Chapter 47
FORTY-SEVEN
LUCAS
I let out a shaky breath as I slide my debit card across the counter.
The sales associate takes it with a smile that’s so perfectly practiced it almost glitters.
I recognize it instantly because I’ve worn that exact same mask behind the counter at the café, handing out caramel lattes to rich uni kids who treat the place like their living room.
The kind of smile that says I’m here to serve you, and yes, you’re important.
The card reader beeps, loud in my ears, and the screen flashes a number I’ve never seen leave my account in one swipe. My thumb hesitates over the keypad before I force myself to punch in my PIN. If I think too hard about it, I’ll snatch my card back and run.
I’m inside a David Yurman store. My sneakers squeak faintly against a floor so polished I’m afraid I’ll leave scuffs on it.
The man helping me is dressed like he stepped straight out of a magazine spread: tailored suit, tie knotted with surgical precision, shoes shining like black mirrors.
He sets my card back on the counter with both hands, like it’s part of some quiet ceremony, and then begins to package the bracelet.
It’s almost hypnotic, watching him. The way the bracelet disappears into a velvet-brown pouch, then slips into a glossy brown-and-white box with the brand’s name pressed into the lid.
A ribbon—perfect, impossible to replicate—ties into place.
Then the box is lowered into a matching bag, handled like it contains something far more important than jewelry.
My stomach twists. I just bought a bracelet for a man.
For my man. And it wasn’t on the card he added me to, the one he insists I use when I “need” something.
This came straight from my debit card. My money.
My choice. Maybe that’s why I feel like I’m vibrating out of my skin, because there is no universe where I thought I’d spend over two grand on a single piece of jewelry for myself, not to mention anyone.
I’ve wanted to give Alex something for months now.
Something that was mine to give. He gives me so much it’s dizzying—more clothes than I can count, sneakers and shoes that still have the tags on them because I can’t bring myself to wear them out, bracelets and necklaces tucked into boxes in my drawer in his closet.
He even tried to buy me another watch after the Chanel one, until I begged him to stop because I’m not a watch person.
I don’t know where he thinks I’m wearing all these things.
“Would you like to include a note with your gift?” The sales associate asks, his voice warm, in the way expensive places train their staff.
My fingers twitch. “Uh… yeah.”
He slides a small cream-colored card toward me, the store’s logo embossed in gold at the top. There’s even a matching envelope. My reflection stares up from the glass counter as I grip the pen, and suddenly, the blank space feels suffocating.
What the hell do I even write? Thanks for all you do for me. You make me feel seen? I love you?
I swallow, pen hovering. My hand shakes just enough that the tip scratches against the card. I write slowly, deliberately, keeping it short, because anything more would feel too much for me, and I might straight up burst out in tears with the emotions going through me.
When I’m done, I slip the card into the tiny envelope, my chest tight. The associate takes it without a glance, tucking it neatly into the bag.
The bag is placed in front of me, its sleek ribbon catching the light. I reach for it slowly, like it might vanish if I’m not careful. I’ve barely stepped out of the store when my phone buzzes with a text.
Maksim: Yo, are you done? I’m close.
I type back a quick 'yeah' and toss in a thumbs-up before sliding the phone into my pocket. A quiet sigh escapes me. He’d texted earlier, saying he wanted to hang out.
That’s… new.
We’ve never spent time alone together. Not that we don’t get along—we do, in our own strange way. He’s at the penthouse often, usually just to annoy Alex and toss a few jabs my way. Other times, when Davika drags me out for one of her spontaneous restaurant-hopping sprees, he tags along.
Maksim is the spoiled little brother who knows exactly how far he can push and somehow always manages to get away with it.
Alex pretends to be irritated, but I can see through it—the subtle shift in his voice when he’s scolding him, the way the corners of his mouth threaten to soften.
That’s not irritation. That’s affection in disguise.
Not that Maksim makes it easy. He’s perfected the art of pushing Alex’s buttons just to watch him react. I remember Alex once muttering, “I have no idea why Mom had to give birth to you seven years after me. You’re just a menace.” Maksim had lit up like it was the best compliment of his life.
I’m not sure how close Maksim and Anton are.
