Chapter 13 Rae
RAE
上海港 (CNSHA) - 中国最大的集装箱港口
WTF does this shit mean?!?!?!
Monday morning delivers gray skies and a knot in my stomach.
I take the elevator up to the fiftieth floor and step out onto the endless white marble. The snake plants are exactly where I left them. My desk is exactly where I left it.
And Lukas’s door is closed.
I sit down. I stare at the door. I wait.
Nothing happens.
I check my email. Nothing new there, so I check my phone. Nothing there, either.
Then I pull up my banking app for the hundredth time. The money isn’t there yet. HR said, “effective immediately,” but payroll doesn’t process until Friday, so for now, it’s just a promise. A tantalizing number on a screen.
I close the app and put my phone face-down on the desk, then put my face face-down on my desk.
What am I supposed to do? March in there and demand answers? “Hey, Mr. Lazarev, I couldn’t help but notice you know precisely how much my brother’s rehab costs and that it matches my new ‘salary bump’ down to the penny. Care to explain?” That would go over well.
Alternatively, I could thank him. Fall at his feet and weep with maidenly gratitude.
“Thank you for the raise, sir. It’s unbelievably generous.
Praise be rendered unto your bloodline!” Of course, if I go that route, I’ll have to pretend I don’t find it beyond creepy that he has access to information he should not have.
Or I could reject it entirely. “I don’t want your pity money.” Hand back the raise and walk away with my dignity intact.
Except I can’t afford dignity. Dignity, after all, doesn’t pay for salmon with lemon butter sauce. It sure as hell doesn’t keep Gideon in a place where he’s actually getting better.
I need this money. That’s the ugly truth. I need it bad.
But how can I keep it when taking it feels wrong?
Or if not wrong, then at least unwise. If I’m agreeing to something I don’t fully understand, then what will I do when the consequences come calling?
And mark my words—they will come calling.
Just because I’m signing a contract in invisible ink doesn’t mean the repercussions won’t be very real indeed.
I think about what Jillian said. Be careful.
I think about what Kir said. My father collects things he finds interesting.
I think about Elena Lazareva and a body that was never found.
The whole time, Lukas’s door stays closed.
With a sigh, I wrench myself away from this useless thought experiment and do my best to be productive for a change. I bury myself in the files I didn’t finish last week. In terms of fun, it’s like resuming a migraine right where I left off, but I do the best I can to just plow through the pages.
At least the work is mindless. Mindless for me, at least, because I can make neither heads nor tails of it.
Names, dates, shipping manifests, port codes…
I don’t have a clue what any of it means, but I copy it all down anyway.
At least it gives me something to do other than stare at that closed door.
Lunchtime comes and goes. Around two o’clock, the phone on my desk rings.
I jump. The thing has never rung before. I didn’t even know it was connected.
I pick up anxiously. “Mr. Lazarev’s office.”
“Get him.” The voice is male, angry, accented. “Now.”
I hold the phone away from my ear in surprise, like it might take a chunk out of the side of my face if I’m not careful. “I’m sorry, who is this?”
“Tell him it’s Afon. And tell him it’s about the Rymbayev situation.”
I glance at the door. It’s still closed, forebodingly so. My hand tightens on the receiver. “He’s not available at the moment. Can I take a message?”
“No, you cannot take a fucking message.” The angry rasp in the man’s voice says he’d very much like to reach through the phone and throttle me with his bare hands. “This is urgent. Get him out of whatever fucking meeting he’s in and put him on the line.”
“Sir, I really can’t—”
“Listen to me.” His voice drops lower. “If you don’t get Lazarev on this phone in the next sixty seconds, people are going to die. Do you understand? People are going to die.”
My blood goes cold.
I set down the receiver without hanging up and walk-run to Lukas’s door. My hand shakes as I knock.
But there’s no answer.
I knock again, harder this time. “Mr. Lazarev?” I call through the wood. “There’s an urgent call for you. Someone named Afon...? He says it’s about the ‘Rumba-Eve’ situation…?”
Nobody replies.
I go back to the phone. “I’m sorry, he’s not in his office. I don’t know where—”
But all I hear is a dull buzz.
The line is dead.
I hang up slowly. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
People are going to die.
What the hell kind of company is this?
People are going to die.
Should I call someone? Security? HR? The police?
But what would I even say? I don’t know shit about shit. They’d ask me what’s wrong and I’d start rambling about mysterious men in dark rooms and Roombas and steely-eyed bosses and they’d throw me in the loony bin before I could even pause for breath.
I look at Lukas’s closed door again. He needs to know about this call. Maybe I should leave a note. Something short. Urgent call from Afon re: Rymbayev. Call back immediately.
Yeah, that’s it. That’s professional. That’s what a good assistant would do.
I grab a Post-it and scribble the message. Then I walk to his door and knock one more time, just in case.
Once again, no response.
I try the handle. It turns.
The door swings open.
And I step in.
I freeze one step inside, because the smell takes me right back to the dream. His thumb pressing against my lip. His hand in my hair. “Open…”
I shudder and push the thought away.
The desk is empty. No Lukas. No sign he’s been here at all today.
Then I hear something. A soft sound. Movement. A voice?
As I turn toward the source, I see that there’s a seating area in the back corner I hadn’t noticed last time I was in here. A long leather couch tucked against the wall.
And on that couch is a woman.
A very beautiful woman.
A very naked, beautiful woman.
She’s stretched out in a seductive pose. Long, blonde hair cascades over the arm of the couch like a honey-colored waterfall. Her skin, every exposed inch of it, is porcelain and flawless. She looks like she belongs in a Renaissance painting. Or a Playboy centerfold.
“Oh.” She sounds irritated when she sees who I am. “You’re not Lukas.”
“N-no,” I stammer out, confirming the blindingly obvious. “I’m not.”
“Annoying.” Her accent is thick. Russian, I assume. Seems to be a pattern around here. “I’ve been waiting all fucking day. Where is he?”
When I don’t answer, too stunned for words, she sits up, making zero effort to hide her nudity. “Well? Is he coming or not?”
“I—” I try to swallow, but my mouth is suddenly parched and inoperable. “I don’t know. He’s not here.”
She rolls her eyes. “I can see that, silly girl. But when will he be here?”
I’m still holding the Post-it note. It crumples in my fist. “I don’t know,” I repeat.
She squints at me for a moment. Her eyes are green, sharp, and dismissive. Then she smirks. “Well, if he’s not going to fuck me, are you?”
I could not possibly begin to formulate an answer to that.
She laughs. It’s not a nice sound. “Forget it. You’re no fun. You can go now.” She waves her hand like she’s shooing away a fly. “Tell him Natasha is waiting. And I’m very, very expensive.”
I feel sick. I feel high. I feel disgusted. I feel flushed. I feel so many things at once that if I have to stay in this mint-and-sea-salt-scented room for one second longer, I’m going to start to scream and I might never stop.
Making full use of every ounce of willpower I possess, I turn and walk out.
I don’t run. Not at first. I close the door behind me. I walk past my desk. Past the snake plants, past the elevator bank, to the stairwell.
Then I run as fast as I can.