Chapter 18
Cassandra
Ilove that feeling when you finally figure something out. When the same problem you’ve tried over and over again, abandoned for hours, only to return and fail again, finally snaps together in your head with the same gratification of undoing a knot with a single tug.
Don’t get me wrong, I hate math. It never comes easily to me.
But in my Freshman year accounting class, I finally figured out how to defeat failure with consistency.
Conquer ignorance with practice. I’ve decided it utilizes the same mentality as the gym: train to failure.
Then go home, sleep, cry, and get back in there the next day to do just one more rep than the last.
As I analyze the financial data for my final accounting class in the four-year-long series, I enjoy the small pinches of gratification I feel every time I figure something out on my own or surprise myself by recognizing a trend.
Each calculation feels like another weapon in my arsenal—another tool to ensure I’ll never be powerless again.
I didn’t go into business because I thought I would be good at it.
I didn’t even go into it thinking I’d absolutely love it and find my passion in life.
The truth is, I had this undeniable burn to understand the financial system that always seemed to hold my mom and me captive by shitty men who told us they knew better.
I craved financial fluency the way other teenagers craved adulthood, like it would unleash this world of freedom from our constricted lives.
Money is power, and I refuse to be powerless ever again.
Though many of my peers have no idea what they want to do after college, I’ve always had the same clear-cut plan: Get a decent job, work all the hours I can, send mom enough money so that she can extract herself from my pig of a stepfather, and then re-pay all the debt I racked up in my teens by trying to help cover our bills.
I finish the final write-up and send in the file, closing my computer with a satisfying click. Maybe one day, I’ll run a business of my own. I’d love to point to something I created from the ground up and say, fuck yeah, that was all me. Something no one could take away from me.
Checking the time on my phone, I realize it’s already 4:30 PM. Only an hour and a half until Mikhail picks me up for dinner. The thought alone causes quite the crash of conflicting emotions, the desperate drum of anxiety battling against my preening excitement and anticipation.
The way I feel towards him is so strangely unfamiliar.
I don’t usually like spending time with anyone, besides Sophia and my mom.
Especially when it comes to men. I’ve gone on a few dates throughout my time at college, slept with a guy from my writing class my sophomore year, but I never felt a thing towards the other person.
I always have to remind myself to close my eyes when someone kisses me, to initiate physical contact with the other person.
It always feels so unnatural and alien, like I have to pretend that I feel anything but the cool, awkward indifference that hits my senses.
For some reason, though, Mikhail doesn’t feel like a stranger to me.
I’m not scared of the idea of touching him or being vulnerable in his hands.
He feels like someone I’ve known for years, an intimate protector who’s always been lingering in the background, waiting to be tapped in.
And I know that natural urge to trust is a dangerous thing.
Sure, I’m still mad that he was tracking my location behind my back, and even more mad that he thought he could call me out on not being home like a helicopter parent.
But I’ve had some time to process his apology and the context of our second meeting.
I can understand why he’d be worried about something happening to me after I was publicly drugged, not even a week before.
Still, understanding doesn’t equal trusting. And I’m not sure I can trust someone who thinks monitoring me is acceptable—even if part of me finds his protectiveness intoxicating.
It’s been a long time since someone was worried about me like that.
Yeah, my mom worries, but I think some part of her knows that any trouble I could get into out here will probably pale in comparison to the shit I’d be dealing with if I stayed in that house with her, absorbing bad moods and the occasional beating at the whim of the man whose name lines the lease.
Sophia, on the other hand, practically cheers when I do something adventurous and new, knowing how hard it is for me to come out of my shell and have new experiences.
Damn, I love that girl.
I twinge with shame, remembering that I didn’t tell her about that night we went out to Empire.
And that I can’t call her and tell her about Mikhail for the same reason.
I don’t want to feed her bits and pieces when she deserves nothing less than the full truth.
I’m just not ready to give that to her, yet.
