Chapter 13 #2
Gray-white, thick clouds, no light breaking through. Not gloomy exactly, just that calm color that covered everything.
Footsteps from the stairwell, then familiar, evenly weighted paw-sounds on the ground.
I looked down. Misha was already circling around, rubbing against my leg.
She'd clearly escaped—her collar clasp undone and loose. Her fluffy head pressed against my leg, tail sweeping back and forth, messing up my skirt hem.
I crouched down and hugged her.
"Misha," I buried my face in her neck, voice shaking. "Today's been really hard."
She shifted, nose nudging my face.
Damp, soft.
Like a feather brushing past, toppling my mountain of suppressed emotions. Before I realized it, tears were already falling.
I finally cried.
Tears ran down my hands, into Misha's fur, absorbed by her warm body heat bit by bit.
I don't know how long I cried. When the tears stopped, I lifted my face from her neck, wiped it with my sleeve, and looked at her perpetually goofy face.
"You know it's Christmas Eve," I said quietly, voice hoarse. "Day before Christmas. Feels like I should do something special."
Misha tilted her head.
I looked down at the paper bag in my hand.
The charcoal scarf and sweater, neatly folded inside.
I thought for a long time, then made a decision.
Forty-second floor.
Emily looked up as I stepped out of the elevator. Her expression flickered, but she remained professional. "Miss Collins, can I help you?"
"I have something I'd like you to pass along to Mr. Volkov." I set the paper bag on her desk. "Christmas gift. Thank you."
"I'll make sure he gets it." Emily glanced at the bag, her expression softening slightly. "He has an... appointment this afternoon, but I'll—"
"No rush." I waved my hand. "Thank you."
I turned toward the elevator.
That's it, I told myself. Delivered. You can leave. Don't look back, don't—
The door at the end of the hall opened.
I couldn't help glancing in that direction.
Dmitri.
Black coat, phone in hand, walking out of Sergei's office. Took two steps before he saw me. Paused. Then his mouth curved into a smile.
My brain stopped for a second.
Then blood rushed up—to my cheeks, my temples, my fingertips—burning hot.
He'd already been in Sergei's office.
What had he said in there? What had he told Sergei? He—
I started walking toward him.
"Ella." His smile didn't change. Low voice. "Changed your mind?"
"What did you say in there?" I kept my voice low. "What did you tell him?"
"Just catching up." He shrugged. "Uncle and nephew, you know. Haven't seen each other in a while."
"Did you tell him?"
"Tell him what?" He tilted his head. Deliberately. "What do you want me to tell him? That you're my ex? About the loan? Or—"
I grabbed his arm. "You tell me exactly what—"
"Ella."
That voice came from behind me.
I froze.
Low, carrying that familiar coldness. Every syllable landing heavy in the hallway, on my back, like a stone dropped in still water, ripples spreading outward.
I turned slowly.
Sergei stood at the other end of the hall—no idea when he'd appeared—holding a file folder, suit immaculate, expression blank.
His gaze moved from my face to my hand still gripping Dmitri's arm, then to Dmitri's face, then back to me.
Those gray eyes held no warmth.
"Miss Collins," he said. "I didn't know you and my nephew were so close."
"Uncle!" Dmitri immediately switched faces, voice rising with performed surprise. "There you are! I was just catching up with an old friend."
"Sergei." I released Dmitri and took a step toward him. "It's not what he's saying. Let me explain—"
He raised his hand.
Just that gesture, and my voice cut off.
"Take your time catching up," he said, voice calm—calm like discussing something that had nothing to do with him. "I have things to do."
Then he turned and walked toward the elevator.
"Sergei."
He didn't stop.
His shoes made no sound on the carpet, but his back moved fast, decisive, like staying one more second would be wasteful.
The elevator doors closed behind him.
Numbers started jumping.
42, 41, 40...
Behind me, Dmitri laughed—light, airy, like he was enjoying a good show.
"See?" he said. "Told you. Uncle won't believe you."
I turned to face him.
That face looked especially hateful under the hallway lights.
"Happy now?" My voice shook.
"Not yet." He said, that disgusting smile on his lips. "Once you get me what I want, then I'll be happy."
He left.
Shoes clicking rhythmically on marble.
I stood there, clutching those gift boxes, fingers digging into the wrapping paper.
Misha appeared somehow, rubbing against my leg, letting out a low whine.
I looked down at her.
She looked back with those amber eyes, tail wagging slightly.
"Misha," I said, voice not my own. "I need to go after him."
