5. Kiera
KIERA
Ican't stop staring at the newspaper.
It's spread across my desk at work, the engagement announcement section folded open to reveal my face smiling up at me.
Except I don't remember smiling like that.
I don't remember posing for this photo at all.
The picture shows me looking radiant, almost glowing, my short red hair perfectly styled, my blue eyes bright with what appears to be joy.
Next to me is Emil Nikitin, his gray-threaded hair and scruffy beard making him look distinguished and dangerous all at once.
His hand rests possessively on my lower back in the photo, and even in print, I can see the intensity in his dark eyes.
The text beneath reads, "Emil Nikitin and Kiera Walker are pleased to announce their engagement. Wedding date to be announced."
My phone buzzes for what has to be the twentieth time this morning. I glance at the screen. Kevin. Again.
I silence it and shove it into my desk drawer.
What am I supposed to say to my brothers?
That I met a stranger at a club on Saturday night?
That I used him as a human shield against my psycho ex?
That he kissed me until my knees went weak and then told me we were actually getting married?
That I thought he was joking, but apparently, he wasn't because here's the proof in black and white newsprint?
They'd lose their minds. Kevin would probably have a stroke.
Devin would lecture me about the stress hormones flooding my system while stress-eating protein bars.
Kaleb would try to be supportive while secretly panicking, and Mark would probably have to talk him down.
And Jack, my Jack, the one I can usually talk to about anything, would look at me with those disappointed cop eyes and ask what the hell I was thinking.
The problem is, I don't know what I was thinking.
I trace my finger over Emil's face in the photograph. God, he's gorgeous. Even in a newspaper photo, his presence dominates the page. There's something about the set of his jaw, the way he holds himself, that screams power. Authority. The kind of man who doesn't ask for what he wants but takes it.
He certainly took me.
My thighs clench at the memory of his body pressed against mine on the dance floor, his large hands gripping my hips, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that had set every nerve ending on fire.
I'd felt the hard length of him through his pants, thick and promising against my stomach, and for a moment I'd forgotten everything—Arnie, my fear, and that I'd sworn off men entirely.
The way Emil had kissed me. Jesus. Like he was starving and I was the only thing that could satisfy him.
His tongue had swept into my mouth, demanding, possessive, and I'd melted against him.
My breasts had pressed against his chest, my nipples hardening instantly, and I'd felt his responding growl vibrate through both our bodies.
I shift in my chair, trying to ignore the ache between my legs.
It's been so long since I've felt desire like this.
Arnie had killed that part of me, turned sex into something to be endured rather than enjoyed.
But Emil had awakened something with just a kiss, just the press of his body against mine.
My phone buzzes again. I pull it out of the drawer. Devin this time.
I silence it and shove it back.
"Kiera!"
I jump, slamming the newspaper closed as my colleague Jennifer appears at my cubicle entrance. She's grinning like she just won the lottery.
"Oh, my God, I can't believe you didn't tell us!" She practically squeals the words, bouncing on her heels. "Emil Nikitin? THE Emil Nikitin?"
I blink at her. "I, uh…"
"Girl, do you have any idea how lucky you are?" Jennifer leans against my cubicle wall, her eyes wide with excitement. "He's not just hot, though holy hell, is he hot. That man could melt panties at fifty paces. But Kiera, he's loaded. Like, stupid rich. As rich as Midas!"
My stomach drops. "What?"
"You didn't know?" Jennifer's eyebrows shoot up. "Emil Nikitin owns half the commercial real estate in the city. He's got investments everywhere. Restaurants, clubs, import-export businesses. The man is worth millions. Maybe billions, depending on who you ask."
I feel the blood drain from my face. Billions?
"Are you okay? You look pale." Jennifer's excitement dims slightly, replaced by concern.
"I'm fine," I lie, my voice coming out strangled. "Just, um, overwhelmed."
"I bet! When's the wedding? Please tell me you're having a huge ceremony. With a body like yours" —she gestures vaguely at my chest— "you could pull off something really dramatic. Low cut, maybe a mermaid style to show off those curves. Your tits would look amazing in the right dress."
Heat floods my cheeks. I'm very aware that my breasts are probably my most notable feature, especially given how thin the rest of me is, but having Jennifer discuss my wedding dress in terms of my cleavage feels surreal.
