Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
Eventually, exhaustion claims me, and I drift back into uneasy sleep.
It’s still not restful.
Hours later, the buzz of my phone wakes me. Morning light filters through the blinds as I reach groggily for the device, expecting to see Arkady’s name on the screen. Instead, it’s just my regular morning alarm.
The smell of coffee drifts under the door, and I can hear Dad moving around the kitchen, the familiar sounds of home anchoring me.
I stretch, feeling oddly queasy despite the hours of sleep.
Probably because I slept so badly. My dream about Debra lingers at the edges of my mind, leaving an unexpected sense of anticipation I can’t explain.
Pulling on sweatpants and a T-shirt, I pad barefoot to the kitchen. Dad stands at the counter, pouring coffee into his favorite mug—chipped at the handle but never replaced.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says, his smile warming his tired eyes. “Coffee?”
He extends the pot toward me, and the rich scent hits me full force. My stomach turns violently, saliva flooding my mouth in that unmistakable precursor to nausea. I back away quickly.
“No,” I say, pressing a hand to my middle. “I think I’ll have orange juice today.”
Dad’s eyebrows rise slightly—he knows my usual morning desperation for caffeine—but he reaches for the juice without comment. His gaze lingers on me, too perceptive for comfort.
I take the glass, the cold, sweet liquid soothing after the unexpected wave of nausea. The sensation passes quickly, leaving me puzzled but increasingly suspicious. I’ve never turned down coffee before.
Dad watches me over the rim of his mug. “You okay? You look strung out.”
“Yeah,” I answer automatically. “Just didn’t sleep well.” Then, moved by some impulse I don’t understand, I cross the kitchen and wrap my arms around his middle. “I love you, Dad. And I think everything’s gonna be okay.”
He returns the hug, his chest solid against my cheek. “From your lips to God’s ears, kiddo.”
We eat breakfast together, avoiding the heavy topics of yesterday. Dad tells me about a neighbor’s annoying dog, I share sanitized stories about the work I’ve been doing. The normalcy is a balm, even built on lies.
When it’s time to leave, I find myself reluctant to go.
“Call me tomorrow?” Dad asks at the door.
“Promise.” I hug him once more, memorizing the feel of his embrace, the safety I only find here.
As I walk down the path, my phone buzzes with a text from Diane:
“You still on leave? Coz I’m thinking of day drinking at my place. I have gossip about that asshole professor from biochem.”
A perfect way to spend the rest of the day before returning to Ashwater Heights. I text back a quick “On my way” and take the familiar route to the apartment I once shared with Diane.
The apartment building stands in stark contrast to Ashwater Heights—modest, slightly run-down, with vibrant graffiti art decorating the exterior walls. I press the buzzer, and Diane lets me up immediately.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she says when she opens the door, her grin wide and genuine. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”
“Never,” I promise, following her into the cluttered living room. The space is like her—vibrant, chaotic, warm. Plants crowd every windowsill, books stack on every surface, and her latest art project takes up half the dining table.
“Good. Because we have a ton to catch up on.” She grabs beers from the fridge, hands me one, and flops onto the couch. “So, spill. I want all the gossip from your fancy job.”
I laugh, but it comes out awkwardly. I take a sip of beer to cover it, but the taste turns bitter on my tongue, my stomach immediately protesting. I set the bottle down, untouched.
“Since when do you turn down free alcohol?” Diane asks, eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion.
“Just not in the mood,” I deflect. “And there’s not much gossip. I just clean the house.”
“Bullshit.” She leans forward, studying me intently. “Something’s different about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” She tilts her head, eyes tracking over me. “You’ve got that look. Like you’re hiding something juicy.” Her grin turns wicked. “Oh my God. You’re sleeping with someone.”
“I’m not—” Heat floods my face, betraying me instantly.
“Holy shit, you are!” Diane practically bounces on the couch. “Spill. Right now. Who is he?”
“There’s nothing to spill,” I insist, but my voice comes out too defensive.
“Mira, I’ve known you since freshman year. You can’t lie to me.” She crosses her arms, settling in like she has all day. “Besides, you’re blushing like a virgin at prom. Come on, details.”
I take another attempt at the beer, desperate for something to do with my hands, but my stomach revolts again. “It’s complicated.”
“The good ones always are.” Diane’s eyes gleam with mischief. “Wait. Is it your boss? Please tell me it’s your boss.”
My silence answers for me.
“Oh. My. God.” She claps her hands together. “You’re banging your hot billionaire employer! This is amazing. How did I not see this coming?”
“Diane—”
“Is he good? Please tell me he’s good. With that much money, he better be spectacular in bed.”
“I’m not discussing this,” I say, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth.
“That smile says otherwise.” She points at me accusingly. “You dirty girl. Here I thought you were living some boring housekeeping fantasy, and you’re actually living out a romance novel.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?” Her teasing softens slightly, genuine curiosity replacing the playfulness. “Come on, Mira. I want the real story.”
I look down at the beer bottle, condensation dripping onto my fingers. “I don’t know what it is. One minute I’m just working for him, the next…” I trail off, not sure how to explain Arkady without revealing too much.
“The next you’re naked?” Diane supplies helpfully. “Or… Wait a bit… does he make you wear one of those French maids’ outfits? Bend you over the sofa and spank you with a feather duster?”
“Diane!”
“What? I’m just filling in the blanks.” She grins, then sobers. “Seriously, though. Is he treating you right? Because if this guy is taking advantage of you—”
“He’s not,” I interrupt. The certainty in my voice surprises even me. “It’s mutual. Very mutual.”
“Good.” Diane relaxes back into the couch. “So what’s he like? Apart from being rich enough to have live-in staff.”
God. What can I tell her? That he’s dangerous and possessive and that his touch sets me on fire and terrifies me in equal measure?
“He’s intense,” I say finally. “Complicated. Kind of controlling, but not in a bad way.”
“So he ties you up,” Diane smirks.
“Oh, my God!” I roll my eyes so hard they almost come out of my head.
“Okay, okay. I’m just messing with you.” Diane studies me. “You really like him, don’t you?”
The question catches me off guard. Do I? More than like, if I’m honest. But I don’t think I’m ready to delve into exactly how much right now.
“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “I really do.”
“Does he know?”