Page 27 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
The elevator doors open to the lobby. It's empty. I walk out, past the security desk, and into the cold, sharp night. I don't take a car. I pull my collar tight and walk to the subway. The train ride is a shock. The screech of the wheels on the tracks, the smell of stale pretzels and damp wool, the sheer number of people. They are all in their own worlds, staring at their phones, wrapped in their own lives. It's… normal. It's the world I lived in my entire life, until last Friday. Who am I now? Am I the girl on this train, with her eviction notice probably waiting in her mailbox? Or am I the woman who just had sex on a billionaire's desk? The woman who screamed as he took her? I'm… I'm both. And I don't know how to make them fit. I know one thing. As Iwatch the city lights blur past the dirty window, I know it with a terrifying certainty. I'm scared of his world. I'm scared of the man I just saw, the one who punished me and then worshipped me. But I am so, so much more scared of going back to being the girl on the train.
I get to my building. The foyer is warm, but it smells like what it is. A rapidly aging building that is holding on to its dignity while time slowly strips it away. It's… my old life. I'm fumbling with my keys at the mailbox, the cold brass chilling my fingertips, when I hear the scraping sound.
"Well, well, well." My brows furrow when I turn around. "Look who it is. Miss… Too-Good-For-Everyone." Alex. I've only met him a few times. When I signed my personnel papers, at the office party, and then that final fiasco with the mistletoe.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, carefully and discreetly, weaving my keys through my knuckles. I doubt I'll need to use the old trick, but years of living on my own, protecting myself, have made me cautious.
He's slumped against the wall by the stairwell, a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka in his hand. He's not just drunk. He's… ruined. His eyes are bloodshot, his suit is wrinkled, and he smells… sour. "Alex," I say, when he doesn't answer. "Go home. You're drunk."
"Got no home," he slurs, pushing off the wall. "Or I won't soon. Not going to be able to stay in my apartment for long. Did you think about that? Did you wonder what would happen to me when you got me fired?"
"I didn't get you fired, Alex. Your behavior—"
"My behavior?" He laughs, a wet, ugly sound. "My behavior? I was just… being nice. Just a little Christmas cheer." He takes a step. "But you… You're too good for that. Too good for me. But not too good to spread your legs for the boss, are you? My phone has been blowing up all day with messages from people whocouldn't wait to tell me about you andthe boss." His air quotes are as offensive as his words. This was precisely what I dreaded—the scorn of wearing that scarlet letter that men never have to wear.
"That's enough," I say, my hand tightening on my keys. "Leave."
"The whole office is talking. 'The boss's new whore.' That's what they're calling you," he snarls, all humor gone. He's advancing on me.
"Get away from me," I say, backing up, but I'm against the mailboxes. There’s nowhere to go.
"You're a slut, Talia. Just a… a slut who sleeps down for a guy with money, but too good to even talk to a guy like me. I'm not even mad at you for taking your shot. Hell, why not take advantage while you can? But you fucked me over and left me with nothing."
"You did that to yourself, Alex. You knew the rules…"
"Fuck the rules, you bitch." He lunges. He's fast, his hand clamping down on my forearm, his fingers digging in like claws. "You're going to be nice to me now," he hisses, his face inches from mine, his breath a wave of hot, cheap vodka.
"Let me go," I scream, fighting back, my fist slamming keys out against his cheek. I kick, my heel connecting with his shin, but he's too drunk to feel it. He just tightens his grip, pulling me toward him. "You're gonna pay for what you did…" He's yanking me toward the stairwell door. Panic floods my veins. My throat closes. I'm screaming, fighting, but he's bigger.
Shit. I have that life passes before my eyes moment. And all I can think is that if I die, it'll be without Anton by my side…
I should have stayed.
8
Anton
I’m staring at the corner of my desk. The place her heel hit the wood when I had her. The ghost of her scent—citrus and sex andher—clings to the air, a torment. She’s been gone for ten minutes. An elevator ride to the penthouse.
Ten minutes is too long.
My phone buzzes. Daniil. Not a call. A text.
She's in the lobby.
A cold spike of...something... hits my gut. Irritation.She’s not following the plan.I'm about to text back Escort her up, when the phone buzzes again.
She's left the building.
The spike becomes a void. A vacuum. "What?" I say it out loud. My finger is already hitting his number. He answers on the first ring.
"Dima, where thehellis she?"
"She exited the south entrance, Anton." Daniil's voice is impassive. Professional. It pisses me off. "Headed for the subway."
"Did you follow her? Is someone with her?" I growl at him. My voice shattering decibel levels.
A pause. A beat of pure silence. "You didn't tell me to do that. Your standing orders are to guard your office and the penthouse. To have your back, always. And that's what I do, every damn day. Not to track Ms. Brooks. Not to help you hang on to a woman who's trying to get away from you. But I'm calling you because I figured you'd want to know. You're welcome by the way."
