Chapter Twenty-Eight #3
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. We don’t exactly have heart-to-hearts.”
“But you have other things?” Diane waggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m interested. There’s a difference.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “Come on, at least tell me if he’s super-hot. Give me something to work with here.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “He’s… yeah. He’s hot.”
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Diane.”
“Humor me.”
I think of Arkady—the sharp angles of his face, those ice-blue eyes that smolder when they track over me, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders. The tattoos I’ve traced with my fingers in the dark.
“Eleven,” I admit.
Diane whistles low. “Damn, girl. No wonder you’re glowing.”
“I’m not glowing.”
“You totally are. You’ve got that just-been-thoroughly-satisfied look about you.” She grins wickedly. “When’s the last time you two…?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“So recently. Got it.” She settles back, looking far too pleased with herself. “You know what? Good for you. It’s about time you found someone who makes you happy.”
“It’s not exactly sunshine and rainbows,” I say carefully. “There’s a lot I can’t tell you. The NDA isn’t just about his house—it’s about his whole life. His privacy.”
“Mysterious and hot. Even better.” Diane grabs a handful of crisps from the bowl on the coffee table. “He’s definitely got you wearing one of those French maids’ outfits.”
“Diane!” I grab a cushion and throw it at her. “You’re obsessed.”
“I’m creative. There’s a difference.” She catches the cushion and hugs it to her chest. “Seriously, though, Mira. I’m happy for you. You’ve been working yourself to death, and you deserve something good. Even if it is with your billionaire boss in his secret mansion.”
“It’s not a secret mansion.”
“But it is a mansion?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s big. Yes.”
“With a pool?”
“Two, actually.”
Diane clutches her chest dramatically. “Stop. I can’t handle it. My best friend is living in a house with two pools and shagging the owner. This is better than any gossip about Professor Dickhead.”
“Speaking of which,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “What did he do now?”
“Oh, right!” Diane launches into a story about the biochem professor who got caught plagiarizing his own student’s work. I listen, laughing in the right places, grateful for the distraction.
But my mind keeps wandering back to Arkady. To how his hands know exactly where to touch me, how to make me fall apart. To the darkness in him that should scare me more than it does.
“Earth to Mira.” Diane waves a hand in front of my face. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you drift off and get this dreamy look on your face.” She smirks. “Thinking about your mysterious boss-man?”
“No,” I lie.
“Liar.” She tosses a crisp at me. “Look, I get it. New relationship energy is intoxicating. But just… be careful, okay? I know you’re tough, but rich guys can be weird about power dynamics.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. If only she knew exactly how complicated the power dynamics between Arkady and me really are.
“I will,” I promise. “And if it goes south, you’ll be the first person I call.”
“Damn right I will be.” Diane checks her phone. “Shit, I’ve got to head out soon. Meeting with my advisor about my thesis.”
“How’s that going?”
“Don’t ask.” She groans. “But hey, before you go—are we still on for next Friday? Movie night?”
I hesitate. Friday feels impossibly far away when every day with Arkady reshapes my understanding of normal. But I need to hold onto these pieces of my old life, the parts that aren’t tangled up in his world.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be there.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
We hug goodbye at the door, and she squeezes me tight. “I’m really glad you’re happy, Mira. Even if you won’t give me all the juicy details.”
“Some things are meant to stay private.”
“Boring, but fair.” She grins. “Text me when you get there safe, yeah?”
“Will do.”
I make my way back down to the street, hands shoved deep in my pockets, the familiar sidewalk cracked and uneven beneath my feet.
This neighborhood knows me—the corner store where I’d buy chocolate, the bus stop where I waited every morning for work, the park where Diane and I would jog when we were on another health kick.
Everything looks the same, but I’m not.
A few months ago, my biggest worry was whether I’d remembered to submit my timesheets on time.
Now I’m sleeping with a man who keeps guns behind glass and ashes in urns, who kisses me like he’s claiming territory, who pays for my father’s cancer treatment in exchange for my… what? My body? My silence? My soul?
Could I ever come back from this? Could I walk away from Arkady and slide back into ordinary life—register marriages, drink coffee with Diane, worry about normal things?
The answer settles cold in my stomach.
No.
Whatever door I walked through when I signed that contract, it only swings one way. There’s no reversing course, no pretending I don’t know what his skin feels like beneath my fingers.
No, I’ll never be the same.
But part of me doesn’t want to be.