3. Seoul Ties
Seoul Ties
Natalia
Rafe picks us up from the airport, and even he does a double take when he sees me, which is saying something because Rafe is surrounded by every variety of beautiful celebrity on earth and has built up a frankly terrifying immunity to women in tight clothing.
He doesn’t comment, but the corner of his mouth pulls like he’s trying very hard not to say, what the hell are you wearing to a hotel lobby in Seoul? Perfect, let him worry.
Once I’m in my room, I give myself twenty minutes to prepare for dinner, also known as Operation Kill Kiri Chhim.
Just enough time to freshen up, wipe off the layer of airplane grime, and rebuild myself into the weapon I designed for this exact moment.
I roll the shorts higher, snap the stockings back into place, engineer my cleavage with this god-tier push-up bra designed for strategic warfare, redo my makeup until it’s lethal, and restyle my hair into something seductive.
I adjust my shapewear, check that my curves sit exactly where they should, and head for the lobby.
The elevator ding is still echoing for whoever just got on when I round the corner and see him.
Kiri.
He’s standing with Rithy, leather jacket slung open, hair longer than when we used to talk, almost brushing his eyes now.
He flicks it away with those tattooed hands I know far too well from every high-definition image of him playing bass online.
Hands I’ve zoomed in on more times than I’d ever admit, rings catching the light as he moves, and seeing them in person does something inconvenient to my body.
For one moment, before he sees me, he looks infuriatingly relaxed, like a man with no conscience.
A man who didn't spend months crawling into my phone at midnight and then vanishing behind guilt and brotherhood and whatever heroic self-denial bullshit he tried to pass off as genuine. Then his eyes lift to me.
His reaction is small, that’s the most irritating part. He doesn’t give me the full satisfaction of freezing in place. He doesn’t stumble or let his jaw drop. Nothing obvious enough for me to point at and say, there, there you are, you liar.
But I see it, the slight pause in his hand before it drops from his hair.
The way his shoulders go still under the leather.
The microscopic tightening around his mouth before he smooths it away.
His eyes cut over me once, quick and disciplined, like he’s checking a room for exits and not looking at the woman he once claimed he couldn’t stop thinking about.
Then he looks away, trying to pretend that I'm nothing. Acting like this outfit didn’t just walk into the hallway with a knife between its teeth. My smile grows before I can stop it.
Oh, so that’s how we’re playing it.
Kiri says something to Rithy, then leans back against the wall with one boot crossed over the other. A perfectly casual little portrait of masculine indifference. The bastard even takes out his phone, as if there's anything on that screen more interesting than me. We both know that's a lie.
We’ve all decided we’re far too cool and unbothered for formal introductions. Everyone just stands around pretending every person in this room is of absolutely no importance whatsoever. Which, naturally, means we're all paying attention to everything.
I press the elevator button even though it’s already lit up. “Rithy. Kiri.”
Rithy’s grin arrives immediately, bright with disaster. “Natalia.”
Kiri glances up from his phone just long enough to nod. “Nat.”
Nat, as if he has the right to shorten my name, like we're still friends. Rage begins to build inside of me and I want to kick him. I want to make him regret having a face as I grind my heeled boot into it, but he'd probably enjoy that too much.
Instead, I tilt my head and give him the kind of smile that could ended careers, marriages, and a few political campaigns. “Long flight?”
His thumb moves over his screen, pointlessly. I can see he's not texting anyone. He's pretending to text someone, which might be the most pathetic and satisfying thing anyone has ever done in front of me.
“Long enough,” he says.
Perfectly smooth, except his voice is lower than it should be and he hasn’t blinked in three seconds.
I glance again and notice the screen of his phone has gone dark, but he’s still staring at it like a good Catholic waiting for God to text back.
Rithy watches us like he’s found free entertainment with his meal.
His eyes flick from Kiri to me, then down to the elevator button, then back to Kiri’s dead phone.
His mouth twitches. I press the button again.
“Pressing it again doesn’t actually make it arrive faster, you realize?” Rithy says, leaning against the wall.
I smirk without taking my eyes off the glowing number above the doors. “Gives me something to do with my hands. I’m a tactile woman.”
