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A chemical reaction.
It doesn’t mean anything.
But even as I think it, I know I’m lying to myself.
He texts me like he already owns my body, my reactions, my pleasure.
And worst of all?
Some part of me wants him to.
* * *
Avoidance wasthe only rational choice.
Was it cowardly? Sure.
But self-preservation comes first, and after that bathroom incident, I knew walking into the office on Friday would mean walking straight into whatever trap Damien Zaitsev had set for me.
So, I did the smart thing.
I took the day off.
Sick leave.
It’s not entirely dishonest—I do feel feverish every time I think about him.
And honestly? I assume that after a day without seeing me, he’ll forget all about this ridiculous ball invitation.
I’m in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup, trying to ignore the nagging voice in my head reminding me that I’m supposed to be somewhere tonight.
Then the doorbell rings.
I barely register it. Probably another one of Melanie’s packages—the girl has a serious online shopping addiction.
I hear her shuffle to the door and pull it open.
Then, a long pause.
“Oh,” she says, her voice unusually high-pitched. “Uh…hi?”
My brow furrows. That’s weird. Melanie isn’t usually awkward.
Then, a deep voice—one I’d know anywhere.
“Where is she?”
I drop the ladle into the pot. It sinks with a sad little plop, soup splattering onto the stove.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
Before I can react, before I can run, hide, or escape through a conveniently placed window, Damien Zaitsev walks into my tiny apartment like he owns the place.
Melanie stands frozen by the door, her wide eyes darting between us.
Meanwhile, I am barefoot in the kitchen, wearing duck-patterned pajamas, holding a dripping spoon like it’s going to protect me.