25. Sasha
25
SASHA
I’m sitting cross-legged in bed with a pizza box balanced on my lap, feeling like a complete brat and loving every second of it.
It’s pepperoni, basil, and some fancy smoked cheese I can’t pronounce—because apparently, Damien’s in-house chef doesn’t just make foie gras and little edible flower salads. He also makes pizza. On demand. With truffle oil, no less.
Honestly, I should be ashamed of myself. I’m in a mansion, possibly under lock and key depending on who you ask, and I’m devouring luxury pizza in Damien’s bed like a gremlin.
I swipe the last bit of crust through the leftover sauce and pop it into my mouth, chewing happily.
Damien still hasn’t come back. He left with Roman and Oleg hours ago, and I’m trying not to be an anxious mess about it.
So far, distraction methods include:
Watching half an episode of a historical drama I can’t follow
Googling “can you get Stockholm Syndrome from someone hot”
Eating approximately my body weight in pizza
I burp quietly, pat my stomach, and reach for my water glass. That’s when I feel it.
A strange roll in my belly.
I sit up straighter, blinking. Huh. That was?—
Another twist.
Okay. Okay, no big deal. Maybe I just ate too fast. Maybe truffle oil is cursed. Maybe I was punished for putting ketchup on a slice earlier, I don’t know.
I try breathing through my nose, but my mouth is already watering in that horrible way that screams you have ten seconds to get to a toilet .
“Oh God?—”
I fling the blankets off and half sprint, half lurch toward the bathroom. The floor tilts slightly under my feet, or maybe that’s just me being overly dramatic. My palms slam against the sink as I gag once?—
Then twice?—
Then all of it comes up.
So. Much. Pizza.
I clutch the edge of the counter, eyes watering, chest heaving as I stare at my pale, stunned reflection.
I slump onto the cool bathroom floor, back against the wall, one hand gripping my stomach like it might stop the nausea from rolling back in. My mouth still tastes vaguely like tomato sauce.
I grab a hand towel and blot the sweat off my forehead, then crawl to the sink and sip water straight from my cupped palm like a dehydrated woodland creature.
Food poisoning. Has to be.
Maybe next time I’ll ask for something normal. Like ramen. Or plain toast. Or air.
Still, the nagging sensation in my chest doesn’t go away.
Maybe it’s just stress. I’m in a heavily guarded estate with a man who alternates between kissing me breathless and going full Bratva warlord. That’ll mess with anyone’s system.
And Bratva? I’m yet to wrap my head around the fact that he’s part of organized crime. But strangely enough, it doesn’t scare me. Is something wrong with me? Probably.
I nod at myself in the mirror. “Get it together, Caldwell.”
But even as I walk back to the bed and climb under the covers with shaky limbs, the little voice in my head is back.
What if it’s not food poisoning?
I shove it down. Nope. Truffle oil.
Definitely the truffle oil.
I don’t sleep much.
Still, I manage to drag myself out of bed, throw on a hoodie that definitely isn’t mine— thanks, Damien —and make my way down to breakfast, stomach a little uncertain but stable.
Ekaterina is already at the table when I get there, sipping something from a porcelain cup that probably costs more than my monthly rent. She greets me like I’m her actual child and insists I try “just a little toast,” which I do, mostly so she won’t look at me with those warm mom eyes.
Damien is nowhere to be seen. Not in the hallway. Not storming through the dining room with broody mafia energy. Not lurking behind a newspaper.
Honestly, part of me is relieved. I’m still mad at him for disappearing that night without saying a word, after I told him I suspected Nina.
Since then, I’ve slept in his bed. He’s been attentive at night, and distant during the day.
I manage to survive breakfast, thank Ekaterina for the tea, and retreat back to the bedroom.
But I don’t make it far.
Because Damien finds me first.
He steps out of some shadowy corridor like he owns time and space, looking entirely too clean and composed for someone who’s been avoiding me for a week.
“Hey,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “Nice of you to show up.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he eyes me for a second—longer than necessary—and says, “I’m taking you home.”
I blink again. This was the last thing I expected him to say. “Wait, what?”
“Back to your apartment,” he says, like it’s no big deal.
“What?”
Damien sighs. “You’ll be safer there now.”
I narrow my eyes. “Define ‘safe.’”
But he doesn’t answer. Not really.
He just says, “Pack your things. We leave in an hour.”
And then he walks past me like that conversation doesn’t mean anything to him.
Like I don’t mean anything to him.
I’m not even sure if it’s anger or heartbreak or leftover nausea at this point, but before I can stop myself, it bursts out.
“Oh, so that’s it?” I say, voice sharp enough to stop him mid-stride.
Damien pauses, his back still to me. “What?”
“You’re just dropping me like a sack of potatoes and calling it a day?”