Rithy’s grin turns wicked, mischief dancing in his eyes. “I bet.”
Kiri makes a sound so small I nearly miss it. Something between a laugh and a cough, caught in the back of his throat before he kills it.
I glance over, sweet as poison. “Something funny?”
He looks up then, bad idea. For both of us.
Because he may be pretending very hard not to care, but his eyes betray him before his face can catch up.
They land on mine first, he's restrained, noble, almost. Then they drop, just enough. Enough to skim, to measure what I’ve done to myself and what I know I’m doing to him.
I watch the heat pass over his expression and then it vanishes as quickly as it arrived.
His mouth tightens. “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
The word is flat, controlled. A door closing, except his fingers flex once around the phone.
Bullseye.
Kiri
The elevator dings and Natalia steps inside without looking back.
The whole point of that outfit is the not looking back.
It says everything for her. The shorts, the stockings, the makeup, the little angle of her hip like she woke up this morning and chose psychological warfare.
It’s not subtle, it’s not supposed to be.
I’ve seen hot women before. That’s the thing.
I’ve seen every possible category of hot woman.
Model-hot, actress-hot, rich-girl-hot, dangerous backstage-pass hot.
I’ve had women show up half-dressed in places that would get normal people arrested, and I’ve managed to maintain basic brain function.
So this should be fine.
This is fine.
Rithy raises an eyebrow at me.
“You good, bro?”
I force a breath through my nose and scrub a hand over my face. “I'm fine. Shut up.”
He grins, immediately thrilled, because apparently the bastard was born with a sixth sense for when I’m about to ruin my own life.
We step into the elevator and the space instantly feels too small.
That’s not because of her. It’s an elevator.
Elevators are small, that’s the design. That’s how buildings work.
I'm not about to blame how small elevators feel on Natalia Sawadzka.
She stands to my right, close enough that her perfume hits me before the doors finish closing.
Something fruity and warm. Peach, maybe.
Vanilla underneath it. Sweet, but not childish.
Expensive, probably. Strategic, definitely.
I stare at the floor numbers. Good plan.
Great plan. I can survive numbers. Then she adjusts beside me, barely a movement, and the scent changes with her body heat.
It comes up softer now, skin-warm, and my brain, because it's determined to betray me, supplies the thought that she smells like something I'd love to taste.
I've had a long flight. I'm tired, hungry and standing in an elevator with a woman I used to talk to at ridiculous hours like an idiot. She's decided to come down here dressed like one of my wet dreams just to fuck with me. That’s all this is. Basic biology. Definitely nothing worth rearranging my entire nervous system over. My eyes slip anyway, a quick glance, that’s all.
Anyone would glance, human eyes move. They're built for movement and light and bare thighs in stockings.
They process visual stimuli. That's their job.
Her neck is right there, soft at the throat.
Her lips are glossed in that sticky, shiny kind of gloss that looks like it would get everywhere and never come off.
I can almost feel it, waxy and sweet, smeared against my… mouth. Definitely just my mouth.
Fuck’s sake.
I look back at the numbers so fast my neck almost cracks. Rithy breaks the silence first, loudly, because he has never once in his life chosen mercy when chaos was available.
“So. This is cozy.”
Natalia lifts an eyebrow. “Is it?”
Her voice is calm. Amused in a way that tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing and is enjoying herself like a little demon in designer boots.
Rithy leans back against the railing, grinning. “Feels intimate.”
I say nothing. Saying things is how people get into trouble.
Natalia adjusts her weight, casual as anything, and her hip brushes the back of my hand.
It’s nothing. It's literally nothing. Fabric, maybe skin and the smallest amount of pressure. Not even enough to count as contact. So, obviously, my body reacts like I’ve been grabbed by the throat.
I pull my hand away and lean back against the elevator wall with more force than necessary. The panel behind me gives a dull thud.
Smooth. Very cool.
Rithy’s eyebrows climb. “Damn. You look warm. Are you sweating?”
“I said, I'm fine.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
Natalia smiles at the elevator doors, and I see it reflected there. That tiny curve of her mouth. Satisfied. It's god damn frustrating and also beautiful, unfortunately.