Page 34 of Beautifully Deranged

And yet... that business card.

That damn business card the stranger gave me, the man who looked suspiciously like Mikhail, is still sitting there. I haven’t touched it since, but in my gut, I know it’s connected to him. And I won’t pretend the thought doesn’t tempt me. Dipping my toes into the unknown. Into the dark. Maybe even into something illegal. There’s a thrill there. A danger I might welcome. Easy money.

But not like this.

Not if it means trading one cage for another.

Because moving my income from my father to something Mikhail controls isn’t freedom. It’s just a new leash. A soft rustling outside makes my ears strain.

Look.Don’t look. Look. Don’t look.

Ignore it.

Footsteps. Light. Feminine. Then a knock—three slow raps against his door.

Look. Don’t look. Look. Don’t look.

I lose the fight. When my eyes flick to the peephole, my stomach sinks. A woman stands outside Mikhail’s apartment. Young. Pretty. My chest tightens as I watch him let her in.

A slow, numbing cold creeps into my bones. I swallow, tasting blood and something worse, something bitter and vile. My vision tunnels. Black dots flicker at the edges.

I want to kill them both.

Blood.

Justice.

I push myself up. My legs barely hold. My fingers rake down my face, desperate to claw the feeling out. But it doesn’t stop. My skin feels too tight, my head too full, my heart pounding so hard I think it might split open. “Fuck. Fuck.” The word comes out as a whisper. A rasp. A plea to no one.

This isn’t heartbreak. I try to convince myself it’s just withdrawal. I stumble to the bathroom, wrench the shower handle until it clanks, and let the water blast through the pipes, freezing, punishing. I step in fully clothed. The ice slices through my skin. I collapse onto the tiles, curling in on myself as the water crashes down. It soaks me to the bone, but the fire in my chest only burns hotter. Wilder. It spreads like gasoline on a flame.

I won’t give in.

Mikhail is not mine anymore.

Mikhail is not mine.

Mikhail is not—

A scream tears out of me, cutting off my thoughts. I crawl out of the bathroom. My drenched clothes slap against the floor, leaving a trail of water behind. I reach for the laptop. Just one look. Just a peek. Just to see what’s happening.

My fingers hover over the lid, close enough to snap it open. To dive headfirst into destruction. To rip the wound wider and pour salt into it.

But I stop.

No.

I yank my hand back like it burned me. I’m not going to be that girl. I peel off the soaked clothes and throw on a hoodie and leggings. I need to get out. I don’t run when I leave the apartment. I won’t look desperate. The elevator dings, and I step inside, grateful to be away from his door.

Out. I need out.

The lobby is quiet. I try to smile at Clark, but I’m sure it comes off as a grimace. “Hi, Clark,” I say.

He looks up, his face lighting up. “Miss Lola, out this late?”

“Just needed some air.” I lean on the counter.

“Can’t sleep?”

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