Chapter 29
Alyona
Iam halfway through resetting treatment room three when the noise starts, low and rhythmic at first, like a distant generator kicking on somewhere down the block.
The clean scent of eucalyptus still hangs in the air as I smooth the fresh linens over the massage table. I tuck in each corner the way Brooke showed me on my first day: tight, precise, and professional. The Lennox. I’ve finally started to feel like a part of it.
Then the windows rattle.
Not hard, just enough to make the glass hum.
A couple of the girls out front laugh, startled, and someone says, “What the hell is that?”
I pause with my hands on folded towels, listening as the sound grows louder and heavier. Then the sound becomes unmistakable.
Rotor blades.
Curiosity wins over professionalism, and I step into the hallway, wiping my palms on my scrub pants as I follow the noise toward the lobby.
Half the staff are already clustered near the front windows like a flock of birds craning their necks.
It’s the end of the day, and some girls stand with their purses, ready to go. Others are still wrapping up.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Come look,” Tasha says, grabbing my wrist.
She drags me forward, and I peer past her shoulder out through the wide pane of glass toward the small park across the street.
A helicopter is descending into the quad. It’s definitely not a news chopper or medical transport.
It’s sleek and dark and expensive-looking, navy blue with silver trim. This aircraft doesn’t belong anywhere near a quiet Savannah neighborhood spa.
My stomach drops before my brain catches up. I recognize it.
The Baranov Tech logo is stamped clean and bold along the side.
“Oh my God,” someone breathes. “Is that private?”
“That thing has to cost, like, ten million dollars.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“Please don’t,” I mutter to myself, already knowing.
The girls turn slowly, one by one, their expressions sliding from curiosity to delight.
“Aly,” Tasha says, eyes wide. “Isn’t that—”
“Yes,” I groan, pressing my hands to my face. “It is.”
A few of them squeal under their breath, the sound half scandalized, half thrilled, like we’re in a bad reality show instead of real life.
“Your fiancé is insane,” someone whispers.
“Rich-insane,” another corrects.
I fight back a blush so hard it almost hurts, mortified and weirdly flattered all at once, because of course Kazimir wouldn’t just send a car like a normal person. Of course he would announce himself to the entire zip code.
Behind me, a warm, amused voice says, “Well, that answers my question.”
I turn to find Brooke standing there with her arms crossed and a sly, knowing smile curving her mouth.
“You knew,” I accuse softly.
She shrugs, eyes sparkling. “Let’s just say I got a very polite call this morning asking what time you finished your shift.”
The doors slide open with a soft hydraulic sigh, and the entire lobby seems to inhale at once. Conversation falters mid-sentence. Phones dip. Someone actually straightens their posture like we’re about to be inspected.
Kazimir steps inside like he owns the building. He doesn’t—I know that for sure—but you wouldn’t know it from how the staff step out of the way and greet him with shy smiles.
He’s wearing a linen shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark hair slightly wind-tossed from the helicopter, and the black lines of geometric tattoos crawl down his forearms to his knuckles.
Something in me stirs to attention. It’s unfair how good he looks, standing there under the warm spa lighting.
He doesn’t look like a crime lord, or a billionaire, or a man who terrifies half the eastern seaboard.
He looks like a man coming to pick up his girl.
My man.
The thought only tightens that pull of possession in my belly.
His eyes find me immediately, cutting through the small crowd without hesitation, and the hard line of his shoulders softens. Kaz crosses the lobby in long, purposeful strides. The girls part for him automatically.
Suddenly, I feel aware of everything: my messy bun, my flushed cheeks, the pale green scrubs that make me look like a tired intern instead of the supposed fiancée of one of the most powerful men in the city.
“Kaz,” I whisper, half mortified, half relieved. “What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes my hand gently, turning it palm down, and presses a slow kiss to my knuckles.
My brain short-circuits.
“I am stealing you,” he says, voice low and certain. “Dinner. Now.”
