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“No,” I admit reluctantly. “But Randall set me up to deal with it all.”
“Exactly,” he says, his smirk returning. “Then you can miss it. Would teach him not to speak to you like that.”
I gape at him, unable to believe what I’m hearing. “You can’t just…skip something like this because someone was rude to you.”
“Why not?” he counters, his tone calm but unyielding. “You’re not obligated to tolerate disrespect.”
His words throw me off-balance, and I don’t know how to respond. The idea of defying Randall, of walking away from a responsibility—even one unfairly dumped on me—feels so foreign. But at the same time, there’s something liberating about it.
“I can’t,” I say finally, though the conviction in my voice wavers. “I just…can’t.”
Mikhail studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Suit yourself,kiska. But remember—respect is earned, not owed.”
Those words stay with me, echoing in the quiet moments as the car speeds down the highway.Respect is earned, not owed.It’s such a simple idea, yet it cuts through the years of me bending over backward for people like Randall, people who take and take because they know I won’t say no. Could I really skip the conference? No, I tell myself. I’d never hear the end of it. But still, the thought lingers, tugging at something buried deep inside me.
My stomach growls, loud enough to cut through my thoughts, and I flush, clutching my midsection. I haven’t eaten since the plane, and the anxiety hasn’t exactly helped.
“Uh…any chance we can stop for food?” I ask hesitantly. “I’m starving.”
He glances up, his expression unreadable for a moment before nodding. “Torres,” he says, his tone sharp and decisive.
The beefy guy from earlier, who’s been riding up front in silence like some kind of stoic sentinel, glances at Mikhail in the rearview mirror. “You sure, boss?”
“It’s fine,” Mikhail replies smoothly. “Find somewhere convenient.”
A few minutes later, we pull into a Burger King parking lot, and I can’t help but feel a little awkward as Torres gives Mikhail a pointed look.
Mikhail shrugs, unbothered. “She’s hungry.”
The car rolls to a stop, and I step out, grateful for the chance to stretch my legs. The smell of fries and grilled burgers wafts through the air, and my stomach growls again. Mikhail follows me inside, his presence immediately drawing attention. A few customers glance his way, their gazes lingering. I can’t blame them—he’s not exactly the usual Burger King crowd. The tailored suit, the air of authority, the way he carries himself like he owns the ground he walks on…yeah, he’s definitely out of place.
We step up to the counter, and I glance at him. “What do you want?”
“You choose,” he says, his gray eyes steady on mine.
“Seriously?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t have a preference?”
“It’s my first time,” he says casually, like he’s just mentioned the weather.
I blink at him. “No shit.”
He smirks, his lips twitching slightly. “No shit.”
Shaking my head, I turn to the cashier and order a couple of meals—one with a Whopper for him, and a cheeseburger meal for me.
We sit at a booth near the window, the trays of food between us. Mikhail picks up the Whopper, inspecting it like it’s some rare artifact before taking a bite. I watch as his expression flickers, and then he nods.
“Not bad,” he says.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Welcome to the world of fast food, Mr. First Class.”
He arches an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “I assume you’re a seasoned expert?”
“You could say that,” I reply, taking a sip of my soda. “Growing up, we didn’t have much. My mom would take me to places like this because it was cheap, and we could make it work. Burgers, fries, milkshakes…it was our version of fine dining.”
Mikhail sets his burger down, his gaze sharpening. “You didn’t have much?”
I nod, picking at my fries. “My parents had just split, and things were…tight. Really tight. My mom did her best, but there were times we barely scraped by.”