Chapter 13
Willow
The second that cake smashed into Ella's face, something inside me cracked.
Not broke—cracked. Like a sheet of ice that had been frozen forever, and something underneath finally shoved up, splitting the hard surface. Light slipped through the seam. Thin, but bright enough.
So this was what it felt like to not bend over and take it.
I watched frosting run down Ella's jaw, dripping onto the collar of her pale pink top.
The way she just stood there, stunned... it was almost funny.
I stood in front of her, breathing heavier than usual. Before she could even react, I turned and headed for the stairs.
The motion-sensor light in the hallway was still half-dead, flickering on and off.
Three steps in, I stopped.
Not because I didn't want to leave. Because out of the corner of my eye, I caught a silhouette at the bend—one that had no business being there.
Tall. Broad shoulders.
He leaned against the wall, silent as a statue.
I froze, squeezed my eyes shut hard, then opened them.
Cream clung to my lashes, blurring my vision. But the silhouette didn't vanish. Those gray eyes stayed locked on me.
Artyom.
When had he gotten here? How long had he been watching?
My head buzzed, and heat rushed up my face.
Shit. He'd seen all of it—me being that rude, that wild.
Did I look insane? Too aggressive? Was he going to think I was some vicious, mouthy woman?
Thoughts swarmed like angry bees. My ears burned hot, and even the frosting on my face felt like it was heating up with me.
I sucked in a breath, then forced a smile in his direction.
It came out tight. My mouth trembled, but I held it.
"You want some cake?"
My voice sounded rough. "I'd have to buy a new one, though. I kind of... wasted the last one."
He just stared at me.
Then he stepped out of the shadows into the stairwell light.
He didn't answer about the cake. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.
He walked over and stopped in front of me. The hallway was narrow. When he dipped his head, I caught that faint cedar scent on him—so clean it made the hallway's musty stink feel even worse.
He lifted his hand and pressed the handkerchief to my face.
The fabric grazed my skin, warm from his body. He wiped down my cheekbone, cleared the sticky frosting, then slid along my jaw and took care of the cream on my chin, too.
He didn't speak. I didn't move.
He cleaned me up so carefully—so gently—it felt unreal. Like nothing I'd ever gotten.
Right when I thought he might say something, a voice came from behind me.
"Hah."
It dripped with fake sweetness.
"Willow, since when do you know this hottie?"
My back went rigid.
Ella leaned out from the doorway, her face still smeared with cream.
Her eyes stuck to Artyom, crawling over him from shoulders to waist.
She pushed closer, her shoulder bumping mine.
"Hi, I'm Ella." She held out her hand. "Willow's sister."
Sister. She never claimed that title before.
Artyom glanced at her. His gaze stayed flat, almost bored.
"Artyom," he said, giving his name.
Ella's hand hung there, awkward for a beat, then she pulled it back like it was nothing.
Her smile didn't fade. If anything, it got brighter.
"Artyom, Willow got your handkerchief dirty. Why don't you both come inside and wash up?"
The invitation was blatant as hell.
I used to have to jump through hoops just to step into that place. Today, I apparently got in on Artyom's name.
Artyom didn't bite. He only looked at the handkerchief.
It was definitely not clean.
But he didn't flinch, didn't show disgust, and he sure as hell didn't take the hint.
He folded it neatly and slipped it back into the inner pocket of his suit, slow and controlled—ice-cold distance in every movement.
"No." He lifted his eyes and smiled a little. "A handkerchief my fiancée used isn't dirty."
My brain buzzed again—louder this time.
What did he just say? He meant me?
Ella's smile froze.
She whipped her head to me, disbelief all over her face. "You're saying Willow's your fiancée? You can't be serious."
Artyom didn't even bother looking at her.
Ella sucked in a breath. Even her smile twisted. "Willow, your friend's obviously joking. How could you—"
"Why couldn't I?"
I cut her off.
For once, someone had my back. I wasn't about to ruin it.
Artyom turned slightly and shot me a look.
It was fast—so fast Ella probably missed it. I didn't.
He was smiling.
Was he laughing at my nerve? Or approving it?
I chose to believe it was the second.
I kept going. "He's my boss. We haven't been together long, so we didn't plan on telling the family yet."
Half-truths sold best.
Ella choked on it.
She stood there with her mouth open, searching my face for a crack, for a tell. I gave her nothing but calm.
I even lifted my chin a little, met her stare head-on, like my body could say what my words didn't: I wasn't lying.
Her suspicion slid into anger.
She couldn't wrap her head around it—someone like Artyom, mine.
In her world, I belonged in a corner, getting laughed at. Getting humiliated.
Artyom seemed pleased with my performance. He took my hand. "Let's go. We're going home."
His palm was big, dry, warm. I didn't pull away. I squeezed back, keeping up the picture of us.
That was when a man's voice came from deeper inside the apartment.
"Ella, what the hell are you still yelling about?"
Footsteps approached from the end of the hall. A pair of dress shoes stopped at the door.
The man's face was a little puffy. His hair was neatly combed. He wore a dark brown casual blazer, like he'd just pushed away from the dinner table.
My stepfather. Sean Finch.
When he saw Artyom, he slowed.
"Mr. Sokolov?"
His voice changed on the spot.
He leaned forward and stuck out his hand. "What brings you here? You should've told us—you know, so we could've prepared."
Artyom didn't take the hand. He only glanced down at the wrecked cake on the floor—the box tipped over, cream arcing across the tile.
"Passing by," he said. "Came to pick someone up."
Sean's expression tightened.
"Ella." He frowned, sharp and warning. "Did you mess with Willow again?"
