13. Nina #2
He sees that on my face. “I’m not sure yet,” he adds. “That’s why I brought in the lawyers immediately.”
“Not because you thought it might be true?”
His gaze holds mine. “No.”
I want to believe him. I hate how badly I want to believe him. “You looked very calm.”
“I was calculating.”
“That’s such a romantic answer.”
“I was not trying to romance her.”
I go quiet.
He resumes moving, slower now, almost absent, but still inside me, still holding me. The intimacy of having this conversation like this should feel ridiculous. It doesn’t. It feels impossible to lie when our bodies are connected, and his forehead is nearly touching mine.
“There is something I’m missing,” he says. “The timing is wrong. Her behavior is strange.”
“You think someone sent her?”
“I think someone wants me distracted.”
A cold thread moves through the warmth in my body.
“By a pregnancy scandal?”
“By anything that makes me look careless.”
I think of Alina in the hallway, one hand on her stomach, voice bright and theatrical.
Baby, guess what?
I wince.
“She kissed you,” I say.
His eyes come back to mine. “I noticed.”
“I noticed too.”
“I know.”
“You were supposed to push her away faster.”
“I was surprised.”
“Luka Kazan, surprised by a woman. Historic.”
His mouth almost curves. “She moved quickly.”
“She has probably been trained by your schedule.”
“Nina.”
“What? I’m being helpful.”
“You are jealous.”
I stiffen. “I’m naked and letting you fuck me sideways. Choose your accusations carefully.”
He actually laughs.
Low, brief, rough, gone quickly because it pulls at his shoulder and makes him wince. I immediately soften despite myself.
“See? Idiot,” I say, touching the side of his face.
“Worth it.”
“Don’t be charming. I’m mad at you.”
“I know.”
He kisses me gently, and that kiss nearly derails the entire conversation. He makes a strange, choked sob and comes inside of me. I feel him gushing inside of me, and the throb makes me come hard. I squeeze him slightly as I ride the wave.
He pulls out carefully and looks down. The condom broke.
“It’s okay, I’ll take a morning after,” I tell him.
He doesn’t reply, and I don’t give him a chance to.
I pull my sweater back on and brush my teeth before bringing him some breakfast.
“I’m not an invalid,” he protests.
“Just shut up for a minute,” I say.
He looks at me over the edge of my chipped blue mug, one eyebrow lifting. “Good morning to you too.”
“It was a good morning until you started talking.”
“That was ten seconds ago.”
“Exactly. You ruined it quickly.”
He’s still in my bed.
That’s the part I’m trying very hard not to think about too directly, because if I think about it, I will start acting strange, and if I start acting strange, Luka Kazan will notice, and then he will look at me with that calm, unbearable face like he knows exactly where my thoughts are going.
He stayed.
All night. And then we fucked again. And the morning sex just makes it too goddamn real.
I place the plate on his lap.
He looks down at it.
Toast. Eggs. Sliced tomato. A little bowl of fruit because I’m not a monster.
His mouth tightens. “You cooked.”
“I heated and cut things.”
“You did not need to.”
“Correct,” I say. “I did not need to. I chose to. That’s usually how helping works.”
His gaze lifts to mine.
There’s something quieter in his face this morning, something less armored than usual. It makes me nervous. I prefer him arrogant and impossible. Arrogance gives me something to push against. This version of him, half-dressed in my sheets with sleep shadows under his eyes, feels far more dangerous.
He picks up the fork with his good hand.
It’s immediately awkward.
Not disastrous. Luka would rather chew glass than look helpless. But the movement pulls across his shoulder, and I see the tiny pause before he corrects his grip.
“Don’t,” he says.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say you look very independent.”
His eyes narrow.
I sit cross-legged at the foot of the bed with my own coffee and watch him struggle through one bite of eggs. “You know,” I say, “for a terrifying man, you are very bad at breakfast.”
“I have staff for breakfast.”
“Of course you do.”
“I have staff for most things.”
“That must be very hard for you.”
“It is a burden.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
His gaze shifts to my mouth.
The laugh dies a little.
Not because I’m embarrassed. Because I remember exactly what that mouth did last night. What we did. The room changes for half a second, and he knows it too because his expression stills, the fork forgotten in his hand.
“So about what you said earlier… about Alina,” I say trying to change the topic.
