18. Luka
LUKA
The diary burns faster than I expect.
For something Nina worked on for months, it disappears in minutes.
She stands beside my desk with her arms folded, pretending she is not affected, but I can see it in the way she keeps glancing at the fire, in the way her mouth tightens whenever another page curls into black.
She is angry at me for destroying it. She’s angry at herself for caring.
She is probably angry that some part of her feels relieved.
I understand that better than she thinks.
There were things in that notebook I deserved to see and things I had no right to see.
Her neat handwriting. Her irritated side comments.
Her attention to details I never asked her to notice, or maybe I did, just not honestly.
The names of women I used as cover for the one woman I could not stop watching.
I should’ve ended that system before she ever had to make a diary for it.
I should’ve stopped taking women to dinner the first time I sat across from one and thought about Nina standing outside my office with a pencil in her hair and annoyance in her eyes.
I should’ve had more discipline.
Last night proved I have none where she’s concerned.
I look at her now, at the careful distance she has put between us in my office, at the way she holds herself like she is one bad decision away from either slapping me again or kissing me again, and my mind goes back to the closet with a force that makes my hand tighten around the edge of the desk.
Her back against the shelf. Her skirt in my hand.
Her fingers in my hair while she tried to stay quiet.
The way her body tightened around me when I put my mouth on her breast, the way she bit down on a sound when footsteps passed outside the door, the way she looked at me afterward, furious and flushed and too beautiful for any good sense I had left.
I pull my thoughts back before my face gives me away.
Nina already catches too much.
“You’re doing that thing,” she says.
I look at her. “What thing?”
“Thinking something and looking like it should be classified.”
“It is classified.”
“Gross.”
“You don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I can guess.”
Her cheeks warm after she says it, which tells me her guess is correct.
Good.
I step away from the fireplace and go to my desk. “The gala is Saturday.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“You’ll need a dress.”
Her eyes narrow immediately. “I own dresses.”
“Not for this.”
“That’s an arrogant thing to say.”
“It’s an accurate thing to say.”
She gives me a look that would make a weaker man reconsider.
I open my top drawer, take out a black credit card, and hold it out to her.
She stares at it. Then at me. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No, Luka.”
“Nina.”
“I’m not taking your card.”
“You need a dress.”
“I have money.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you handing me that like I’m about to go shopping for my first pair of shoes?”
“Because if you attend with me, you don’t pay,” I say simply.
“I’m attending as executive staff, remember?”
“That excuse only needs to work for other people.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. The card remains between us. “I’m not your girlfriend,” she says, quieter now.
“No.”
Something flickers in her face.
I add, “I’m not giving this to a girlfriend. I’m giving it to the woman I’m taking with me.”
She looks down at the card again, as if touching it will start some binding contract neither of us can escape.
Maybe it will. Maybe that is why I want her to take it.
“You said you don’t want people thinking I bought my place beside you,” she says.
“I said I understand that.”
“Then do you see the problem with giving me a credit card?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I still want you to have what you need.”
“I can buy my own dress.”
“I know you can.”
“Then let me.”
“No.”
Her eyes flash. “We literally just had a conversation about you making decisions for me.”
“I’m not deciding. I’m offering.”
“You’re holding the card like an order.”
I turn it around between two fingers and place it on the desk instead of in her hand. “Then take it or leave it.”
“That’s manipulative.”
“You’re free to walk away.”
She looks at the card for another second. Then she snatches it off the desk. “I’m doing this under duress.”
“Noted.”
“And I’m not buying something ridiculous.”
“You should buy something you like.”
“That sounded dangerously normal.”
“I can take it back.”
“Too late.” She slips the card into her bag like it might bite her.
I should leave it there. I should return to the garage files, to Karpov, to the car that dropped Misha at her building, to Alina.
“Go,” I say.
“I still have work.”
“Do it from home.”
“No.”
I give her a look.
She gives it back. “I’m not disappearing from the office in the middle of the day after being seen with you,” she says. “That defeats the entire point of the rules.”
“You were just in my office.”
“Because you kidnapped my diary.”
“I did not kidnap it.”
“You burned it alive.”
“It was paper.”
“It had feelings.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“I know. It’s part of my charm.”
It is. Unfortunately.
I am in a meeting when Nina sends the first photo.
That alone tells me she is doing it on purpose.
The boardroom is full, half the men at the table pretending they are not afraid of the numbers in front of them, the other half pretending they understand them better than they do.
Pavel stands near the wall. Dima is by the door.
Meredith is taking notes at the far end with her usual calm expression.
My phone lights up beside my folder.