I blink at him. “I’m wearing scrubs.”
His mouth twitches like he finds that adorable, which somehow makes it worse.
Before I can argue again, Tasha pops up beside us like an overeager fairy godmother, holding out a long cream-colored garment bag.
“We may have anticipated this,” she says brightly.
I stare. “What is that?”
Brooke steps forward, hands clasped behind her back, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “The girls went out during lunch and picked something up for you. There may have been a few other requests with that phone call I got this morning…”
“You bought me a dress?” I squeak.
Brooke only tips her head toward Kaz, making it clear that he bought me the dress. She just did his bidding. A little too happily, perhaps.
I’m too stunned to speak.
Kaz watches the exchange with quiet amusement, then reaches into his pocket and produces a small velvet box. When he opens it, two pink diamond earrings catch the light. They are soft and luminous, the color of crushed rose petals.
“They’ll match,” he says simply.
My throat tightens. Someone behind me whispers, “Oh my God,” like we’re in a movie.
Brooke gently pushes me toward the hallway. “Go change before he decides to carry you out of here.”
When I step back into the reception area, there are only a few coworkers left, Brooke among them.
For a second I just stand there, fingers hooked nervously in the soft fabric at my waist, fighting the urge to retreat down the hallway and change back into my safe, anonymous scrubs.
The dress feels like a spotlight. It isn’t tight or flashy the way I’d imagined something fancy would be.
But somehow that makes it worse, because it fits me too well, like it understands my body better than I do.
The silk is a muted mauve that catches the light when I move, wrapping across my chest and tying at my waist before falling in a long, graceful line down my legs. It skims my hips instead of clinging. It’s elegant in a way that makes me feel taller, steadier, almost expensive.
My hair is down, brushed smooth after Tasha and two others attacked me with a comb and sheer force of will. The pink diamond earrings graze my neck every time I breathe, cool and delicate against my skin.
For once, when I look at myself, I don’t immediately catalog what needs fixing.
I just look nice.
The girls stare at me like they’re seeing a reveal on some makeover show.
“Oh my God, Aly.”
“Stop. You look insane.”
“Like actually insane.”
Heat climbs my throat and floods my cheeks, and I laugh under my breath because if I don’t, I might cry.
Then I see Kazimir.
He hasn’t moved from where I left him.
He just watches me.
The world seems to narrow down to the space between us as his gaze travels slowly, unhurried, from my hair to my shoulders to the curve of my waist. There’s nothing crude in it, nothing hungry or entitled. If anything, he looks stunned, like I’ve surprised him.
My stomach flips hard enough to hurt.
“I feel ridiculous,” I murmur, suddenly self-conscious all over again.
His head lifts immediately, a faint crease forming between his brows as though I’ve said something offensive.
“You’re not ridiculous,” he says quietly.
Before I can ask what he’s doing, he steps forward and, without a hint of hesitation, drops to one knee in front of me.
The entire lobby gasps.
My brain short-circuits because we’re already fake-engaged, so what the hell—?
“Kaz—what are you—”
But he’s already taking the heels from Tasha, his movements calm and deliberate, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
His hand slides gently around my ankle, warm and steady, guiding my foot into the shoe with careful precision.
I have to reach out and grip his shoulders anyway.
The bulge of muscle beneath rough linen practically makes me swoon.
The intimacy of it hits me so hard that I forget how to breathe. This man commands hundreds of people. Men with guns. Men who would bleed for him without question.
And he’s kneeling on the floor to put my shoes on.
For me.
My face burns so hot I’m certain I must be glowing.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper, mortified and overwhelmed all at once.
“I want to,” he replies simply, fastening the strap.
He repeats the motion with the other heel, just as gentle and focused. The room is so quiet I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. When he stands again, he doesn’t let go of my hand. He presses his lips softly to my knuckles, his breath warm against my skin.
“Perfect,” he murmurs.
Something in my chest melts completely.
