Page 51 of Under His Control
The metal staircase creaks under my boots as I climb to my apartment on the third floor. I slide the key into the lock and turn the deadbolt.
Inside, everything’s the way I left it—clean and tidy. I glance at my cozy sectional couch, the soft throw blanket balled in the corner, a rustic coffee table I found at a thrift store.
I close the door, standing still for a long beat.
Something feels off.
The air holds a strange presence; one I can’t seem to shake.
Despite the feeling, I walk around anyway, checking all the rooms. Bedroom’s empty. Closet and bathroom, too. There’s no one here. Just me and the ghosts of solo living.
I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge, cold air kissing my face. A half-empty carton of oat milk, a container of lo mein I definitely shouldn’t touch, and a single grapefruit La Croix. I crack it open and lean against the counter.
Anatoly offered to pay off the rest of my lease. He said all I needed to do was sign the release papers and he’d handle the rest—no questions, no judgment. I dodged it and changed the subject.
The truth is I need this place as a backup, a tether. As a piece of me that isn’t married to a billionaire with eyes like a storm and hands that destroy every inhibition.
I take a long sip of the sparkling water and look around. It’s small and comfortable. Nothing fancy and it’s not perfect, but it’smine.
My chest tightens as I think of Chris.
I haven’t heard from him since the wedding. Not a call, not a text, not a damn smoke signal. I know him—when the troubleclears, he runs. And if it’s not running, it’s a relapse. I have no idea which one I’m dealing with, but neither is good.
Suddenly, a memory hits me. He was twelve, trying to braid my Barbie’s hair with peanut butter on his fingers, saying it made her hair shinier. I remember that stupid little grin. I laughed so hard I snorted juice through my nose.
He drove me crazy then. He drives me crazy now. But he’s my little brother.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away fast, refusing to let them fall. I’ve protected him since we were kids and I’m not about to stop now.
Even if it breaks me.
I’m zipping up the final suitcase stuffed with toiletries, chargers, and miscellaneous items when someone knocks on the door.
My stomach leaps.
Nobody ever knocks on my door. I cross the tiny living room, bare feet quiet on the old hardwood.
I peek through the peephole and my breath catches.
Anatoly.
I smile as I twist the lock and pull the door open.
He stands there in a charcoal gray T-shirt and faded jeans, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a coffee cup. Damn, he looks hot.
“The usual,” he says, holding it out. “Oat milk, two shots, extra hot.”
I blink, genuinely touched. “You remembered.”
“I made Muriel write it down.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation. “But yes, I remembered.”
I take the cup and sip. It’s perfect.
“I got your address from your personnel file,” he adds, scanning the room. “Hope you don’t mind. I just figured you could use a hand.”
I roll my eyes but grin. “I’m glad you’re here, actually. I was trying to puzzle out how to fit three suitcases into my glorified shoebox on wheels.”
He smirks. “Lead the way.”