Then again, I’ve barely spoken to Anton myself.
He’s… intimidating. Alex says he’s calm, quiet, not one to socialize much, and that I’ll “get along with him soon”.
I doubt it. Every time Anton fixes me with that handsome, unreadable stare of his, my first instinct is to run for the hills.
Just as I’m standing outside the store, I hear it—that low, throaty growl of an engine.
The kind of sound that doesn’t just pass by unnoticed, it demands attention.
Heads turn down the street, and then I see it.
An Aston Martin. Jet black. Top down. Sunlight glinting off its paint so flawlessly polished it could double as a mirror and probably blind someone if they looked too long.
And of course, behind the wheel sits Maksim.
Face hard and unreadable, wearing Dark shades that hide those mysterious eyes of his. One hand gripping the steering wheel like it owns the road, the other draped lazily over the door like he’s in his own car commercial.
By the time he pulls up beside me, there’s already a little crowd pretending not to gawk. He turns his head toward me, and even through the sunglasses, I can feel the weight of his attention. Then his lips curl into that smirk—the one that exists purely to press people’s buttons.
“I’m not sitting with you in a convertible,” I say before I can stop myself.
I’d planned on staying silent and not using my voice with him, but the disbelief slips out with a healthy dose of frustration.
Because, of course, Maksim would find a way to make me roll my eyes a thousand times before today is over.
“The roof closes,” he says smoothly, then with a grin like he’s about to show me a magic trick, he presses a button. “See?”
The roof begins its slow mechanical ballet, folding and shifting with all the urgency of a snail on vacation.
Onlookers are already lifting their phones, taking photos like they’ve stumbled onto some street performance.
By the time the final click seals it shut, my eyes are twitching, but I still get in.
The leather seat swallows me whole, buttery-soft, smelling freaking expensive. God, I’ll never get used to rich people—especially not this family. But apparently, I can’t escape them.
“I’m sure Alex is fuming in his balls that you’re hanging out with me today,” Maksim says, sounding way too entertained as he pulls away.
I pull out my phone to type a reply, and he sees it and groans.
“Oh, come on, talk to me,” he says, shoulders slumping like I’ve denied him candy. “I see you talking more these days. It’s good, so do that with me too. I’m not sure I have the patience to read everything you type.”
The way he says it—spoiled, dramatic, and entirely too comfortable— makes a laugh slip out of me before I can stop it, his head turns, catching it, and he grins like he just won something.
“You’re acting like you didn’t practically beg Alex to let you spend time with me,” I finally say, my voice quiet but pointed.
“Yeah, yeah,” Maksim waves it off, grinning. “He threatened me to bring you back in one piece. Unless he’s planning to feed me to the pigs, in which case—”
I smile despite myself. The threat probably wasn’t even a joke, and yet it never seems to faze Maksim.
“What happened to your other car?” I ask because that’s the car I’ve seen him in more times than I can count.
“My baby needed to rest,” he says casually, like cars are people with sleep schedules. “So I bought this beauty last week. You’re basically the first person to sit in that passenger seat. Lucky you.”
I roll my eyes. Eye roll number one. With Maksim, there’s always a count.
***
Maksim’s idea of hanging out? An arcade. Yes, an arcade. He swears he loves them, claims he hasn’t been to one in a year, and insists I should feel honored to be the first person he’s dragged along since his so-called “Arcade break.”
I could swear Maksim was dropped on the head as a baby, probably in a gold-plated crib.
And he’s so competitive. The kind of competition that makes you want to strangle him, but also… somehow makes you laugh until your stomach hurts.
He beat me in almost every game we played—racing car simulator, bike race, bowling, basketball hoops—you name it.
He swore he’d “go easy on me” at the air hockey table, but apparently, Maksim’s version of “easy” is smirking every time he scores and watching the permanent scowl on my face like it’s his favorite movie.
Not that the scowl lasts long. He’s so infuriatingly funny that I end up biting my lip to stop myself from laughing…
and failing, usually doubling over when he curses in Thai and Russian if things don’t go his way.
I did manage to win at whack-a-mole, which he dramatically accused me of cheating at, complete with fake outrage, before “taking revenge” by obliterating me in laser tag.