Chapter Eight
Dawn
The soft hum of the city stirs outside my window, distant car horns and early morning traffic blending into a low, familiar background noise. Sunlight creeps through the blinds, warm against my bare skin as I shift beneath my blanket, stretching lazily.
I feel good. Rested. A rarity these days.
It’s been nearly two weeks since I started working for Nikolai, and I’ve already begun falling into a rhythm.
Early mornings, late nights—but the exhaustion doesn’t cling to me as much anymore.
The once-intimidating maze of hallways and endless departments has started to feel familiar, and even Nikolai's presence—dark and commanding—has become something I anticipate rather than brace for. We’ve even started becoming friendly.
What hasn’t changed is my apartment.
I exhale slowly, staring at the ceiling. The couch digs uncomfortably into my back, a silent reminder than I still haven’t bought a bed. Or a table. Or anything, really. It’s not that I can’t afford it—at least not technically. I still have some savings left. Not much, but enough.
And Nikolai's card burns a hole in my wallet, untouched. He’d told me to use it—for clothes, for furniture, for whatever I need. But swiping it for something expensive of my own accord, even for the things I really need, feels like a step I’m not ready for.
I sit up, reaching through squinted eyes for my phone on the floor, fingers fumbling until they close around the cool metal. I barely glance at the screen before swiping it open—just muscle memory, part of my routine.
But then, something flickers.
For a second, the screen glitches, a faint distortion like static on an old TV. A message notification pops up—but before I can even read who it’s from, it vanishes.
My brows knit together. I swipe down, opening my notifications.
Nothing.
I try my messages.
No new texts.
The hell?
I rub my thumb over the screen, like maybe that’ll fix something—like maybe I imagined it. It’s early. Maybe I’m just groggy.
After another second of confusion, I sigh and toss the phone back onto the couch. Not worth stressing over. Not when I have to get ready for work.
The steaming water cascades over my shoulders as I tilt my head back, fingers working conditioner through my hair. My muscles relax, the warmth sinking deep, soothing in a way I desperately needed after the past few days.
Then-
“Miss Carter?”
I blink, steam curling around me as I register the voice outside my bathroom door.
Nikolai.
My pulse jolts, heat prickling up the back of my neck—not from the shower, but from the unexpectedness of him being here. “Nikolai?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, my hands pressing on the slick tile.
There’s a pause before his voice lowers slightly, casual, amused. “I texted you. I said I’d pick you up in ten minutes.” A beat. “You should really lock your door.”
A chuckle follows—dark and lazy. Like he finds this entertaining.
I blink through the steam. I must’ve been so tired last night that I forgot to lock it. Nikolai and I had a late night in the office looking through files and sending out reports. I rub my fingers over my face, exhaling. “I was in the shower. I didn’t see it.”
Another small pause. Then—just the sound of retreating footsteps.
I let out a breath, shaking my head as I rush through the rest of my shower.
It’s not that weird, I tell myself. It’s Nikolai. He moves at his own pace, does what he wants. If he wants to walk into my apartment to fetch me, he will.
Still, there was something about the way his voice sounded through the door. A little too amused.
I towel off quickly, squeezing the water from my hair before stepping into the hallway.
And I pause.
Nikolai stands near my couch, hands in his pockets, surveying the room with a neutral expression. I follow his gaze, suddenly reminded of how bare it is.
His eyes flick back to me, dragging over the towel wrapped around my body before meeting my gaze again. “Not much of a decorator, are you, Miss Carter?”
I lift my chin, tilting my head slightly. “I’ve been busy.”
He hums like he doesn’t quite believe me. Then, as if he’s already decided something, he turns toward the couch.
That’s when I see it.
A sundress.
Neatly laid out, sky blue, the fabric catching the morning light in a way that tells me it’s expensive.
Too expensive.
I blink. “You bought me a dress.”
His lips twitch, like I’ve said something amusing. “You didn’t buy anything casual.”
I step closer, my fingers ghosting over the fabric. It’s soft, lightweight—the kind of material that would cling in all the right places.
This is not a work dress.
I glance up at him again, but his expression gives nothing away. Still, I feel it. The weight of his gaze. Watching.
I grip the dress, my voice staying light. “I guess I’ll get dressed then.”
His smirk deepens slightly, but he just nods. “Good girl.”
A small shiver slides down my spine at the words.