I didn't take the elevator.
I ran down the stairs.
Forty-two floors.
Shoes hitting concrete steps, echoing in the stairwell. The gift boxes bumping around, wrapping paper torn by my nails. I didn't care.
I just wanted to catch him.
I just wanted to tell him—everything Dmitri said was a lie, the loan was taken out behind my back, our relationship ended two years ago, and he's threatening me with your trade secrets.
I just wanted him to hear me.
Even just one sentence.
Forty-two floors.
I pushed through the stairwell door, ran out the side entrance, toward the parking garage.
Underground air was cold. Concrete pillars in rows. Taillights glowing dark red in the dim light.
Heels clicking on concrete, echoing through the garage. I stumbled, scarf whipped by wind, slapping my face.
I was looking for his car.
That black SUV.
Not there.
Not there.
Not—
There.
Engine already running, taillights glowing red, exhaust puffing white steam.
"Sergei!"
The car didn't stop.
My heels were killing my feet. I swore they were bleeding.
I gritted my teeth, kicked off the heels, and sprinted toward the car heading for the exit.
Maybe it was adrenaline, but the car seemed slower than it should be. I pushed my aching legs forward, metallic taste burning my throat and mouth.
I ran and threw my arms out in front of the car!
Screech!
The hood stopped less than two feet from me.
I was shaking all over, gasping, bracing myself on the hood to keep from falling.
The driver's door opened. Sergei got out, strode toward me, grabbed my wrist, gray eyes burning with fury, words forced through clenched teeth. "Are you insane?!"
"Sergei," I gripped his hand back tightly. "Listen to me. Just one minute—"
But those suddenly cold eyes stopped me.
Like in an instant, he'd suppressed all emotion. He slowly removed my hand from his arm.
"Miss Collins," he said. "What do you want to say? That you and my nephew have no relationship?"
"No," I said. "That's not—listen—"
"Then why," he said, "didn't you reply to my messages these past few days?"
I opened my mouth.
"I—"
"Did you know him from the beginning?" His voice stayed flat, but every word landed heavy—like asking a question that already had an answer. "From the very beginning, was this all—"
"No!" My voice rose, echoing through the garage. "Sergei, I met him two years ago. Before I worked here. Before I knew who you were. Before any of this happened!"
He looked at me.
"He's my ex," I said, voice shaking but I didn't stop.
"Two years ago he took out a loan in my name and disappeared.
That debt is what I've been paying off. At the gala, I ran into him in the hallway.
He wanted me to get him your contract with the Moscow Syndicate. I refused. I didn't agree to anything."
A car engine started somewhere in the distance, then faded.
Sergei said nothing.
"I didn't reply to your messages," I continued, "because I didn't know how to tell you. Not because I was hiding something. It's because I—" I bit my lip. "Because I wasn't sure if you'd believe me."
Something flickered in his eyes.
Just once, quick, like wind lifting a curtain corner, something flashing inside before being pressed back down.
"You weren't sure I'd believe you," he repeated, tone unreadable. "So you chose not to say anything."
"Yes."
"Great." He said it with every meaning except "great." "Then I don't need to explain anything either."
"Sergei—"
"I should've known," he said.
Those words dropped like a stone on my chest. Not heavy, but cold through and through.
He pulled open the car door and got in.
I stood there, watched him close the door, watched the window go from transparent to opaque, watched that black car slowly back out of the space, turn, drive up the ramp, disappear around the corner.
The parking garage lights were cold fluorescent white, illuminating everything clearly—no shadows, no blind spots—yet somehow illuminating nothing at all.
My hand was still raised in the air, frozen where he'd just been.
I lowered it.
Concrete smell, oil smell, car exhaust drifting from somewhere—all mixing together, entering my lungs with each ragged breath, churning my insides into a mess.
Two years ago, the day Dmitri disappeared, I'd stood like this too. Different location—that day was outside the apartment, holding his empty drawer, behind me a half-emptied home.
That day I told myself: it's okay, these are things you can fix yourself, you can handle it.
Today I told myself the same thing.
But today was harder to say than that day.
I looked down.
The paper bag still hung on my arm. The gift was still inside.
Scarf and sweater, every stitch careful.
I squeezed the bag once, then loosened my grip, let it hang on my arm, and turned toward the parking garage exit.
Outside, snow had started falling—not fine snow, but real snow, flakes falling one by one, landing on my shoulders, my hair, my hands. Cold. Slowly melting.
Christmas Eve.
This was how this year's Christmas Eve turned out.