Chapter 30
ANNA
The door clicked shut behind him.
I sat frozen on the bed, my fingers flying to my throat—searching for the familiar weight of the diamond necklace.
Finding nothing.
My hand pressed against bare skin, feeling for the band that had become as constant as my own heartbeat.
Gone. The collar of death had been removed.
A strange hollow opened in my chest.
Not relief. Something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like loss.
Was he done with me now? Had I served my purpose?
The thought twisted my stomach in a way I didn't want to examine.
I pressed my palm flat against my breastbone, trying to understand why the absence of that threat felt worse than its presence.
Why did the idea of him walking away make me want to curl into myself?
Focus. I needed to focus.
I stood slowly, the blanket falling away, and caught my reflection in the mirror.
Completely naked except for the bruises coloring my cheek and the red stripes from his belt painting my ass.
The ointment he'd used had taken away most of the sting, but a deep ache remained, a reminder with every movement.
Why had he soothed the pain he caused? Why had he done something so kind?
My mind swam with questions, theories spinning faster than I could catch them. I knew better than to believe it was out of genuine concern. I was nothing to him. Just a pawn on the board. He'd admitted the only reason he'd gone after me was because he thought I was one of my mother's weaknesses.
Maybe after the altercation at the Kennedy Center, he'd finally realized I meant nothing to her. That she wasn't capable of caring for me like a mother should.
But then he said he'd be back.
I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to ease the tension building there.
I meant nothing to Darius Ivanov—I was a means to an end and nothing more. He could have any woman he wanted, and probably did. Pretending otherwise would only deepen the pain.
Even thinking those words made my heart ache in a way I refused to acknowledge.
Then I looked at the bedside table and saw the plate of odd, fluffy pancakes waiting for me to finish.
If I meant nothing, why did he cook for me?
My stomach growled, but hunger wasn't why I reached for the plate. I knew somehow Darius would know if I didn't eat. And he'd hold it against me. Infuriating man.
After wrapping a blanket around me, I took my second bite of pancake and couldn't suppress the moan that escaped.
Holy fuck, these were good. They looked like pancakes but had a sweetly sour yet buttery taste that melted on my tongue. The blackberry jam wasn't too sweet or tart.
Wait. How did he make this? I didn't have blackberry jam. I didn't have flour, eggs, or milk. Did he go grocery shopping for me? Again?
I padded to the kitchen, the blanket whispering against my thighs with each step.
Everything was spotless, militant in its clean organization.
Even my tchotchkes were arranged by size or color.
My brain preferred horizontal organization, a little chaos.
But this...Darius had to have a pathological need for order.
Cleaning my house and ordering groceries while I slept had to be diagnosable.
I opened the refrigerator, expecting mostly empty shelves.
Fully stocked. All of it fresh, healthy food. Raw meat, vegetables—so many vegetables. Who ate this many vegetables?
The hiss of the coffee pot drew my attention. A fresh pot had just finished brewing. Next to it sat a deep red box with gold embossing instead of my usual bag of Folgers. I opened it carefully, breathing in the wonderfully fragrant grounds with hints of dark chocolate and spice.
A fresh bottle of vanilla syrup with a new pump sat beside the coffeemaker.
I made a cup in my favorite mug—a gift from Edith—and carried it with my pancakes back to the couch. A quick Google search told me the coffee beans cost nearly a hundred dollars per pound.
One sip told me it was worth it.
I stared at my apartment, trying to piece together the puzzle that was Darius Ivanov.
The man who'd threatened to blow my head off had ensured I was getting proper nutrition. He'd terrorized me, spanked me, fucked me like he owned me. Then he'd been sweet, made love to me, and in the same breath as punishing me with his belt, threatened my ex for hitting me.
Too many contradictions. None of it made sense.
My front doorknob rattled.
I froze, coffee cup halfway to my lips.
Shit. Was Darius returning already? Would he be mad I didn't stay in bed like he'd commanded? What if he thought I was being disobedient? What if—
A knock at the door.
Not pounding. A knock. And Darius had keys—I knew he'd copied them the first night.
"Open this door right now, Eleanor," my mother yelled from the other side before knocking again.
