CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LILA
Kage steps out first, all sharp edges and cold indifference. Like he didn’t have a raging hard-on ten minutes ago, and then he sees her.
Natasha.
She glides toward him like temptation wrapped in silk, her emerald gown clinging to every curve.
Without hesitation, she lifts onto her toes and kisses him on both cheeks.
Her crimson-tipped fingers graze his chest and linger.
.. too long, too familiar. Not the kind of touch reserved for acquaintances, but one shaped by memory. By moans. By history.
Kage doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t resist. He leans in, his voice low and smooth, lips near her ear.
“Привет, красавица. Я скучал по тебе.”
My breath catches. Oh. So, he speaks Russian too. Of course he does.
I don’t know what he said, but it didn’t need a translation. Not with the way she smiles, the way his tone drops like velvet, the way her hand curls around his arm like she’s done it a hundred times. Like she belongs there. I feel it in my stomach. In my chest.
Jealousy, hot and bitter, is climbing up my throat. And the worst part? He hasn’t even looked at me. Not once.
Then her eyes flick to me. “And this must be your personal assistant.”
I part my lips to speak, but Kage cuts me off. “Until my main one returns from Europe, yes.”
Ouch .
She scans me from head to toe like I’m a smudge on her marble. Her lips curl into a smirk that doesn’t touch her eyes. She’s sizing me up like I’m a clearance-rack tragedy that somehow wandered into Chanel.
Then she loops her arm through his like she’s already won. And maybe she has.
Of course, she gets to touch him.
Kage has never touched me, not by accident, not by choice. Not even a brush of his fingers. Like my lower income bracket might rub off on his custom-fitted suit.
This is just like high school all over again.
He doesn’t look back. Not once. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m invisible. And maybe I am.
Her auburn hair flows in perfect waves down her bare back.
The emerald silk of her gown catches the light like it’s flirting with it.
She glances back with a knowing smirk. She knows she’s perfect.
She knows I’m not. And worst of all, she knows she could have him inside of her before noon if she wanted to.
My stomach knots. I can see it, her legs wrapped around him. His mouth on her throat. Her breathy little gasps as he grinds into her—
Lila. Pull yourself together. He’s a man. Not yours. Never was .
I trail behind like an afterthought, heels clicking on marble, trying not to dissolve into the floor. I didn’t expect today to feel like a public humiliation… but here we are.
The second I step inside, my breath catches in my throat. This isn’t a house. It’s a palace. Golden light spills through a chandelier so massive it could be its own solar system. The air smells like roses and old money. Like, even the oxygen is imported .
Two sweeping staircases curl up either side of the room, trimmed in intricate wrought iron, leading to an upper balcony that watches over the foyer.
Pillars line the hall like silent guards.
The floors are glassy, spotless, designed to reflect wealth.
And in the center lies an ornate mosaic, so breathtaking I feel unworthy to even set foot on it.
Then I look up. A domed ceiling stretches above us, painted in gold and soft pastels, crowned by a skylight so exquisite it looks like heaven itself. My jaw drops.
How am I supposed to act normal in a place like this? I feel like I should be dusting the chandeliers, not walking beneath them in Target heels.
I’m out of my depth. If you’ve never seen Anastasia, don’t bother.
Natasha is that Russian princess. I half expect her to glide down the staircase in slow motion, birds chirping, a full orchestra playing as she sings an ethereal welcome.
She doesn’t wear a crown, but she doesn’t need to.
The house is her crown. Her throne. Her spotlight. And she knows it.
And me? I’m just the dirt on her shoes.
I trail behind them like a lost, homeless puppy. They walk in sync, heads tilted toward each other, laughter spilling from their lips like it’s some private joke meant to remind me I don’t belong.
Wait… Did he smile at her?
No. Worse. A full-blown, teeth-baring, dimple-showing, earth-shattering smile.
I thought Kage might have a dimple, but that?
Dammit.
Just one glimpse, one godforsaken dimple, and butterflies explode in my lower belly like they’ve been waiting for permission. He just keeps getting more dangerous by the second .
Natasha leads us into a parlor room, and I swear my jaw unhinges. Everything looks like it was plucked from a French royal estate, soft cream and gold furniture, antique pieces that scream wealth. The kind of beauty that doesn’t try too hard because it doesn’t have to.
Tall arched windows pour warm morning light into the space, casting a soft, golden glow across the floor. It feels like we’ve stepped into an oil painting.
I freeze near the doorway, too scared to sit. Afraid to wrinkle something. Afraid my existence might somehow scuff the rug.
She gestures toward a couch for him to sit on. And then she does the worst thing possible. She looks at me. Not like a guest. Not like an equal. Like I’m the help. Like I’m a butler waiting to be dismissed. I almost turn around and walk out.
Almost.
Instead, I sit down. Purposefully. Planting myself in her perfect room, refusing to disappear. A reminder to Kage that I’m still here. Even if he doesn’t want me to be.
“Tasha,” he says smoothly, and my stomach flips. “I’m glad to see you again. I enjoyed our last dinner. And dessert.” He pauses, winks, then takes her hands in his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “But we need to discuss something serious. It’s about your brother.”
Tasha? He has a nickname for her, too? Perfect.
She sighs, dramatically, of course. “Well, if we’re going to talk about him, I’ll ask my chef to bring us some handcrafted coffee and pastries.” She turns, hips swaying like an invitation. And he watches her every move.
Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he?
“We don’t have much time before she gets back,” Kage mutters under his breath .
“What?” I blink, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”
“Listen,” he says, voice low and clipped. “I need you to disappear for a bit. Dismiss yourself and take the stairs up to the second floor. Turn left, third door on the right. That’s her office. Take this.” He slips a flash drive into my palm. “Plug it in. Download everything on her desktop.”
I stare at him like he’s grown two heads. “Are you insane? What if she catches me? She’s Russian royalty. She’ll have me buried in a forest or worse!”
“I’ll pay you triple while you work for me. And I’ll keep her occupied.” His lips curve into a smirk.
Oh God. What does that mean? Occupied how? Talking? Flirting? Sex?
Ugh. I’m going to be sick.
“The fact that you know where her office is…” I narrow my eyes.
He shrugs. “What’s it to you?” His granite green eyes stay unreadable. I cross my arms, pout already forming, but I don’t answer.
Because he’s right, what is it to me, and why do I feel hurt by that remark?
She re-enters, floating like she’s weightless, a tray of delicate treats balanced effortlessly between manicured hands.“Now, let’s begin,” she says sweetly. “We all need the strong stuff today since we are talking about that criminal.”
“Excuse me,” I say, rising from my seat. “Could you point me to the restroom? I also need to step away for a moment to make a few company calls.”
Her eyes light up like she is excited that I’m leaving.
Bitch.
She slides into the seat beside him, her hand settling on his chest. “It’s in the foyer,” she purrs. Her eyes linger as she rakes them slowly over Kage. “And honey… take your time. We have plenty to catch up on.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, dismissing myself from this absolute nightmare.
Kage doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m here. He doesn’t even blink.
I turn and walk out, but every step feels wrong. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want her touching him. I don’t want him touching her. I don’t want to imagine his hands roaming her body or the way she will lean in close, whispering in Russian.
I don’t want to imagine it, but I do. The thought clings to me, vivid and cruel. My steps slow, each one heavier than the last, the hallway stretching ahead like a tunnel with no end. Just as I reach the grand staircase, my phone buzzes in my pocket. A text. From an unknown number.
UNKNOWN: Don’t mess this up, Lila.