Chapter 12
Artyom
Willow Pierce.
The second Tom spat her name out, the pen I'd been spinning between my fingers froze. The tip stabbed into the paper and bled a small blot of ink.
I looked up at Tom. He wore that eager, kiss-ass smile. "She's got the clearest head. I think handing the follow-up to her makes the most sense."
The conference room went dead for two seconds.
A few department heads traded looks. Nobody jumped in.
They were all waiting on me—waiting for a nod, a flicker of expression to tell them which way the wind was blowing.
I didn't say a word. I just stared at Tom.
The old fox was testing me—like some sharp-nosed animal that had caught a shift in the air and was inching to a better spot. He couldn't tell what Willow was to me, so he tossed her name out like bait, watching for ripples.
I didn't bite.
With no clear signal, Tom didn't dare take another step.
Those few seconds of silence stretched tight like a wire. No one even breathed.
They were scared of getting on my bad side. They didn't know my attention wasn't even on the meeting.
All I could think about was Willow's call that morning.
Right before she'd gotten in the car, she'd been smiling—mouth tilted up, curls a mess in the morning wind, the corners of her eyes still a little red like sleep hadn't fully let go of her.
That smile looked good on her. I'd even thought she should keep it.
Then the phone rang.
I didn't catch what the voice on the other end said, but I watched her smile get wiped clean, like someone had dragged a finger across it and left nothing behind.
She'd hung up fast. After that, she barely spoke the whole ride. When we were close to the office, she'd touched my arm.
She'd said, "Drop me off up ahead."
Her voice had been soft. So soft I wasn't sure she was asking.
"It's not good if coworkers see," she'd said, head down, fingers rubbing at her clothes. "It will look bad for you."
Reputation. Being with me would hurt my reputation.
Not that she was scared of being seen. Not that she was scared of gossip. What she meant was—she'd drag me down.
I'd watched her lashes lowered over her eyes for two seconds and said nothing.
Because it wouldn't matter. She wouldn't believe me.
No matter what I taught her, no matter how fearless she'd looked last night at the bar with a drink lifted like she owned the room, daylight always made her fold back in on herself.
Her pride had been worn down for years, ground into the way she measured her worth.
She'd tried to define what we had as "strangers who'd fucked a few times"—not even lovers.
But Artyom Sokolov didn't do one-night stands.
Someone in the room cleared their throat. The project lead moved on to the next item.
I didn't look up. I didn't interrupt. I just let my gaze slide off the paperwork and out the window.
The clouds hung low and gray, pressed against the building's sharp rooftops like soaked cotton—heavy, ready to drop.
This was wrong.
I was turning into someone I didn't recognize.
I never drifted in meetings. I never let a woman live in my head this long. Back when a gun sat against my temple, I'd counted bullets without blinking.
Now all I saw was her face when the call hit—how she'd dipped her head, exposing that small strip of nape, skin so thin you could almost see the veins underneath.
Fragile. Nearly translucent. Like it would crack if you touched it.
I cared too much.
I'd read her résumé. She was sharp, she got shit done, but she'd been pressed down for four years and never made a sound. People cursed at her and she didn't talk back. People touched her and she only dodged away.
Normally I would've hated that kind of personality.
Stupid. Cowardly. Like an old rug stomped flat so many times it didn't even remember how to stand.
But my feelings didn't follow my logic.
Watching her get pushed around made something in me go sour—like a stone that had sat at the bottom of a lake for years and got flipped over.
It wasn't pity. It was the sense that something in the order of things had been offended.
In my world, weakness was a sin. But Willow felt different. I could take her weakness. I could take her asking for help.
I lifted my eyes and let them pass over the crowded numbers on the screen.
Maybe she really was different.
My world slipped out of control because of her—and I enjoyed it.
The meeting ended.
People gathered their things. Chairs scraped the floor, sharp and chaotic.
I didn't move until the room emptied and I was the only one left.
Outside, the clouds looked even lower. The sky had darkened like night decided to show up early.
I glanced at my phone, my finger hovering for a few seconds.
Then it hit me—we hadn't even added each other.
That realization landed with a quiet knock inside my chest, like a loose screw in the wrong place finally shifting and making the smallest sound.
I pocketed the phone and stood.
The meeting room door sat half open. Light from the hallway cut in at an angle, slicing a line of shadow across the carpet.
The elevator stopped on the marketing floor.
I stepped out. The rows of desks on both sides were empty—it was well past quitting time. Most of the lights were off. Only a few by the windows still burned. The fluorescent hum made the emptiness feel even quieter.
On her desk sat a pale pink water bottle, a monitor covered in sticky notes, a few notebooks splayed open with curled edges.
It all screamed effort.
I stood by her station and looked at the cardigan draped over her chair. The fabric had that faint fuzz the light caught—like it had been touched too many times.
She must've left in a rush.
I walked a few steps down the corridor and stopped at a floor-to-ceiling window.
Outside was a New York evening—light fading but not gone. Headlights had already come on. People drifted toward the subway in loose clusters.
I spotted her instantly. That deep copper-red hair lit up in the crowd like a flare.
