6. Cady
Cady
There's something about quiet that makes everything feel louder than it should.
My thoughts don't have anywhere to go when there's nothing else competing with them. They just settle in, stretch out, and replay things I probably shouldn't be holding onto.
Tonight, it's Artem.
He came in quietly and dropped one warning to back off the Volkov line or end up in a freshly dug grave with no marker.
It would be quiet and calculated, efficient enough that no one would have time to interfere, and clean enough that nothing ties back to him unless he wants it to.
Maybe a hand at the back of my neck, a soft word in my ear. Or something simpler: a car that never makes it where it's supposed to go. Something written off as an accident.
I've heard stories like this my whole life and seen enough to know the difference between rumors and reality.
I know what kind of man he is.
Which means I know what kind of risk I'm taking by not listening to him.
And I won’t stop.
I smooth my fingers over the pressed petals one last time before closing the book gently and setting it on the table.
Another one added. Another moment that I've decided matters.
The flower is small and white, pulled from one of the arrangements near the entrance of the ballroom when the night was winding down. I open the book just enough to see the label beneath the petals, and my neat handwriting against the cream-colored paper.
May 3rd — Artem Makarov. First approach.
My thumb lingers over the ink before I close it again.
It's not about the flower. It never is. It's about marking something that shifted, even if no one else noticed.
Tonight, something shifted.
My phone vibrates softly against the counter.
Misha.
I pick it up, smoothing my tone before I even answer. "Hi."
"Hi," he says in that cocky tone of his, and I can picture the smirk. "What are you doing?"
Thinking about your brother.
"Just jumped out of the shower," I lie. "You?"
"Thinking of you."
Bullshit.
"Really?" I release a silent breath. "How was the club?"
"Boring. I was hoping you'd come by tonight."
"Can't. Early morning."
"Then maybe you can tell me what the hell this dinner is about."
I blink once. "Dinner?"
"With my brother," he says, like the words don't make sense. "He just told me he's coming over this week. You invited him."
A brief stillness moves through my chest before I catch it.
He agreed.
"Right," I say. "I invited him to dinner."
"You invited him," Misha repeats, slower. "Why?"
I let a hint of amusement color my tone. "Why not? He seemed interested."
Interested is one word for it. Suspicious fits better. Dangerous fits best.
"When did you even see him?" he asks.
"At the charity event. He showed up."
Misha exhales, and I can tell he’s unsettled. "He went to that?"
"Surprisingly, yes. Did you mention it to him?"
"No. That's also why I'm confused. Did you?"
"I haven't spoken to him except for that day in your kitchen. He was donating. It was a bit awkward, so I filled in the space." I pause. "You seem close—"
"We're not. He just deals with me." I hear him stretch. "He's uptight and up Benedikt's ass all the time. Not my style."
"Well, he's your brother. I thought it'd be nice—"
"You don't cook, babe. You thought inviting him to dinner was a good idea?"
"I thought it would be interesting."
"That's one way to put it." There's a pause while he turns it over. "He doesn't have to come."
"I didn't say that," he replies quickly.
"I don't mind canceling—"
"I didn't say that, either." He sighs. "What are you making?"
I close my eyes briefly. "Something simple."
"Caitlin."
"Okay, not simple," I correct. "Seared filet, red wine reduction, truffle risotto, roasted vegetables."
A beat of silence, then a quiet laugh. "You don't cook."
"You said that already."
"Just don't go getting all family-oriented on me all of a sudden."
"Moment of weakness," I admit. "You're right. Let's cancel. You can handle it with your brother."
"Well, I didn't say—"
"And it's weird. Why get close to him?"
"Hold on—"
"Thanks, Misha. Just tell him we're busy."
"We're not."
"Yeah, but let's not do it."
"Why?"
This guy.
"It's weird, like you said. And I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
He scoffs. "Artem does not make me uncomfortable. Come over tonight. We can figure it out together."
He just wants to get laid.
"Early morning, remember?" I coo. "Tomorrow?"
He hesitates. "Alright, babe. Tomorrow."
"See you then."
I'm about to hang up when Misha says, "We'll keep the dinner. It'd probably be best if you met Artem properly. Officially."
I make a face. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. And don't disappear on me when you find out what an asshole he is."
Oh, I won't.
But I might when he decides he wants to kill me.
"I won't."
"Okay. See you then."
The line goes quiet. I set the phone down and let the silence settle.
He agreed.
Artem Makarov agreed to sit across from me at a table, not because he's curious or because he wants to. He's decided something, and now he wants to confirm it up close.
That's not good.
My father has made it clear that I'm running out of chances, and disappointing Colin Gallagher has never ended with a stern lecture. He doesn't yell when he's angry. He calculates. He withdraws like affection is a privilege.
Rian and Killian walk into a room and get immediate respect. They're trusted with shipments, meetings, and strategy. I am handed impossible situations wrapped in pretty dresses and told to make myself useful.
And I have. I got close to Misha. I got inside the Volkov orbit. I found information—maybe not enough yet, but enough to prove I'm not useless. Enough to prove I belong in this family beyond being somebody's future wife.
If this falls apart now, I don't know what happens next.
I can’t sit in this apartment and think about it anymore.
I grab my keys and head for the elevator before I can talk myself out of leaving. A few minutes later, I’m in the car, driving without much thought beyond getting away from the city for a while.
By the time I reach my favorite lake, the city has faded behind me, the noise replaced with peace. The air is cooler here, brushing lightly against my skin as I step out of the car. The water stretches out in front of me, dark and endless.
I slip out of my clothes and step forward, the water cool against my skin as it climbs higher, wrapping around me until I'm submerged.
For a moment, everything disappears.
I surface slowly, slicking my hair back as I float, staring up at the sky where the stars are faint. This is the only place I don't feel watched. The only place no one is waiting for me to slip.
My lungs fill slowly, then empty again.
When I leave, he'll still be there.
Watching. Waiting.
And now, close enough to matter.