My shoulders sank. The coffee cup clinked as I set it down with shaking hands. My gut twisted in a way I chose not to examine too closely.
I wrapped the blanket tighter—suddenly, painfully aware I was naked under it. Of what it meant. Of the marks hidden beneath the cotton.
What if Darius came back while she was here?
What would he think? Would he be angry? Would he—
Stop. I forced myself to breathe.
I opened the door.
Mother pushed past me, walked into my apartment, and looked around with disgust curling her lip.
"Well, you've created one fucking shitshow of a mess for me...again."
My pulse hammered in my ears.
Any second, Darius could return.
Any second, he could walk through that door and see her here, see me talking to her, and think—what? That I'd betrayed him? That I'd called her?
"Hello, Mother, it's nice to see you too." I tightened my arms around my middle within the folds of the blanket, hyperaware of every sound in the hallway. "Why, thank you, I also like my apartment."
She’d just marched right in and started her rant. No apology for me being terrorized by a six-foot-three Russian mafia boss for four days because of her greedy backroom dealings. No comment about the injuries on my face. Just blame.
I sucked a breath through my nose, held it for three counts, then closed the door. My ears strained for footsteps on the stairs.
"Eleanor, why do you keep insisting on pulling these stunts?"
"I've told you a thousand times, I prefer Anna."
"Your name is Eleanor after Eleanor Roosevelt." She barked the words. "It was the first of many gifts I've given you that you stuck your nose up at."
"What do you want?" My fingers curled into fists, my knuckles pushing against the blanket fabric.
She looked around with puckered lips. "How can you live like this? It's so dim and old. Practically a crack house."
"The rent's affordable, and the drug dealer down the street is actually friendly." I frowned, trying to ease the tension headache forming.
"Your jokes aren't funny. What if a reporter heard you say that?"
"A reporter in my home?" My voice pitched higher than I intended. "Then we'd be taking them to court."
"I don't understand why you're wasting yourself in that dingy music store."
"Because the corner already has a drug dealer." I was done. Done with this conversation, done trying to win her love.
She narrowed her eyes, lips pursed, waiting for me to cave like I always did.
"If you keep holding your lips like that, it's going to deepen those wrinkles. Botox only does so much."
Her eyes blazed, but she stopped pursing her lips.
"Look." I pushed past her and sat on my couch with my plate and coffee, listening for any sound beyond my door. "I don't want you here, and you don't want to be here, so why don't you just get to the point?"
She stared at me for a long minute. Something flickered across her features—for a second, that little girl inside me hoped it was approval.
"I'm going to need you to fuck him."
I almost choked on my pancake.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Darius Ivanov. I need you to fuck him. Keep him distracted until the vote later today."
"Are you serious? You're actually trying to whore your own daughter out?"
"Don't be melodramatic, Eleanor. It's just sex. An Irish syndicate offered me significantly more money to vote down the bill and restructure it in their favor. It's just politics."
I bit my tongue. No, it was dirty politics. Worse—she was trying to whore me out to the Russian mob so she could cash in with the Irish.
I waited for the cold numbness to creep over me like it always did. That passive survival instinct I'd honed for years, telling me to shut up and take the abuse until she left.
It didn't come.
That hollow place in my heart was filled with fiery rage now.
Darius had killed the scared little girl who just wanted to make her mother proud.
I was done being pushed and pulled around.
"Absolutely not. This is your fault. You've been playing both sides of the fucking mob. It's your fault I was kidnapped from work. It's your fault I have a bomb strapped around my neck."
My hands flew to my throat to grab the necklace.
Nothing.
Fuck. I'd forgotten Darius had taken it off.
My mother's gaze followed my hand. Her lips lifted in a slow, calculating smile.
She knew I was no longer under threat. Not that it had bothered her much before.
She raised a condescending eyebrow. "Well, it seems my request has come a little late. I see my dutiful daughter has already taken matters into her own hands."
My cheeks heated. "It's not what it looks like."
She strolled toward me, balancing on her hideous orange shoes in her chartreuse Armani pantsuit, and patted my cheek.
"You've been a big help to Mommy."
She left with a cackle, and the heated anger turned to frigid fear.
She was going to use this. I just didn't know how.