Damien stops walking but doesn’t turn around. His shoulders are tense. That only makes me angrier. He slowly turns, his expression unreadable, which somehow pisses me off more than if he’d scowled.
“You said it yourself,” he says. “You’re not a prisoner.”
I march toward him, my bare feet slapping against the polished wood floor. “You didn’t seem to care about that when you dragged me here without asking. Or when you told me I was in danger. Or when you were climbing into my bed every night!”
His jaw tics. “You were in danger.”
“Oh right,” I say, voice sharp now, “but now suddenly I’m not? What changed, Damien? Or should I say who?”
He frowns. “What are you talking about?”
I throw my hands up. “This is about Nina, isn’t it? About what I said the other day. You got offended, brooded in a corner, and decided to ship me back to my tiny apartment where someone already tried to grab me off the street!”
His expression hardens. “This has nothing to do with Nina.”
“Really?” I laugh, humorless. “Because she’s still here. Still lurking around like she belongs. Meanwhile I get carted off like I overstayed my welcome.”
Damien steps toward me, and I don’t back down.
“You think I’m doing this because of some petty jealousy?” he says quietly, dangerously. “You think I’d risk your life over that?”
I stare up at him, chest rising and falling. “I don’t know what to think, Damien. You won’t tell me anything, you won’t let me in, and now you’re throwing me out without even a conversation?—”
“I’m trying to protect you,” he says, cutting me off.
“No,” I say, voice cracking. “You’re pushing me away. You slept with me, you made me feel like I meant something, and now you’re just…done.”
He looks down. Says nothing.
And that silence breaks something in me.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat, backing away. “You don’t even deny it.”
“Sasha—” he starts, reaching out.
I step back. “Save it,” I whisper. “I’ll pack.”
Then I turn and walk down the hall before he can see the tears starting to fall.
I shut the door behind me and press my back against it, breathing hard. My hands are trembling.
That wasn’t just a fight. That was the kind of conversation that feels like a door slamming shut—one you don’t get to open again.
And then my eyes flick to the wardrobe across the room.
It’s still filled with clothes Damien bought me. Clothes that somehow fit me perfectly. Silks, linens, jeans, sweaters. Every piece soft. Luxurious. Comfortable.
And now?
They feel like shackles.
I cross the room slowly and open the wardrobe. My fingers brush over a soft gray sweater I’ve worn twice and secretly loved. I hesitate—just for a second.
Then I yank my hand away.
No.
I’m not taking any of it.
Not a single dress. Not a single shoe.
Because they weren’t really gifts. They were part of this curated illusion. This perfect world he built around me, with security guards and rose gardens and espresso in bed. And now he’s decided I don’t belong in it anymore.
Fine.
But I’m not leaving wearing his damn clothes.
I dig into the wardrobe, pull out the worn jeans and the wrinkled blouse I came in with, and toss them onto the bed.
They’re not glamorous. They don’t smell like fresh lavender and luxury.
But they’re mine.
And after everything?—
I need something that still is.
* * *
The ride is mostly silent.
Damien’s fingers stay clenched on the wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. He doesn’t glance at me. Doesn’t say much. Not even when the city comes into view and the skyline starts to feel too familiar again.
I try not to grip the hem of my sweatshirt too tight, but I can’t help it.
This…feels like the end.
Not a pause. Not a fight we’ll get over.
An end.
When the car pulls up outside my apartment, he finally kills the engine.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
The city hums outside the window. People walk by. Life goes on like it didn’t just punch me in the heart and leave.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, aiming for calm. My voice comes out thinner than I want.
Damien finally looks at me.
His eyes flick over my face like he’s trying to memorize it. The scar near my eyebrow. The mess of my hair. The tired sadness I can’t quite hide.
“Sasha…” he starts, but the words trail off.
I shake my head. “Don’t. It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“No,” I admit quietly, “but I’d rather pretend it is. At least for now.”
The silence sits between us again, heavier this time. Like if either of us says the wrong thing, everything will collapse.
I reach for the door handle.
He grabs my hand.
It stops me cold.
His palm is warm. Familiar. Too much.
My eyes sting, but I don’t let it show. I can’t.
“You were never just some game,” he says, voice low, rough. “You need to know that.”
“I do.” I manage a small, sad smile. “But that doesn’t change anything, does it?”
He lets go.
I get out of the car before I lose the nerve.
I walk up the steps to my building, pull out my keys, and force my feet to keep moving.
The car is still idling behind me when I get to the door. I pause, hand on the knob.
But I don’t turn around.
Because if I do, I know I’ll run back.
And I can’t survive being left a second time.
So I walk inside.
And the door shuts quietly behind me. Like a chapter closing.
Like goodbye.