I turn quickly, heading to my bedroom before I can overthink it.
I step into the dress, smoothing it down over my hips.
It fits too well. Too perfectly.
The fabric clings just enough to hint at my curves but flows in a way that keeps it from being too much. The hem rests at mid-thigh, teasing just enough skin to be noticeable without looking intentional.
I grab a pair of simple sandals from the closet, slipping them on before taking a steadying breath.
When I step back into the living room, Nikolai is already watching.
His gaze drags over me slowly, taking his time—starting at my bare legs, lingering at my waist, before settling somewhere around my collarbone.
I shift under the attention, pressing my lips together.
He doesn’t say anything as he steps to me, towering over me.
His fingers lift, brushing the thin strap on my shoulder. I freeze.
“Fits well.” He murmurs.
I look up to meet his gaze. “You knew my size.”
The corner of his mouth tugs slightly. “I pay attention.”
He lets go of the strap and rests his hands in his pockets. “Ready?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Without another word, he turns for the door, expecting me to follow.
I do, and I try not to think too hard about the way my skin tingles where he touched it.
The drive stretches longer than I expect, taking us away from the city, away from the dense clusters of high-rises and constant movement.
The deeper we go, the quieter it gets.
I glance at Nikolai, but he's relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other arm resting on the console, perfectly at ease.
The car finally turns into a long, gated driveway, the entrance sleek and unmarked except for a security panel Nikolai barely glances at before inputting a code.
The gate slides open, revealing a stretch of untouched beach around the road.
At the end of the driveway, perched right against the shore, is a house.
Not some glass-walled mansion, just a beautiful, two-story beach house—warm, beige exterior, a large deck wrapping around the front, white trimmed windows, and a direct, unobstructed view of the ocean. The private beach stretches out beyond the house, completely empty.
Nikolai parks, stepping out smoothly, moving with the same effortless control he always does.
I follow, inhaling the salty ocean breeze, the quiet sound of waves crashing filling the space between us.
He unlocks the door, and we step inside.
The interior is comfortable, lived in. Hardwood floors, plush furniture, an open kitchen with a dark wood island, and the faint scent of salt and something deeper—his cologne, his scent—threaded into the air.
“This is yours?” I ask, my voice softer than I expect.
He gives a small nod, tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter. “One of them.”
Of course.
He continues, “This one is the least impressive, but I find it’s the best at relaxing me.”
Nikolai loosens his watch, setting it aside. Then, he moves past me heading down a short hallway and into a bedroom.
Without thinking, I call after him. “So, why are we here?”
The sounds of drawers opening and closing slips from the room.
“I just thought I’d rather work while staring at the ocean today. I felt like having some company.” He calls back.
I glance around the living room, taking in the beauty of the isolated space.
A moment later, Nikolai emerges. But—not how I expect.
His usual crisp, controlled look is gone.
Instead, he’s dressed in a plain black t-shirt and low-slung gray sweatpants.
No watch. No suit.
His bare feet move silently against the hardwood floor as he crosses the kitchen, rolling his shoulders like he’s finally relaxing into his natural state.
It jars me.
The change isn’t just visual—it’s in his posture, his movements. He looks… comfortable. At ease. I'm not used to that from him. This version of him feels too real. Too effortless.
I refocus. “What are we doing today?”
He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and takes a slow sip before answering. “Working.”
I blink. That’s it?
His gaze flicks to me, like he can hear my thoughts. Like he enjoys my confusion.
I cross my arms. “At a beach house?”
He shrugs. “I work better with a view.”
I glance toward the massive windows, where the endless ocean stretches beyond the deck. Sunlight glistens off the waves, the sky so blue it almost doesn’t look real.
Yeah. That’s a view, alright.
I let out a breath. It must be nice to own a beach house for when you need a change of scenery. “How many places do you own?”
Instead of answering, he simply smirks and takes another sip of water.
Before I can press further, he nods towards the back deck. “Go take a walk, Miss Carter.”
I blink. “What?”
He finishes off his water and throws it away, completely unbothered. “Enjoy the beach. You’ve been working hard the past week. That’s why I brought you here.”
I frown. “Is it?”
He didn’t say that. He said he needed company. And now he’s sending me off like I’m a distraction.
Still, the breeze carries the scent of salt and sun-warmed wood through the open doors, and outside, the waves roll in steady and rhythmic.
I hesitate. “And you?”