“What about it?” he asks.
“You’re saying she’s doing it intentionally?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what her motive is here.”
“Hmmm,” I say. “We need more information.”
“Yeah, I’m having her background checked,” he says.
“I have another idea,” I say, picking my phone up.
I open Instagram and type Alina Karelin into the search bar.
Luka watches from beside me, his back against my pillows, his shirt hanging open because of the bandage at his shoulder. He looks annoyed that I’m doing this, which only makes me more determined to continue.
“What are you looking for?” he asks.
“Just trust the process,” I tell him.
Alina’s profile comes up almost immediately.
Her display picture is a perfect close-up of her face, all glossy dark hair, soft mouth, and cheekbones that could cause structural damage. Her account is public, because women like Alina don’t live quietly. They perform privacy. There’s a difference.
I tap her profile.
The grid loads.
Champagne. Private jets. A yacht. A hotel balcony in Monaco. Flowers in white wrapping paper. A mirror selfie in a cream dress. A blurry dinner table with expensive cutlery. A hand holding a wine glass, captioned: some nights change everything
My stomach twists.
I hate her captions already.
Luka leans closer.
I glance at him. “Stop breathing like a prosecutor.”
“I’m looking.”
“You are hovering.”
“I’m injured. I cannot hover.”
I give him a look, but only because his proximity makes my belly do stupid things.
I scroll.
Most of Alina’s photos are exactly what I expect. Beautiful woman in beautiful places, pretending not to know she’s being photographed. There are comments from other women with white heart emojis, men with no shame, and at least three verified accounts who need to be banned from the internet.
Nothing useful.
I tap into her highlights.
There are too many of them. I scroll through her international trip highlights.
I keep scrolling, half angry and half ashamed of myself for being angry. I have no idea what I’m even looking for. Proof that she’s lying? Proof that he’s lying? Proof that I’m not a complete idiot for letting myself believe him?
Mostly, I’m just punishing myself with a beautiful woman’s Instagram, which is a very modern form of self-harm.
I tap into her highlights. There are too many.
I click the one that says Paris.
The first story is champagne being poured.
I tap. Oysters.
Tap. A bathroom mirror video.
Tap. White roses on a table.
Tap. A hallway outside the private rooms.
Tap. Alina laughing with two women I don’t recognize.
Tap. A blurry video of someone’s hand holding a dessert spoon.
Tap. Another hallway clip.
I keep going, bored now, annoyed, and already feeling stupid.
Then Luka’s hand closes suddenly around my wrist. “Stop.”
I freeze.
Not because he hurts me. He doesn’t. His grip is firm but careful.
Because his voice has changed.
I look over at him. “What?”
“Go back.”
I glance at the screen. “To what?”
“The last story.”
I tap back.
The video starts again. It’s only a few seconds long, ill-framed, the camera moving too quickly as Alina laughs near the private dining rooms. There are people in the background, mostly blurred. Waiters. A woman in silver. A man in a dark coat standing partly out of frame.
I see nothing important.
Luka does.
His whole body goes still.
The tired man in my bed disappears so completely it is frightening. His face empties first, then sharpens, as if whatever pain he was feeling has been pushed somewhere else. His eyes fix on the screen with a focus that makes my stomach tighten.
“What?” I ask.
“Play it again.”
I do.
Alina laughs.
The camera shifts. The man in the dark coat turns slightly.
The clip ends.
Luka says, “Again.”
I play it again, slower this time, dragging the bar back with my thumb.
“Pause there,” he says.
I pause.
The image is blurry, but the man’s profile is visible for half a second. Dark hair. Hard jaw. Expensive coat. One gloved hand near Alina’s wrist.
I look at the screen, then at Luka. “Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
Luka does not answer immediately. That scares me more than if he had sworn.
He takes the phone from me, zooms in, and stares at the paused frame. The picture gets grainier, but apparently, he sees enough.
His jaw tightens.
“Luka?”
He hands the phone back to me. “Roman Karpov,” he says.
The name means nothing to me.
I wait for the rest.
He gives me nothing.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “And am I supposed to gasp dramatically, or are you going to explain?”
His gaze stays on the screen. “He’s a rival.”
“A business rival?”
His mouth tightens. “Among other things.”
Among other things.
With Luka, that could mean anything from hostile acquisitions to bodies in rivers.