Chapter 5
Willow
I froze in place like somebody had hit pause.
A billionaire CEO had worked a nightclub like a damn escort—and I'd just stumbled straight into his secret.
Jesus. What kind of twisted soap opera was this?
My head went to mush, but my hands moved anyway. I yanked out my wallet. Change spilled everywhere. I grabbed a few crumpled bills, mashed them into a wad, and shoved them at his chest.
"Last night... last night I was drunk and running my mouth. Take the three hundred. I know it can't buy a whole night with you, but that's all I have."
The second it came out, I wanted to bite my own tongue off.
What the hell was I doing?
This man ran Sokolov Holdings. One of his suits probably cost more than six months of my rent. The car downstairs was worth more than my entire life. And I was handing him three hundred bucks like he needed it?
I had to have pickled my brain in alcohol, because I'd just pulled the "nightclub boy toy" routine on my boss.
My face burned so hard I wanted the floor to split open and swallow me.
He didn't take the money. He didn't move. He only lowered his eyes and watched the bills I'd tried to stuff into him, calm like he was watching the final act of some ridiculous play.
God.
In his eyes I had to look pathetic—fat, clumsy, all elbows, and stupid enough to mistake a CEO for a paid escort.
"I'm sorry." The words scraped out of my throat, dry and ugly. "I didn't mean to. I really was wasted. If you feel grossed out, I'm... I'm really sorry. I can compensate you."
I threw every apology I could think of at him, and each one felt like another slap to my own face.
He finally moved.
Not to take the money. Not to step back.
He reached out—lightly closed his fingers around my shaking wrist—and slid the wrinkled wad of cash out of my palm. The bills whispered between his fingers, soft and sharp, like quiet mockery.
He glanced down at it. "Three hundred and twenty-seven."
His voice stayed low, swallowed by the running water.
"You counted wrong."
I went rigid.
He looked up at me. No anger. "For that kind of money, I should throw in extra service."
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Then he smiled.
Not cruel. Not pitying.
"Willow, why did you think I'd be disgusted?"
I blinked.
The bathroom went so quiet it felt like someone had pulled the sound out of it. Only the faucet kept dripping—one drop, then another—each one landing like a tap against my chest.
How was I supposed to answer that?
My whole life, people had looked at me like I was too much. Too big. Too awkward. Too messy. Not polished enough.
Even when I looked in the mirror, I'd never thought this face deserved anyone's gentle attention.
Those laughs had sunk into my bones, like shards of glass under skin. You didn't feel them until someone got close—then they pushed up and cut, reminding you to back off. Further. Always further.
So I'd learned to live inside my shell. Don't reach. Don't lean in. Don't want.
And him—Artyom. A man who belonged on the top floor of the world. Perfect. Elegant. Untouched.
Someone like me standing in front of him already felt like an offense.
And he was asking why I thought he'd be disgusted.
The faucet kept dripping. One. Two.
My vision blurred for a second.
"Because..." I softened my voice, forcing my mouth into something that almost looked like a casual smile. "Because everyone does."
Everyone did.
So they had to be right. I had to believe they were right.
If I admitted up front I didn't deserve to be treated well, then it wouldn't hurt so much when people proved it again. I wouldn't be stupid enough to hope.
Artyom released my wrist.
The warmth left too fast. My fingers curled on instinct, like I could catch whatever heat he'd left behind.
Then he reached past me and shut off the dripping faucet.
"Everyone?" he said, turning slightly. In the mirror, his eyes looked dark as a winter lake. "So you don't have a mind of your own? Whatever they say has to be true?"
My throat tightened. I couldn't get a word out.
He stood behind me, his voice dropping. "Listen. Your body is full. It is sexy."
I went still.
Sexy? Full?
Those words had never once belonged to me.
They belonged to girls chased by cameras. To magazine covers. To Jessica—the kind of woman who counted lettuce leaves in her lunch salad.
He watched me without flinching, without that fake, gentle tone people used when they tried to make you feel better.
"Remember this," he said. "Beauty isn't a skinny girl's privilege."
I opened my mouth, then shut it. My nails dug into my palm. It hurt. I didn't let go.
"And," he added, prying my clenched fingers open. His warm palm pressed to mine, his fingers sliding between mine, locking us together. "In my line of work, there are rules. If you get a bad review, you make it right until the client is satisfied. That is how you stay professional."
My brain buzzed and then flatlined.
What the hell did he mean—rules?
But when he leaned in, his warm breath brushed the side of my neck, right over the red mark he'd left last night. It still felt tender, like a scab that had just been scratched. The itch sank under my skin and spread downward.
I shivered and tried to back up, but my lower back hit the cold edge of the sink first.
