10. Taylor #2
“You were.” I grab my purse. “That’s the worst part.
” I grab Anya’s shoulder so she will look back at me now that I’m dressed.
She looks up, tears wobbling in her blue eyes, which makes me feel meaner than anything she said.
“You were right to be scared, and you were right that it was stupid and spoiled. You’re a good friend, okay? I need to go be impressive now.”
Neither of us smiles.
My phone buzzes on the bed, and for one bright second, I feel a zap through my stomach, thinking it’s Mikhail telling me he made a mistake. That of course he wants to see me again. That he hopes I made it home safely.
I let go of Anya’s shoulder and rush to my phone.
It is not Mikhail.
It is Pavel.
I am waiting downstairs whenever you are ready, Miss Hayes.
I stare at the message. Of course he stayed. Mikhail said the driver would wait and take me wherever I needed to go, and apparently men like him say exactly what they mean even when they’re busy telling you they never want to see you again.
He is perfect, and he doesn’t want to see me ever again. Which is also just perfect.
Anya looks at my phone. “Who is that?”
“The driver.”
Her brows lift. “His driver?”
“Yes.”
“He waited?”
“Yes.”
“He is taking you to work?”
“I guess.”
“That is…a lot.”
“Yes, Anya. I am aware.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.”
And I do know. That’s the exhausting part.
I know she’s trying to be careful now. I know she’s worried.
I know that if our positions were reversed, I would have spent the whole night ready to call the police, the embassy, and God himself.
But I also know that Mikhail’s fingers spun me into gold last night, that he let me be a sexier and funnier version of myself and then a softer and more honest version of myself all in one night, that he took care of me then and is still taking care of me now.
If I talk about it in any detail, I might cry or blush or both.
Either way, I’ll be late.
I shove my feet into my shoes, and at the door, Anya hands me my coat. When I look up at her, I see her face crumple a little. “I’m glad you are okay, Taylor,” she says, and the anger leaks out of me so fast it leaves me hollow.
I hug her tightly and leave before either of us can say anything worse or kinder.
Pavel is waiting at the curb. Same car. Same silence. Same open door. I get inside and feel ridiculous immediately.
Spoiled brat, I think.
The phrase follows me through the city.
It sits beside me in the back seat as Moscow blurs past the window.
It climbs the steps with me when the car stops in front of a broad government tower made of brown concrete and dark glass, large but almost aggressively plain.
No grand columns. No gilded entrance. Nothing that looks important except the uniformed security officers standing behind the doors.
I thank Pavel and hurry inside. A guard checks my passport against the internship paperwork, searches my bag, and directs me through a metal detector before I reach the reception desk.
The lobby floors are scuffed from decades of shoes, and everyone shuffles around looking like they know exactly where they are supposed to be.
I do not.
My phone says 9:23. Twenty-three minutes late. I want to be swallowed by the floor.
A redheaded woman in a navy dress standing by the receptionist’s desk clacks over to me. “Taylor Hayes?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry. I—”
She hands me a temporary badge, then gestures toward the elevators.
“I am Viktoriya Milova. I will show you to central administration. We are on the thirty-second floor. This way.” She can’t be more than five or six years older than I am, but everything about her looks established: her copper-red hair twisted neatly at the base of her neck, her posture straight, her clothing perfectly pressed, a slim folder held against her chest.
“Thank you.” My voice sounds far away.
The elevator is mirrored on all sides, which feels cruel.
I can see every part of myself I failed to fix.
The smudged makeup. My long dirty-blond hair brushed but not tamed, my bangs refusing to lie straight.
The faint mark below my jaw that I didn’t notice until now.
I press my fingers over it. Mikhail’s mouth flashes through my memory. My entire body heats.
No, I think to my reflection. Absolutely not.
I follow her through a maze of glass partitions, plain wooden doors, desks, low voices, and people who glance up just long enough to decide whether I matter. Viktoriya speaks as she walks.
“You will be assisting with administrative coordination, translation overflow, scheduling, document preparation, and occasional correspondence review. Most of your work will come through me, although other departments may request support. Discretion is expected. Punctuality is expected.”
My stomach drops. “Yes. I’m very sorry about this morning. It won’t happen again.”
She glances back at me. Her expression gives away nothing. “No, it will not.”
Great. Wonderful. I am going to be fired before lunch.