Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Ella
Nine PM. The exhaust fan in Tony's kitchen roared, sucking out grease and noise. I changed out of my sauce-stained white shirt in the staff room, pulled on my cream sweater, and tugged my hair free from the collar in front of the cracked mirror on the wall.
My phone sat on the washing machine, speaker on. Sasha's voice exploded through.
"So you made up?!"
"Yeah." I tried to sound calm, but my mouth wouldn't stop smiling.
"Just made up?" Sasha's voice jumped an octave. "Ella Collins, spill. Did you sleep with him?"
My face went up in flames.
"Sasha—"
"Oh my God, you did!" She shrieked on the other end. I scrambled to turn down the volume. "I knew it! I knew when you went to see him yesterday this would happen! Tell me, was he good? Did he make you—"
"I'm not talking about this."
"So he was very good."
"Sasha!"
"Okay, okay, I'll stop." She laughed like a cat who'd stolen cream. I could picture her perfectly—eyebrows sky-high, grin splitting her face, sprawled on that ratty couch with her orange cat on her belly. "But you gotta tell me, did he say anything? Like 'be my girlfriend' or something?"
I paused.
"No."
"No?!" Her volume spiked again. "You did all that and he still hasn't asked you out? What the hell?"
"He said it's not safe around him."
"Oh, please." Sasha's eye roll was audible. "When a guy says 'it's not safe around me,' it usually means he's going gambling tomorrow and doesn't want to get caught. Your guy runs a top company—what's unsafe? Someone trying to kidnap him?"
I couldn't help laughing.
"Actually," I grabbed my bag and closed the locker room door, heading out, "he might really have enemies."
"Perfect!" Sasha perked up. "Picture this: a powerful CEO hunted by enemies, you go to him, you kiss in a hail of bullets. Oh my God, it's literally a movie!"
I laughed. "Sasha, you read too many novels. I gotta go, okay? Work."
"Fine. But report back immediately, soldier Ella!"
I hung up.
The woman in the mirror pressed her lips together, something bright flickering in her eyes.
I waved at her, whispered. Alright, enough. Time to work.
Friday nights were the busiest.
Kitchen smoke everywhere, order bells never stopping. I carried a plate of pasta through the chaos, but my mind was on the golden-orange light through the office window that afternoon, and that voice saying "I missed you too, every day, every night" as he lifted me off the desk edge.
Fuck, Ella, focus.
"Lobster pasta for table four!" the kitchen yelled.
"Coming!" I snapped back, turned to grab it.
This restaurant was on Manhattan's Upper West Side. The owner was a middle-aged Greek guy, decent temper, though he skimmed off our tips. But compared to places that straight-up withheld wages, he was practically a saint. I'd been here almost six months—three nights a week, six to eleven.
This money, plus my company salary, just barely let me pay down a bit more of the debt my ex left me.
Thinking about him made my stomach clench.
But now wasn't the time.
I carried the plate to a window table—three well-dressed men, clearly the tail end of a business dinner, faces slack and oily from half a bottle of wine.
"Enjoy," I set down the plate, stepped back. "Anything else?"
"Your number."
I looked up.
The speaker was maybe forty-something, hair slicked back, gold watch chain glinting at his cuff. He looked at me with what he probably thought was charm, mouth curved in that smile that made you want to back away.
"Sir," my tone didn't change, "that's not on the menu."
The other two laughed.
"Add it now," he leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I'll pay a rush fee."
"Unfortunately, we don't offer that service." I picked up the empty glass from the table edge, preparing to retreat. "Let me get you fresh water."
His hand shot out, clamped around my wrist.
"Sir, let go."
I kept my voice steady, but my heart was already racing.
Gold Watch didn't let go—tightened his grip instead, thumb rubbing the inside of my wrist.
"Don't be so tense," he said with a laugh, alcohol washing over the back of my hand. "I just want to know you. What's your name?"
"She said no."
The voice came from behind me.
Low. Cold.
Gold Watch looked up. So did I.
Sergei stood there.
Dark gray coat, dark scarf, hair not slicked back like at work—a few silver strands falling across his forehead. He looked like he'd just left somewhere formal, or like he'd been waiting here specifically for a long time.
But his eyes—those gray eyes held no warmth. Like a frozen lake.
Gold Watch sized him up, probably registering the coat's quality and the watch's weight. His expression shifted. But he didn't let go.
"Who the hell are you?"
Sergei didn't answer.
He just walked over, reached out, gripped the hand clamped on my wrist.
The movement was light. Almost elegant, even.
But Gold Watch's face went bone white in an instant.
I heard a sound—tiny, crisp. Gold Watch's mouth opened, and a short gasp escaped. Sergei's hand was already released.