I watched for two seconds, then turned for the elevator.
By the time I caught up, I realized what I was doing—head of the Sokolov family, tracking a subordinate like an idiot.
I kept about twenty steps behind her.
She walked slow. At the first intersection, the light had already turned red. She kept going like she hadn't seen it until a bike cut across her path and she jerked to a stop.
"Bitch!" the cyclist shouted. The bell screamed.
The snap of it pulled her back. She retreated to the safe line and waited for green.
I didn't step up. I didn't call her name.
I wanted to know who was behind that phone call—who the hell had the right to steal her focus all damn day.
I followed her into the subway.
The entrance lights glowed up from underground, sickly white, washing over the stair edges and the anti-slip strips.
When I tapped through the turnstile, she was already on the platform.
The wind of an incoming train shoved through. She pressed a hand to her curls as they lifted, her expression lost.
The doors opened. She got on.
I boarded at the back of the crowd and stood diagonally across from her.
She never looked up. Her face floated in the window—blurred, see-through—lit and dimmed in frames by the tunnel ads.
The train stopped three times. She didn't move.
Her eyes didn't lock onto anything. Just empty.
Only when Brooklyn slid into view—red-brick row houses, worn grocery signs, a faded fire hydrant—did she snap back and straighten.
The doors opened and she stepped out.
I followed her through two streets lined with plane trees until she stopped in front of an old apartment building.
She pushed the iron gate by the porch. The rusted hinge shrieked.
Inside, the motion light was half-dead, blinking between dim and dark.
She climbed one step at a time.
I stayed in the corner at the landing and watched her stop at the last door on the third floor. She raised her hand and knocked three times.
About five seconds passed.
The door opened.
A young girl leaned on the frame—long, straight light-brown hair, smiling eyes. In most rooms people would've called her sweet. Her mouth didn't match it. Her smile curled into something taunting.
"Fat pig," she said, voice bright, fake-innocent. "You actually showed up."
Willow stood in the doorway and angled her body like she was trying to take up less space.
She didn't go in. She stayed outside the frame like she needed permission.
"It's Mom's birthday. I bought a cake."
She held out a paper box. The ribbon was tied neat, the bow folded perfectly.
The girl took it and glanced down.
"Oh. Cake."
She dragged the word out, then tore the ribbon open right in front of Willow, flipped the lid, lifted the cake to her mouth, and took a bite.
"Mmm. Not bad." She smiled. "But you're that fat and you're bringing sweet cake? Doesn't really fit you, does it?"
Willow went along with it. "Yeah. It's for you guys."
The girl leaned closer. "You want some so bad, huh? Maybe I'll help you."
Before the last word finished, her wrist flipped—
The whole piece of cake sailed out, frosting down, and smacked into Willow's face with a wet slap.
Heat slammed into my skull.
If Willow hadn't been right there, I would've lunged in and snapped that skinny wrist.
Willow didn't move.
White frosting slid down her cheeks and dripped onto her washed-out collar.
Pale crumbs clung to her curls, her nose, her lashes. The hallway filled with sugary sweetness, thick and sticky like melted candy.
She didn't cry. She just lowered her eyes like a kid caught doing something wrong and took the humiliation in silence.
The girl laughed, bouncing on it, pointing at Willow's ruined face. "Mom! Look—Willow brought you a surprise!"
Footsteps sounded inside. Slippers scuffed against the floor, coming closer.
Then a middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway.
She wore an apron, flour still dusting her hands. A wooden spoon stuck out of the apron pocket.
She looked a little like Willow around the eyes, but softer—rounder lines, smoother skin.
She took in the scene and sighed.
"Willow," she said, exhausted, not even trying to defend her—just trying to make it go away. "That 'surprise' isn't funny. Did you really have to come here and play the clown?"
I clenched my fist and stared hard at the woman.
Wasn't she her mother?
Was her daughter getting bullied just... normal to her? How could she look that numb?
Willow dropped her head. Her voice barely carried. "I'm sorry."
She didn't argue. She didn't explain. She let the frosting set on her skin. "I just thought you liked that bakery, so I bought the cake."
Her mother frowned.
She didn't offer a napkin. She didn't step outside.
She stayed in the doorway and said coldly, "Go home. I'll call you in a couple days."
"Okay."
Willow turned away.
I slipped back into the shadow at the corner.
Her steps headed for the stairs, then stopped. Two seconds passed. She turned around without hesitation and went back to that door.
She bent and picked the cake up off the floor.
Her sister licked her fingers, frosting on the tips, slow and pleased, like she was tasting a prize.
She looked down at Willow and sneered. "You eat trash?"
This time, my little drunk didn't take it.
She lifted the cake box and slammed it into the girl's face.
Thump.
Not loud. Just dull.
But it hit me like relief.
Frosting streamed down the girl's face, sticking to her light-brown hair.
Her mouth hung open a little. Cream seeped between her lips. She touched her cheek, stared at the white sugar on her fingertips for two stunned seconds.
Then she went feral. "You—"
Willow cut her off. "People as rude as you are the ones who should be eating trash!"