Chapter 22
LYRA
An hour later, I’m at my desk, pretending to work.
Multiple spreadsheets are on my laptop screen. I need to work—the event is coming up soon, and there’s a mountain of stuff to be done.
But all I can think about is one person.
Julian.
Every time I try to gather what little focus I have, I end up closing my eyes and going right back to the moments in his office—me on my knees in front of him, then bent over the desk as he brought me to a third, overwhelming orgasm.
I can still taste him on my tongue, that delicious, salty musk. How the hell is a girl supposed to get any work done with a boss like that? And that’s to say nothing of the way he held me after, the care I needed but didn’t have to explain to him.
It’s after six. The last stragglers are packing up, monitors going dark as the building settles into its nighttime quiet.
I should go home. I could shower, slip into something comfy, and try to distract myself from the fact that I just had furious, earth-shattering sex with a man whom I’d spent all morning being horrified by.
The horrified part hasn’t gone away. It’s just sharing space with something else.
My phone rings. It’s Mom.
“Mama?”
“Baby.”
One word and I know. I can tell by her tone—it’s the one she uses when something is wrong.
“It’s your father.”
“What happened?”
“Dr. Broussard called, said his numbers are worse. A lot worse. They want to move the surgery up to this week or—” She stops and takes a deep breath. “He says if we wait any longer, the risk goes up significantly.”
She doesn’t need to say what kind of risk.
“What does he recommend?” It takes all the effort I have to keep my voice from breaking.
“He said he wants your father in pre-op by Thursday, at the latest.”
I swallow hard. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll try to come tonight.”
“Lyra, are you kidding? A flight from New York to here at this short of notice, the cost—”
“I have it. I promise, Mama. I have it.”
At least, I hope I do. I have most of it. The rest I’ll figure out on the plane or in the cab. I’ll figure it out because that’s what I do. There’s no other option.
We say our goodbyes and I hang up, sitting for a few moments to let it sink in.
When I’m ready, I shut down my laptop and gather my things. I walk down the corridor, surprised a bit to see light coming from Julian’s office. Soft conversation flows through the doorway.
It’s not unheard of for Julian to have meetings in his office, but after hours is odd. Either way, he needs to know what’s going on, that I’ll be out of touch for a few days while I check in on my dad.
My stomach tightens as it always does whenever I approach his office. I don’t knock since the door is already open. I crane my head and look in.
I count six men besides Julian. All of them are seated or standing in a loose semicircle around his desk. They wear dark suits and have heavy builds.
I recognize three of them from the gala—syndicate affiliates, mid-level, the ones who represent the bigger bosses who actually run things. I don’t recognize the other three, and it unsettles me.
Julian sits behind his desk. He’s speaking in Russian in a rapid cadence I’ve never heard from him. He looks up when I appear in the doorway, our eyes locking.
I see the shift for just a second, a familiar warmth surfacing in those gunmetal grays, reminding me of what we shared not even two hours ago. Then it’s gone in the literal blink of an eye, leaving a CEO, a Bratva heir, a man among killers.
I have to talk to tell him about my father.
“Julian, I—”
“Not now, Lyra.” His tone is flat and final. “Whatever you need, it can wait. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”
One of the men glances in my direction. It’s a quick and total dismissal, like I’m some clueless secretary that wandered into the wrong meeting.
My dad is dying. The words are right there, ready to be spoken. But I stay silent.
“Yeah. Sure. In the morning.”
I walk back to my desk in a daze.
I think about texting him, telling him that my father might not survive the week and I’m leaving tonight.
Instead, I open a blank document and type a note—it’s short and professional.
Julian,
My dad’s condition has worsened. I need to fly to New Orleans for his surgery. I’ll be gone the rest of the week. All fundraiser materials are up to date, and Anya has access to everything she needs. I’ll touch base when I can.
—Lyra
My first instinct is to email it, but I need him to see it ASAP. So I print it and head back to Julian’s office. The door’s shut now, the voices behind it loud and overlapping. It sounds like an argument or a heated negotiation.
I slide the note under the door, then I take an Uber home. Once there, I book a flight online, departing at 9:20 p.m. from La Guardia. I pack a bag in a daze, wondering if I’m being watched, wondering where Julian really fits into my life.
Before I know it, I’m in the back of another Uber, headed to the airport.
The dam breaks and I start to cry. I should know better by now.
Hell, I do know better.
And that’s the worst part.