Chapter 31
chapter
thirty-one
My brain scrambled for a way to react—to laugh, to dodge, to rationalize—but I just sat, stunned and raw.
My body believed him.
I pulled back just enough to see him. Put my hands on either side of his face, thumbs warm against his jaw. His eyes didn’t flicker. Didn’t hedge. He held my gaze, open and unguarded.
I leaned in and kissed him. Slow, deep, deliberate.
Luka met me with equal force, hands locking around my hips, pulling me closer until the ache in my chest folded into relief.
There was no music, no cinematic lighting, just the wheeze of the fridge and the purr of Atlanta traffic leaking through the kitchen window.
But the moment felt, for once, like enough.
A shrill, digital ping shattered the air.
We both jerked. Luka stilled, then blinked hard, focusing on the middle distance.
“What was that?” I asked, heat prickling up my neck as I pulled away.
He was already in motion, scooping up his discarded underwear and jeans from the floor and yanking them on.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, sitting bare-chested at the kitchen table, firing off keystrokes.
I pulled on my panties and shirt, not bothering with a bra—I wasn’t entirely sure where it had landed anyway—and crossed over to him.
He was staring at the center monitor, lips pinched into a thin line, blue glare slicing the angles of his face.
The scrolling field of windows reflected in microcosm across the orbits of his eyes.
“Luka, what is it?”
He looked up at me.
“Richard is dead.”
The words hung in the air of my kitchen, heavy as wet laundry. I had to puncture the silence just to be sure I’d heard right. “What did you just say?”
Luka didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Richard is dead.”
The fridge’s compressor cycled on—a high-pitched whine—while I tried to parse the implications. I glanced at the monitor, but it was all code and staccato news tickers. “Dead how?”
He pressed a key. The window shifted to the BBC homepage. A stoic professional headshot of Richard stared back at me. The key points of the article were bulleted at the top of the text.
Richard Montgomery, 57, found dead at his London residence, police confirm.
Hallstrom Group in shock as CEO dies by apparent suicide.
Montgomery’s death comes after numerous allegations of sexual misconduct. He had been asked to resign as CEO of Hallstrom Group, a prominent international brokerage firm headquartered in London.
This story is developing.
I walked into the living room and dropped onto the couch. My hands were numb. I clenched and unclenched my fists, trying to get the blood to move.
I wanted to say something profound, something that matched the magnitude of the moment, but all I could manage was, “Shit.”
Luka’s chair creaked in the kitchen. “Why?” It wasn’t a challenge—just a pure, simple question, like he was asking why the sky bothered being blue.
I stared at the ceiling, tracing the abstract stamped pattern in the plaster. “I didn’t—” My throat tightened, and the roof of my mouth felt like sandpaper. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes and tried again. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”
Luka’s footsteps were soft, padding across the kitchen tile, then the living room rug. He didn’t touch me—just stood close enough that I could feel his presence working the air.
The words on the screen kept looping in my skull: dead at his London residence, apparent suicide.
“Don’t.” Luka’s voice cut through the air, the sound so clean and cold it almost sanitized the room. “He didn’t deserve your energy before. He certainly doesn’t deserve it now.”
I caught his reflection in the dark television screen, a hollow-eyed figure in blue jeans, but what scared me most was the way his face had already reset itself, smoothing over like a pond after a stone.
I sat there, wound tight as a coil, watching Luka’s shadow tangle in the muddy gray light of my living room. My stomach was a pit, hollow and bottomless.
Luka didn’t try to comfort me, didn’t crowd me with platitudes. He just stood at the edge of the rug, arms folded, gaze fixed on me. Finally I found my voice, but it came out as a rasp. “Can I ask you something?”
He nodded.
“You have to promise you won’t get pissed.”
The corners of his mouth pulled up, but the smile died before it could surface. “Ask.”
“Did you…” My lips stuck to my teeth. I tried again. “Did you have something to do with it?”
He snorted, but it sounded more like a cough. “You think I killed him?”
I shrugged.
He looked at me, his eyes clear and flat as glass. “I told you—I’m not an assassin.” The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, would have made me laugh if my insides hadn’t turned to paste. “I’m flattered you think I’m that capable. But I’ve been here, with you, every moment.”
“It’s not a joke.”
He shook his head, jaw flexing. “I’m not joking.”
“But did you—” My voice knotted. “I don’t know. Arrange something?”
Another dry, mirthless chuckle. “I’d have done it better.” He crouched down in front of me, elbows on his knees, so our faces nearly touched. “But rest assured, even if that were my game, death is a mercy I would never give to a man like that.”
I wanted to recoil—wanted to flinch from the cold certainty in his voice—but I couldn’t move. I just sat, knees knotted together, hands wrung tight on my lap.
Luka reached for my wrist, his grip gentle, tracing the faint blue web of veins. “Stay with me, mila.”
My head popped up. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I?”
With his other hand, he cupped my cheek and tapped my temple with his index finger. “In here. Stay with me.”
I nodded and leaned into his touch, exhaling through pursed lips.
“What do you need?” he asked.
I closed my eyes. When I opened them, he was staring intently, searching my face.
“It’s going to sound crazy,” I started.
He brushed his thumb along my jaw. “Say it anyway.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Pancakes.”
Luka pulled back a hair, eyebrows raised. “Pancakes?” He glanced at the clock. “At one in the morning?”
“I told you it would sound crazy. I think I just need the sugar.”
He pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist. “Then pancakes it is.”