Thankfully, Veronica isn’t home, and I’m able to take a long, uninterrupted shower and blow-dry my hair. Then I find myself frozen at my closet door, wondering what the hell one wears to dinner with a man like Mikhail.
I settle on a flowy black dress with a simple, sweetheart neckline and a slit up the thigh. I’m hoping he won’t make me stand out in the cold for long, but at least I can wear my long black jacket with the dress.
I spend longer than usual applying my makeup, adding a darker lip with deep, red liner that looks incredible against my pale, winter skin. I’m just finishing my curl routine when my phone chimes with a text.
He can’t already be here, can he?
I rush to the window and split the blinds, peeking down at the driveway. Sure enough, my dinner date emerges from a sleek, black car, dressed in a crisp, black button-down that hugs his muscular frame in a way that should be illegal.
I jump into action, throwing my lipstick into my purse alongside my phone and wallet. The knock at the door sounds while I’m still upside-down, desperately trying to fluff up my hair and calm my frazzled nerves. I storm over and open the door.
I’ve always thought Mikhail was handsome as hell, but seeing him now, standing at my door with his hands tucked casually into his slacks, his beautiful dark hair waving back from his brow, is something else entirely. I practically have to shake myself free from the sight.
“Hello, Menace.” He smirks, gaze dipping down my body.
“You’re early.” I accuse, frowning. The corner of his lips curls up, revealing the cutest dimple dotting his cheek.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait,” he laughs, eyes meeting mine once more. “Will you forgive me?”
“You’ll have to make it up to me,” I tell him, eyes catching on his bunched biceps in his sleek-looking shirt. Seriously, who looks like that? The man’s forearm is probably bigger than my entire head.
He catches my line of sight, making me flush pink from being caught in my shameless scrutiny.
“Demanding as ever, hm?”
As we walk to his car, he slowly slides his arm behind my lower back, dipping his head against my cheek.
“You look stunning, Menace.”
I flush again.
At this rate, it’ll be a miracle if I get through this night without turning red as a cherry every five minutes. I embrace the bite of the wind to cool my neck and slide into the passenger seat as he holds the door open for me.
“Where are we going, Mikhail?” I ask, stupidly. He curves his fingers around the wheel, rolling onto the road.
“Have you ever been to Batiste?”
I snort.
“No, but to be fair, that sounds like it’s way out of my tax bracket.”
“I’ve been meaning to check up on my new manager over there, so I thought we might as well go over and test their food as well. What do you think?”
I gape.
“You own a restaurant too?” I shoot him a look of shock. Seriously, what does he do for work? I know it’s not entirely above board, but it must not be completely illegal for him and his businesses to be so exposed to the public eye. Right?
We hold light conversation during the forty-minute drive into the city.
He asks me about my classes, my professors, my study habits—an endless stream of questions that feel more like an interrogation disguised as interest. When I try to turn the conversation back to him, he deflects with another question about me, his responses vague and carefully neutral.
It’s a bit frustrating after the promises he made me about trying to open up, but I understand that trust takes time to grow. I suppose I have my own secrets I’m not ready to voice, either.
It feels like such a long drive on a first date should be awkward, and it probably would be if I were with literally anyone else. With Mikhail, everything feels so incredibly natural, even if I’m starting to notice he’s not giving me much in return.
In no time at all, we’re rolling up to a beautiful wall of floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
The restaurant is a completely different environment from Empire.
Instead of the dark debauchery vibe of the club, everything in here is bright and open.
Each table has its own dimly-lit sconce, separated just far enough to provide a sense of intimacy to every section.
The wall parallel to the window is a deep, red brick, and vines spread across each crevice to cover the surface.
The waiter leads us directly to the back of the restaurant without saying a word, and Mikhail’s hand ghosts against the small of my back as my gaze runs over every beautiful detail we pass. When I look over to Mikhail, he’s already watching me with rapt attention.
“What do you think?” He suddenly asks, genuine curiosity lining his gaze.
“It might be the most beautiful place I’ve ever been,” I respond, truthfully. I can’t imagine how it would feel to create such an amazing place.