The helicopter ride feels like stepping into someone else’s life.
The city shrinks beneath us, lights scattering like spilled diamonds, and I sit strapped in beside him with a headset on.
His thigh rests solid and warm against mine, his hand heavy on my knee in a way that feels instinctive rather than possessive.
It feels like he just needs to know I’m still there.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Hilton Head,” he says. “I wanted to do something nice for you; just dinner.”
I stare at him. “You chartered a helicopter for dinner?”
“It’s faster,” he replies with a shrug. But in a way this makes sense; after all, his public-facing personality does own an entire aerotech company.
The beach appears like something out of a movie, pale sand stretching wide and empty, lanterns glowing near the shoreline where a small table has already been set.
A few staff move quietly in the background, unobtrusive and efficient, setting plates and pouring wine like this is the most normal thing in the world.
It’s private, beautiful, and completely insane.
“Kaz,” I breathe, because there aren’t enough words.
He helps me down onto the sand, steadying me with a hand at my waist, his touch careful.
The smell of dinner drifts toward us, rich and buttery and—
Shellfish. Mussels, it looks like, and lobster.
My stomach immediately revolts at the very thought of shellfish. He notices before I can even make a face.
A server appears with a separate covered plate just for me.
“Chicken,” Kaz says calmly. “Potatoes. Bread. Nothing from the ocean.”
I blink at him. “You flew me to a beach…to not eat seafood?”
His expression doesn’t change. “Seafood makes you sick right now. Unless that’s changed…?” Worry flickers across his brow, but I laugh, and it disappears.
“I think I’m the only woman alive who gets chicken at a luxury beach dinner,” I say.
His mouth softens, almost smiling.
“We can go somewhere else,” he offers immediately, half-rising as if ready to tell the helicopter to start back up.
“No,” I say, catching his sleeve. “This is perfect. It’s just…very us.”
We sit together while the waves murmur and the lanterns flicker.
Our hands finding each other under the table as we chat about our days.
Kaz actually seems interested in what I did, and I try to wrap my head around a contract he’s negotiating.
Nothing dramatic happens, no grand declarations, but the quiet that eventually settles between us feels thick, warm, and certain.
Like we’re already falling, and neither of us has any idea how to stop.
We linger long after the plates have been cleared, our chairs angled toward the water as the sun sinks slowly into the horizon, turning the sky into streaks of molten gold and pink. The staff keeps their distance, polite and discreet, leaving us alone with the hush of the tide.
“I’ve been told,” he says quietly, his large hand engulfing mine, “that the enemy, the man who threatened to come after you, has gone back to his home country.”
My shoulders drop with relief, but then it hits me: if the threat is gone, there’s no more need for the facade.
My eyes meet Kaz’s. I can see the thought mirrored there in shadow, the question neither of us wants to ask. What happens now? When we don’t have to pretend, but there’s still something—the sliver of a future—tying us together?
Neither of us are brave enough to broach the subject.
Kaz’s arm rests along the back of my chair, his fingers absently tracing slow, lazy patterns along my shoulder.
Every time he leans in to kiss me it feels unhurried and warm, like he has nowhere else he needs to be.
The world narrows to the press of his mouth, the steady strength of his hand at my waist, the quiet breath we share between touches.
It feels dangerously close to peace.
Then something prickles along my skin.
Electric.
Like the air right before a power outage.
I glance up and see it gathering far out over the water, a dark smear along the horizon that wasn’t there a moment ago, clouds stacking thick and heavy like a closing fist. My stomach twists.
“Kaz,” I murmur, rubbing my arms. “We should go.”
He studies the sky once, then me, and whatever he reads on my face makes him nod immediately. No argument or hesitation.
The staff moves quickly. The lanterns dim. The helicopter spins to life.
As we lift off, I keep looking back at the dark line swallowing the sunset, unable to shake the quiet, crawling certainty that it isn’t just a storm chasing us home.
It feels like something worse.
Like something is coming.