7. Brooklyn
brOOKLYN
T hree weeks of secret meetings, stolen kisses, and the most incredible sex of my life, and I'm starting to feel like Maxim's guilty secret instead of his girlfriend.
Every encounter has to be carefully orchestrated—text messages sent from burner phones, meetings in hotel rooms or his penthouse when he's sure no one will see us, rushed conversations in empty conference rooms that always end with his hands in my hair and my back against the wall.
I tell myself he's protecting me, that discretion is necessary for my safety in his dangerous world. But the rational explanations are getting harder to swallow when I feel more like a mistress than a partner, more like something shameful he needs to hide than something precious he wants to claim.
The breaking point comes during tonight's poker game, and it's worse than usual.
One of the newer players—some young hotshot trying to impress Dimitri—has been making increasingly vulgar comments since he walked through the door.
Comments about my body, about what he'd like to do to "the help," crude suggestions that make my skin crawl even as I maintain my professional smile.
"Maybe when we're done here, the waitress can stick around for some private service," he says with a lewd grin, his eyes raking over my chest in a way that makes me want to shower. "I tip very generously for extra attention."
The other players shift uncomfortably, but no one says anything. This is the game they all play—pushing boundaries, testing limits, seeing how far they can go before someone pushes back. I've dealt with men like this before, know how to deflect and redirect without causing a scene.
What I don't expect is the way my eyes automatically seek out Maxim, looking for some sign of support, some indication that he'll stand up for me the way he did with Viktor weeks ago.
Instead, he sits there with carefully controlled features, his hands steady on his cards, giving no indication that he even heard the crude suggestion. He's playing his role perfectly—the uninvolved businessman who doesn't get worked up over the hired help.
But I see the tension in his jaw, the white-knuckled grip on his cards, the dangerous glitter in his dark eyes. He's furious, but he's not going to do anything about it. Not here, not publicly, not in a way that might expose whatever it is we have together.
"I'll get everyone fresh drinks," I say calmly, collecting empty glasses with hands that aren't quite steady. Professional to the end, even when my heart is breaking.
When the player actually grabs my ass as I'm serving his whiskey—squeezing hard enough to leave bruises, his fingers lingering in a way that makes my stomach turn—I expect Maxim to finally react. To drop the pretense and defend me the way any man should defend the woman he's sleeping with.
Instead, he watches with that same carefully neutral expression as I handle the situation myself, firmly removing the man's hand and continuing my service with icy professionalism.
The betrayal cuts deeper than the actual assault.
I can handle grabby customers—I've been dealing with them since I started waitressing in college.
But I can't handle the man I love allowing it to happen.
After the game finally ends and the players drift out into the night, counting their winnings and making plans I don't want to hear, I find myself alone with Maxim in the charged silence. He approaches me like he's walking into a minefield, clearly recognizing the storm brewing in my expression.
"Brooke—" he starts, but I cut him off with a look that could freeze hell itself, my eyes burning with the kind of quiet fury that makes even hardened gamblers take a step back.
"Don't," I say quietly, my voice deadly calm, each syllable precisely measured and dripping with icy restraint. The controlled rage in my tone makes him pause mid-step, his mouth still partially open around unspoken excuses. "Just don't. Not a single word."
"You don't understand the position I was in," he says, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "If I'd reacted, it would have exposed us. Put you in danger?—"
"So I'm your dirty little secret?" The words explode out of me with weeks of suppressed frustration and hurt behind them. "Something you enjoy in private but can't acknowledge in public? I'm good enough to fuck but not good enough to defend?"
He flinches like I've slapped him, his eyes widening with genuine hurt, and I'm glad.
I want him to feel a fraction of the searing, bone-deep humiliation I just endured while he sat there silent at that poker table.
I want that sting to linger on his skin the way their stares and comments still crawl across mine.
"It's not like that," he insists, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper, but his explanations sound hollow even to himself, the words falling flat and lifeless between us.
His fingers fidget at his sides, betraying his discomfort.
"I'm trying to protect you—from Dimitri, from his circle, from everything they're capable of doing if they knew?—"
"You're trying to protect yourself!" Years of fighting for respect as a woman in male-dominated spaces fuel my anger, giving me the strength to say what needs to be said.
"Your reputation, your standing with Dimitri, your comfortable position where you get to have me without any of the inconvenience of actually claiming me. "
"That's not fair?—"
"Isn't it?" I step closer, letting him see all the hurt and anger I've been hiding behind professional smiles.
"When was the last time we went somewhere public together?
When was the last time you introduced me as anything other than 'the waitress'?
Hell, when was the last time you even said my name in front of other people? "
The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating, like an invisible wall growing thicker by the second.
His eyes dart away from mine, then back again, mouth opening slightly before closing without a sound.
That hesitation, that painful inability to answer my direct questions, tells me everything I need to know with a clarity that words could never achieve.
"I won't be your convenient secret anymore, Maxim," I continue, my voice breaking slightly on his name. "I deserve better than being hidden away like something shameful. I deserve a man who's proud to stand beside me, not someone who watches other men disrespect me and does nothing."
"You know it's more complicated than that," he says desperately, reaching for me, but I step back before he can touch me.
"It's only complicated because you're making it complicated," I reply, tears stinging my eyes but refusing to fall. "Either I matter enough to fight for, or I don't. And tonight you made it very clear which category I fall into."
I grab my purse from behind the bar, my hands shaking with adrenaline and heartbreak. "I quit, Maxim. The job, whatever this was between us—all of it. I can't do this anymore."
"Brooke, wait?—"
But I'm already walking toward the door, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor with finality. "Don't follow me," I say without turning around. "And don't call me. If you want to keep me in the shadows, you can enjoy the darkness alone."
The night air hits my face like a slap as I step outside, and only then do I let the tears fall. Three weeks of the most intense relationship of my life, and it ends with me walking away from the best money I've ever made and the man who completely consumed my heart.
I know I made the right choice—I won't be anyone's secret, won't settle for being treated like something shameful that needs to be hidden. I deserve better than stolen moments and clandestine meetings with a man who's too cowardly to claim me publicly.
But knowing I'm right doesn't make it hurt any less. As I drive through the empty Brooklyn streets toward my apartment, I can't stop thinking about the look in his eyes when I walked away—like I was taking something vital with me.
Good. Maybe now he'll understand what it feels like to lose something precious because you were too afraid to fight for it.
Maybe now he'll learn the difference between protecting someone and protecting yourself.