"We haven't set a date yet," I manage.
"Well, when you do, I expect an invitation!" Jennifer winks and bounces away, leaving me alone with my spiraling thoughts.
Billions. Emil is worth billions.
And I grabbed him like he was some random guy at a club and announced he was my fiancé.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
I try to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me, but the numbers blur together. All I can see is Emil's face.
He'd meant it. He'd actually meant it.
My phone buzzes. Kaleb this time. I watch it vibrate against the desk surface, guilt twisting in my gut. Kaleb's the most easygoing of my brothers. If he's calling, they're all freaking out.
I silence it.
What can I possibly say to them? How do I explain this?
The morning drags into afternoon. Around two o'clock, my phone rings again.
Jack. I stare at his name on the screen, my finger hovering over the answer button.
Jack's my best friend and the closest brother in age to me.
I want to answer. I want to hear his voice, to have him tell me everything's going to be okay.
I silence it and try to focus on the presentation I'm supposed to be formatting for my boss, but my hands are shaking.
The cursor blinks mockingly at me on the screen.
My phone buzzes again. Kevin. Then five minutes later, Devin. Then Kaleb. Then Jack. They're cycling through now, tag-teaming me.
By three o'clock, I've accomplished exactly nothing. The spreadsheet is still half-finished. The presentation has two slides completed out of twenty. My email inbox is overflowing with unread messages.
But I can't stop thinking about Emil.
The way his body had felt against mine, all hard muscle and controlled strength, the kind of build that comes from discipline, not just gym time.
I'd felt the solid wall of his chest, the flex of his abs when he'd pulled me closer.
And his ass. God, his ass had been firm and perfect under my wandering hands when we'd danced.
I wonder what he looks like under those expensive clothes.
The tattoos I'd glimpsed at his neck and wrists suggest there's more hidden beneath, vines trailing down from his throat, disappearing under his collar and a snake wrapped around his forearm.
I imagine trailing my fingers over ink and muscle, feeling the heat of his skin, the steady beat of his heart.
I imagine him naked, that powerful body bare and wanting, his cock thick and hard, ready for me. My face flushes at the thought.
Stop it, I tell myself firmly. You don't even know him.
But my body doesn't care about logic. My body remembers the way he'd made me feel. Safe. Desired. Alive.
Around four o'clock, my boss stops by my cubicle. She's a stern woman in her fifties, not prone to small talk or sentiment.
"Congratulations on your engagement, Kiera," she says, and there's something in her tone that makes me look at her more carefully. "Mr. Nikitin is a respected businessman. You'll be well taken care of."
She walks away before I can respond.
My phone buzzes. Kevin again. I've lost count of how many times they've called. Twenty? Thirty? The voicemail icon shows I have fifteen new messages.
I can't listen to them. Not yet. Not until I figure out what I'm going to say.
The afternoon crawls by. Every minute feels like an hour. My colleagues keep glancing at me, whispering to each other. I catch snippets of conversation.
"…can't believe she landed him…"
"…heard he's worth a fortune…"
"…lucky girl…"
By the time five o'clock rolls around, I'm exhausted.
My phone has buzzed forty-seven times. I counted.
My brothers have left voicemails that I haven't listened to.
My email inbox has three messages from Kevin with subject lines in all caps, "CALL ME," "KIERA ANSWER YOUR PHONE," "WE NEED TO TALK NOW. "
I need to go home. I need to think. I need to figure out what the hell I'm going to do about this mess.
I pack up my things slowly, the newspaper folded carefully and tucked into my purse. I don't know why I'm keeping it. Evidence, maybe. Proof that this is actually happening and not some fever dream.
The office is mostly empty as I make my way to the elevator. A few people call out goodbyes, a couple more congratulations. I smile and wave, playing the part of the happy bride-to-be even though my insides are churning.
The evening air hits me as I step outside, cool and refreshing after the recycled office atmosphere.
I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head.
My apartment is only a few blocks away. I can walk.
Clear my thoughts. Figure out what to say to my brothers when I finally work up the courage to call them back.
I make it three steps before I see it.
A sleek black limousine pulls up to the curb directly in front of me, so smooth and silent it's almost predatory. The windows are tinted dark, revealing nothing of who's inside.
My heart starts to pound.
The back door opens, and Emil Nikitin steps out.