Ella's mouth twisted. "Dad, I was just playing a game with Willow."
She hit the word game hard, like it was all a joke.
"Who knew Willow was so damn petty she'd cover me in cream."
To her, hurting people was comedy.
I stared at her for two seconds, then bent down.
A small chunk of cake had broken off after I nailed her the first time.
I picked it up.
Ella's eyes went wide. "What are you doing!"
I didn't give her time to breathe. I pressed that piece of cake straight into her face.
Harder than before.
Her head snapped back.
"You—"
She lunged for me, furious.
I ducked behind Artyom immediately and smiled. "See? You are the one who can't handle it."
Her face twisted. "Bitch! I'll kill you!"
She went for me again.
Artyom caught her wrist, shoved her back. Ella stumbled a few steps and crashed into Sean.
The hallway went dead quiet.
Artyom looked at her, then at Sean. "Control your daughter."
He pulled me away from the building.
The iron gate clanged shut behind us, a heavy, ugly sound.
Night air hit my face, cool against the frosting-smeared skin.
Brooklyn at night filled my lungs—wet earth, the bitter bite of fresh plane tree leaves, exhaust drifting from a car passing somewhere in the distance.
I'd thought coming back here would crush me.
I hadn't expected to feel this... good.
Artyom walked beside me. Streetlight poured down from above. My shadow sat next to his, shorter, but it looked like it finally had something to lean on.
"I just—"
My voice stayed raspy. "Did I look like a total psycho back there?"
"No."
He didn't hesitate.
I let out the breath I'd been holding.
"And what you said," he added, "that was good."
"What?"
"The part about her being the one who couldn't handle it."
My mouth curled up. I couldn't stop it. So this was what it felt like—being backed up.
I held onto his hand and started talking too fast. "You know, I used to think about fighting back all the time. But every time it mattered, I froze."
"Why?"
"Because..."
I stalled.
Same old story. I didn't have the guts.
I knew Ella was wrong. I wanted to clap back. But I only ever did it in my head. The second it came down to actually tearing the mask off, my legs went weak.
I was always scared I'd look 'ungracious.' Scared I'd lose the only place I had to land.
I looked up at Artyom. "Bad habit. You know that. But I am not doing it anymore."
Artyom tapped my forehead.
"So you know you are sick."
I dodged his finger. "You could say that nicer. Don't have to be so blunt."
He let out a low laugh.
It mixed with the wind, rough and quiet, the kind that made your ears itch.
He didn't say anything else. He just tightened his grip on my hand.
"You seriously dare to make demands of me? Which one of us is the boss?"
"Me." I smiled sweetly. "I paid you, remember?"
We kept walking, our shadows stretching and shrinking under the streetlights.
Brooklyn felt wide-open at this hour. A few late-night people hurried past, throwing curious looks our way, then vanishing into the dark.
I didn't care anymore. I didn't care if I had to see Ella's twisted face tomorrow.
Right then, I cared about the road under my feet and the man beside me.
"Home?" he asked.
"Yeah." I nodded, and the stone that had been hanging in my chest for so long finally dropped.
His jaw tightened for a second, then eased. The streetlight carved his profile sharp, like it had been cut with a blade.
Sorry.
I was fantasizing about my boss again.
"I might need to put it on your tab," I said.
"What?"
Artyom stopped and turned to face me. The wind lifted the hair at his forehead. Those deep, unreadable eyes swirled with a teasing kind of amusement.
I swallowed, nerves making my voice shake. "When we get back... could we..."
He stayed quiet, just watched me.
His gaze was too heavy, like a net thrown over my whole act, dragging every bluff out into the open.
The air locked up.
I heard my own heart slam against my ribs—once, twice—so hard my ears hurt.
He chuckled. "You didn't sneak alcohol on me, did you?"
"Huh?"
"Making requests like that sober? Guess you really have improved."
I kicked a little pebble at the curb.
It wasn't like that.
When I did things after drinking, it wasn't because I felt nothing. I just needed the alcohol to numb me enough to move.
"I was just scared you'd think I was disgusting."
He looked at me—really looked.
I dropped my eyes right away, staring at the toes of my shoes. "That's why I kept using money to cut it clean. Like if I paid, I could pretend it was just a deal. Then I didn't have to think about whether you actually didn't want to touch me."
If it was a transaction, I didn't have to fear what came after the pleasure.
If he didn't want it, I could even call him unprofessional.
Artyom pinched my cheek. "Do I look like a man who needs money?"
I looked up at him.
He wasn't smiling. The streetlight sat behind him, leaving half his face in shadow, but his eyes were bright.
"I slept with you because your body is sexy. I want you. That is it."
He said it calmly, like a fact he'd confirmed a hundred times.
"You mean it?" My lips puckered from his grip. "You aren't just saying that to make me feel better?"
"I never coddle anyone."
He dipped his head, his gaze dropping to my mouth, then he leaned in—another inch.
Right before the shadow of him could fall over me, a sharp screech of brakes ripped through the night, followed by the scrape of a car door opening.
Then footsteps—at least five—poured out of the alley across the street.
Artyom stopped cold. His body turned toward the sound, and he shifted half a step in front of me.
I stared at his back, his dark gray suit jacket lit up by headlights.
Six men stood across from us.
The one in front had a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He wore a black leather jacket with the collar up, and a tattoo climbed up the side of his neck.
From across the street, he shouted.
"Artyom Sokolov."
He yelled it in Russian, but his accent was messy.
Artyom stared back.
I felt the muscles in his body tighten as he shielded me, and the heat that had been on our lips a second ago got replaced by something sharp and deadly in the wind.
He said, "Long time no see, Yuri."