Nina: Since you suddenly have opinions about my wardrobe, approve or reject?
I open it.
The photo is taken in a fitting room mirror.
Nina is wearing a black dress.
Simple. Expensive-looking but not loud. Thin straps. Clean neckline. Tight through the waist and hips, with a slit high enough that I immediately forget what the man across from me is saying.
Her hair is pulled to one side. Her face is mostly hidden by the phone. Her bare leg is angled slightly forward, either by accident or because she knows exactly what she is doing.
I know which one it is.
I put the phone face down.
The man across from me says, “So if we move the acquisition timeline by six weeks, the exposure becomes manageable.”
“No,” I say.
He stops.
Everyone at the table looks at me.
I pick up my pen. “You are moving risk, not reducing it. Continue.”
He clears his throat and continues.
My phone vibrates again.
I wait ten seconds before turning it over.
Nina: That bad?
I type under the edge of the table.
Luka: Turn around.
A pause.
Then:
Nina: Excuse me?
Luka: I want to see the back.
Nina: This is not how normal dress approval works.
Luka: It is how mine works.
Across the table, someone starts discussing cash flow. I do not care. I keep my eyes on the report and my attention on the phone in my hand.
Nina: Are you in a meeting?
Luka: Yes.
Nina: Luka.
Luka: Turn around, Nina.
The reply takes longer this time.
Then the next photo comes in.
She has turned sideways in the mirror, body twisted enough to show the back of the dress. It dips low, not indecently, but low enough that I can see the clean line of her spine and the curve of her waist. The dress hugs her ass.
I stare at the photo for one second too long.
Pavel shifts near the wall.
He sees everything. Unfortunately.
I lock the phone and look back at the table. “Page eleven.”
The CFO blinks. “Sorry?”
“Your mistake is on page eleven.”
He flips quickly.
My phone vibrates again.
Nina: Well?
I type without looking at Pavel.
Luka: Buy it.
Nina: That was fast.
Luka: Buy it before I change my mind and tell you not to wear it in public.
Nina: That sounds very bossy.
Luka: It was meant to.
Nina: You realize I’m not one of your girlfriends from the diary, right? You can’t just approve dresses and issue commands.
Luka: The diary is gone. And you’re the only one left.
Nina: Fine. What about this one?
The next photo is worse.
Deep green. Sleek. Off one shoulder. Tighter than the black one. The fabric clings to her breasts and waist, and the slit is lower, but the neckline makes up for it. The dress looks elegant. It also makes me think of my hands under it.
I sit back slowly.
Luka: No.
Nina: No?
Luka: No.
Nina: Why?
Luka: Because if you wear that, I will not make it through the gala.
Nina: That sounds like a you problem.
Luka: It will become your problem in the car.
Nina: You can’t text me that while I’m in a fitting room.
Luka: You sent me the photo.
Nina: For approval.
Luka: I gave it.
Nina: You said no.
Luka: That was restraint.
She does not answer immediately.
I glance at the time.
The meeting has twenty minutes left. I could end it in five if I stopped pretending patience is still available to me.
Nina: What exactly would happen in the car?
I stare at the message.
Then I look up.
The legal adviser is still speaking.
I interrupt him. “Send the revised draft by morning.”
He closes his mouth.
“We are done here,” I say.
The room goes quiet.
Pavel looks at me like he knows exactly why I am ending this early.
Meredith pauses with her pen over the notebook.
I stand. “Leave the files.”
Chairs move.
Men gather papers.
Nobody argues.
When the room starts emptying, I pick up the phone again.
Luka: Are you alone?
Her reply comes while I walk toward my office.
Nina: In the fitting room, yes.
Luka: Lock the door.
Nina: It’s a curtain.
Luka: Then keep your voice down.
Nina: My voice?
Luka: You asked what would happen in the car.
I enter my office and close the door.
Nina: I did ask.
Luka: Then I would put my hand under that dress.
No answer.
I wait.
Luka: Are you still wearing it?
Nina: Yes.
I exhale slowly, imagine taking it off.
Luka: Put your hand under the dress.
Nina: Luka.
Luka: Do it.
Nina: Someone could walk past.
Luka: Then be quiet.
Nina: Okay.
My grip tightens around the phone.
Luka: Over the underwear.
Nina: Bossy.
Luka: Wet?
Another pause.
Longer.
Nina: A little.
I smile despite myself.
Luka: Liar.
Nina: Fine.
Luka: Fine what?
Nina: Yes.
The single word hits hard.
I turn from the window and walk to my desk because standing still is useless. I loosen my tie with one hand.