass fixtures catch the light and throw it back in soft gold flashes.
Everywhere I look, there's motion, celebration, and momentum. It's everything Red stripped from me in his office, alive, thriving, as if to mock me and say it doesn't need me.
A wave of emotion catches in my throat. I force my shoulders back and inhale slowly, letting the noise roll over me until it stops feeling like an attack and starts feeling like cover.
If I disappear into this crowd, I don't have to explain myself.
I don't have to answer questions my thoughts want me to hear.
Dad stays close for a beat longer than necessary, his hand hovering near my back like he's debating whether to ground me or let me go. I give him a small nod. He takes it as permission, and he finally turns to greet someone calling his name.
Mom gets immediately swept into a conversation with Aunt Selena, who looks radiant in a green silk wrap dress, her eyes shining with pride and adrenaline.
Uncle Obrecht stands beside her, already halfway into a story about construction delays and last-minute menu changes.
They're glowing, triumphant, and greet me with the same enthusiasm they always do.
I smile and compliment, saying all the right things, but my attention drifts, like muscle memory. My gaze scans the room twice, then locks onto brown-green eyes bright with excitement and mischief.
Demi.
My favorite cousin stands near the bar looking like she belongs there in a way that has nothing to do with ownership and everything to do with presence.
Teal sequins cling to her body, catching the light with every small movement.
Her brown hair, threaded with natural golden highlights, spills over one shoulder in soft waves.
Her skin glows olive and flawless, just like her mother's, screaming her Greek heritage and nothing about her Russian roots.
For the first time since I left Red's office, something inside me loosens. I practically run toward her, avoiding as many people as possible.
"Blue," Demi breathes when she sees me, her face breaking into a grin that's all genuine joy. "You made it." She steps into my space and wraps her arms around me, hugging me hard enough that it steals my breath.
I let myself melt into it for just a second, pressing my cheek against her shoulder, breathing in her familiar perfume.
This is safe.
"You look insane," I gush when she pulls back.
She laughs. "I know. It's the panic. It really brings out my bone structure."
"Panic?"
She glances around, then leans closer, murmuring, "Nikolai Sokolov."
"Nik—" I jerk my head backward, eyes widening.
She smirks, tossing me a confident expression.
I step closer. Nikolai Sokolov arrived in Chicago straight from Russia a little over a year ago.
He's involved in our father's business dealings, and while he's a little younger, it's not much.
Plus, he's rumored to be married to a runway model who still lives in Russia, although I've never seen him with anyone.
So I keep my voice low, asking, "Have you. .."
She shakes her head. "No. Not yet. But he wants me."
"How do you know?"
She softly laughs. "He can't keep his eyes off me."
"Your father will kill him. Hell, my father will kill him!"
She purses her lips together, arching her eyebrows.
"You bad girl," I tease, then flick my hand against her shoulder.
She laughs. "Anyway, it took twelve dresses before I decided on this one."