"What are you running from?" he murmured, a low laugh in his throat. "Last night you were bold as hell. Didn't you say you were gonna make me feel real good?"
My cheeks burned like they were about to smoke.
My heart hammered too hard. He smelled clean—exactly like last night in that room—and the scent kept slipping into my lungs until my head swam worse.
His face drew closer.
I could see the faint shadow of new stubble along his jaw, pale under the warm light like frost.
I forgot how to react. I only stared as his mouth came down on mine—
My mind went blank, like a busted radio getting no signal at all.
His lips felt soft, cool at first. He didn't rush. He only pressed against me, testing, a single, careful touch—
And that was all it took. My knees went weak. I almost collapsed.
One arm slid around my waist to steady me, his palm landing on my lower back through my shirt—warm and solid. His other hand still held my wrist down against the marble counter. The position pinned me in place. No escape. Nowhere to hide.
He deepened the kiss.
His breath seeped into my mouth, slow, like ice melting under heat.
My thoughts stopped working. I even forgot how to breathe right.
Then wet heat hit my chest.
I looked down. Somewhere in the chaos, my collar had been pushed aside, and a soft white swell of breast showed. He had his mouth on me—half sucking, half biting. When his teeth grazed the very top, a sharp itch shot up my spine like a spark racing down a wire.
A muffled moan slipped out of me, the sound trembling at the end.
He paused, and a quiet laugh rolled from his throat.
"See here," he said, tapping the spot with his fingertip. "That is mine from yesterday too."
Shame flooded me so hard my eyes stung.
I reached up to shove at his chest, but the feel of him snapped into place with last night's memories—hard muscle, scorching heat, the way his hand had held my waist like he owned it.
"Let me go. The meeting is about to start."
My voice shook. Even to me it sounded weak.
This was the office.
If someone found out... I couldn't even picture the fallout.
Artyom didn't budge. He grabbed a handful of softness at my waist, his blunt-knuckled fingers kneading through the fabric like he meant to make me feel every ounce of myself.
"What's the rush?" he murmured, his nose brushing my ear, his voice rough as sin. "The meeting runs on my schedule."
Artyom moved like something feral—no, worse. An animal still had instincts that drew lines. He didn't. His kisses stole what little air I had left. When his tongue pressed against my palate and dragged, I almost heard something inside my head snap.
I clutched the edge of his shirt, twisting the fabric into a fistful of wrinkles.
His hand slid down my spine, caught my lower back, and with one hard turn he rotated me—
So I faced the mirror.
The woman staring back barely looked like me.
My shirt had slipped halfway down, hanging at my elbows. The skin under my collarbones flushed pink with heat. My bra lifted a full curve; the lace hid and teased at the same time, my nipples tightening against it from the cool air.
"Hey," he said, close behind me. "Look."
He tugged my hair, forcing my chin up.
"Willow. Look at it. It is beautiful."
For the first time, I actually looked at my body. Not just the weight. It was upright, full, lush.
I'd always stared at the extra flesh like it was a crime.
Like it was the punchline people used against me.
But the woman in the mirror had red at the corners of her eyes, swollen shiny lips, a round, soft line to her shoulders and neck—and even the softness at my stomach looked warm, heated by his hand.
Like it wasn't ugly.
Like I'd been wrong—wrong to treat every curve as baggage, wrong to believe it only existed for people to laugh at.
Warm breath hit the back of my neck. Artyom dropped his mouth to my shoulder and bit. Teeth pressed into a small patch of skin—then his tongue replaced them, licking down the curve.
His mouth felt hot. His tongue was rough, dragging over my skin like sandpaper and leaving a trail of red in its wake.
"I thought..." I panted, my voice breaking. "I thought you'd like skinny girls."
He laughed.
The vibration of his chest pressed into my back, low and heavy, like a wave rolling deep underwater. It traveled from my shoulder blades straight into my heart, and my knees softened again.
"I like you like this," he said. "Soft in my arms. Sweet when I kiss you. The people who mock you are weak. They can't handle you."
Couldn't handle me.
That was a new one.
No one had ever said that to me in twenty-six years.
They said, "You'd be pretty if you just lost weight," like I was always one step short. Or they said nothing at all and dismissed me with polite, empty neglect.
But he said they couldn't handle me.
I stared at myself in the mirror—my lips still swollen, my chest rising higher than it ever did on an ordinary day.
I looked different.
Like a stranger.
Maybe I should try to accept what he'd said.
It might take a long time.
But right then—right then—I wanted to believe it once.
Artyom sank his teeth into my neck, biting into that thin skin until pain and itch tangled together.
His hand had already undone the button on my pants, and just when I thought we were about to lose control completely—
"Knock knock knock—"
A sudden pounding on the door.
Even through the wood, I heard Jessica's voice. "Willow, are you in there?"