The whole thing took less than two seconds.
Gold Watch's hand slid off my wrist, dangling at the table edge, the whole palm hanging at an unnatural angle. His mouth gaped, trying to yell, but nothing came out. Cold sweat instantly beaded his forehead.
"You—you fucking—"
"She said no." Sergei repeated it, voice even lower, calmer. "That's the second time. And the last."
Gold Watch's two companions had stood up, but nobody stepped forward. They glanced at Sergei's face, then at his coat pocket—where something bulged, definitely not a wallet.
"Let's go, let's go," one of them tugged Gold Watch's arm. "It's fine, we're leaving."
Gold Watch clutched his hand, face pale as death, lips trembling like he wanted to say something tough, but ultimately nothing came out. The three of them rushed through checkout and vanished out the restaurant door.
Other diners in the hall kept eating, chatting—almost nobody noticed the little incident in the corner.
Sergei turned to look at me. Those gray eyes, when they met mine, cracked their ice, revealing warmth underneath.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Thanks, you—what are you doing here?" My voice still held a tremor, but not because of Gold Watch anymore.
"Passing by."
"Really?" I repeated, laughing. "I don't think driving from Manhattan's east side to west side, forty minutes, counts as 'passing by.'"
He said nothing, just slid both hands into his coat pockets, tilted his head slightly—an expression that said "so what."
I looked at his face.
The restaurant's dim yellow light softened his features more than usual, but I could see the shadows under his eyes, the vertical line between his brows deeper than normal. He looked exhausted.
"When did you get here?" I asked.
"Just now."
"Liar."
He didn't answer. His mouth twitched.
I bit my lip, made a decision.
"Give me five minutes."
I spun around, hurried to the kitchen, and found Tony.
"Tony, can I leave early tonight?"
Tony was stir-frying, didn't look up. "Why?"
"Something urgent."
He turned, saw my expression, glanced toward the dining room—probably caught sight of the tall silver-haired man by the door.
"Okay." Tony grinned, patted my shoulder with his greasy hand, and winked slyly. "Go, go, we're slow tonight anyway. See you next week. Go on your date, love birds."
"Thanks! See you next week."
I rushed back to the locker room, yanked off my apron, grabbed my bag, and appeared in front of Sergei three minutes later.
"Come on." I grabbed his hand.
"Where?"
"You'll see. Just follow me."
I pulled him out of the restaurant, through Upper West Side streets. November nights were cold. Wind hit me, I hunched my shoulders, but didn't slow down.
"Ella—" he called from behind.
"Don't ask. Just come."
I pulled him into an alley. At the end was a half-open door with a neon sign—"Midnight Blues."
I pushed it open. Music poured out like a wave.
This was a small bar. Dim lights, DJ booth in the corner, dance floor packed with bodies, everyone swaying to the beat.
Sergei frowned. "What is—"
"A bar." I turned to face him. "I can tell you had a shit day, so..."
I pulled him toward the dance floor. "We're dancing."
"What?"
"Dancing!" I tossed my bag on the bar and turned to face him. "Come on!"
He stood there, looking at me like I'd lost my mind.
"Ella, I don't dance."
"Then learn!"
I grabbed his hand and dragged him onto the floor.
Music deafening, bass pounding like a hammer in my chest. Everyone around us moving wild, nobody caring about anyone else, everyone in their own world.
I let go of his hand and started moving to the music.
Not formal ballroom dancing, not waltz or tango—just the simplest, most primal thing, following the beat.
I shook my hair, twisted my waist, raised my arms, closed my eyes, and let myself sink into the music.
All this week's pressure, humiliation, fear—releasing it all with the music.
I opened my eyes. Sergei still stood there, hands in pockets, looking helpless.
"Come on!" I moved closer, grabbed his hand. "Don't just stand there!"
"Ella—"
"Sergei Volkov!" I shouted over the music. "Did you have a shit day today?"
He paused.
"Yes."
"Then dance! Forget all that shit! Right now!"
I grabbed his hand, raised it over my head, and spun under his arm.
"Come on!"
He watched me, his expression shifting from helpless to something complicated.
I raised an eyebrow at him, let go of his wrist, and started dancing, eyes on him. Finally, he moved—shoulders first, then waist, finally legs. His movements weren't big, but as long as he moved, I followed, like two people having a conversation with their bodies, no words needed.
His movements got bigger, bit by bit—shoulders first, then his whole upper body. Silver hair swaying in the dim light, that usually stern face slowly relaxing, brows smoothing, something in his eyes starting to spill out.
I couldn't say what it was, but it made him look ten years younger than during the day.