Page 26 of Sin in My Inbox (Sexting Spark #1)

Dmitri

Bang.

The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the empty living room. I stood frozen, staring at the heavy oak door, as if I could see her resolute figure through the wood grain. My fists clenched and unclenched, fingers trembling.

Her shampoo's faint jasmine scent still lingered in the air—I'd breathed it in countless times, buried in her hair. But now it was fading fast, carried away by the cold AC, just like her, vanishing from my world without a trace.

The room went dead silent.

I collapsed onto the sofa, the leather creaking under me. I poured myself a whiskey. It burned going down, bitter, like it was punishing me for my stupidity.

I closed my eyes, her last words replaying in my head. "But it wouldn't be my life! It'd be yours." Each syllable cut like a razor, slicing through my nerves.

Time crawled. The antique clock on the wall ticked steadily, each sound hammering my heart. Finally, I grabbed my phone, my fingers hovering over the screen before dialing her number—the one I'd only recently saved.

Busy tone.

Cold. Relentless. Cruel.

She'd blocked me.

The realization hit like a sledgehammer. No woman had ever done this to me. Never. The primped-up socialites, the gold-diggers clawing for power—they'd kill for a glance from me, wait all night for a call, dress to the nines for a single compliment.

But Avery? She blocked me.

I dialed again. Busy. Third time, fourth—each tone was a slap, sharp and stinging. My temples throbbed, veins pulsing like they'd burst.

"Fuck!"

I hurled the half-full whiskey glass at the marble floor. It shattered. A shard grazed my cheek, a sharp sting followed by a trickle of blood down my jaw, staining my shirt dark red.

I stood in the wreckage, chest heaving, my dress shirt straining at the buttons, fury burning through my skull.

Fine. Let her go, I told myself, my inner voice shaky but vicious. Let her run off and say yes to that Mark guy or whatever the hell his name was. I didn't care. I didn't give a shit. Women had never been in short supply in my life.

I strode to the floor-to-ceiling window. The city sprawled below, sunset painting the sky red. But that glow couldn't touch the ice in my chest. This was just a game, I thought—one of many in my forty-two years. Time to move on to a new player.

At seven sharp the next morning, I walked into my office. A habit carved in stone, no matter how fucked up I felt. The surface had to stay polished.

After all, I'd only lost a woman who lied to me.

I sat at my desk, flipping through files, but my eyes couldn't focus on a single line.

"Sir." Nick stepped in .

I opened a file, trying to bury myself in work.

Three big meetings today, including the final talks for the Westside Dock acquisition—a deal I'd spent six months planning, worth over fifty million.

Normally, that kind of stakes would've had my full attention, but now? I couldn't muster a damn spark.

In the meeting room, the legal team droned on, but my mind wandered. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting stripes on the table. I saw our first meeting—her in that slinky nightgown, somehow innocent despite it all. Then the gala, that kiss under everyone's eyes.

"Based on our assessment, they might push back on clause seven, so I recommend—"

The lawyer's voice faded to static. Avery's smile, her voice—they haunted me, a curse I couldn't shake. I forced myself back to the present.

"Mr. Belov?"

The lawyer's voice snapped me back. The whole room was staring, waiting for my call. Twenty pairs of eyes, expecting the usual sharp Dmitri Belov. But I felt hollow, powerless.

I took a deep breath, hiding the storm inside. "What'd you say?"

The lawyer froze, a flicker of unease crossing his face. He repeated cautiously, "About the suggested changes to clause seven, we think—"

"Fine." I cut him off, snapping the file shut. "Do it your way."

"What?" The lead lawyer forgot his manners, stunned. "But he hasn't even explained—"

"Do I need to repeat myself?" I slammed the file on the table, the sound booming. A water glass jumped.

The room went dead. Twenty execs didn't dare breathe. They'd never seen me lose it. In their eyes, Dmitri Belov was always ice-cold, unshaken even at death's door.

The silence stretched for seconds. Their shocked faces hit me—I'd lost control. This wasn't me, not the man who ran the show.

I sucked in a breath, clawing back some sanity. "Meeting's over."

Relieved footsteps scrambled out, execs practically fleeing. Nick stayed, quietly shutting the door. He adjusted the blinds, then stood still .

"Miss Carter's latest movements." He handed me a tablet, the screen showing a detailed log.

"Left her apartment at 7:15, visited St. Mary's Hospital for an hour—her mother. Clocked in at nine, work performance…" He paused, choosing his words. "Subpar. Distracted, reprimanded twice by the shift lead. Lunch was just a coffee."

I took the tablet, zooming in on the surveillance feed. She passed the camera, and I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, her focus gone. Her steps lacked their usual bounce, shoulders slumped like a flower battered by a storm. Seeing her like that twisted my gut.

"And," Nick added, voice careful, "Mark Reynolds approached Miss Carter twice this morning. Once in the break room, about five minutes. Then at lunch, a brief meeting in the cafeteria. Reynolds seemed to be offering concern, comfort."

My chest ignited. That Mark kid, that opportunistic bastard, sniffing around her vulnerability, trying to win her with his soft words and fake care. The thought drove me fucking insane.

"That Mark guy."

"Yes, sir." Nick's voice stayed flat, reading my intent. "Mark Reynolds, twenty-five, junior bartender at Aisley Resort. Two years employed, decent performance, no major issues."

"Transfer him. Now. Find the farthest, shittiest branch." The words felt good, familiar—power fixing problems, crushing threats.

Nick's eyes flickered, barely. "Understood, sir. The new Westside Dock branch needs a night-shift coordinator in logistics. Remote, grueling shifts, rough conditions."

"Perfect, that's—"

Her eyes flashed in my mind, unbidden. Last night at the hotel, when she'd yanked her hand free. Those amber eyes blazed with anger, but beneath it, a tidal wave of disappointment.

If I screwed over Mark now, and Avery found out, what would she think? She'd see me as the tyrant she already suspected, pushing her further away.

"Fuck." I cursed under my breath, hating my hesitation .

Nick's hand didn't move, still holding the tablet, his gaze steady but questioning. I knew I looked alien to him now.

"Change it. Not Westside." My voice came out hoarse. "Find a place with potential. What about that new Cloudtop branch downtown? Don't they need a front-office trainee manager?"

Nick's eyebrow twitched—the only sign of his shock. "Cloudtop's front office does have an opening for a trainee manager. Reynolds is underqualified, but we could push him through as a special talent. The position pays forty percent more than his current role."

"Then Cloudtop. Trainee manager. Say we saw potential in him, send him for development." I rubbed my temples, dizzy.

Nick gave me a long look, then jotted it down. He didn't say it, but I knew what he was thinking: the mob boss giving a rival a promotion? A fucking joke.

But I couldn't make Avery hate me more. The idea of her thinking I was petty, vindictive—it stopped me cold. This kind of restraint was new, terrifying, confusing.

"Get out," I said, not turning around. I didn't want him to see my face.

"Yes, sir." Nick's footsteps faded.

I sat alone behind my massive desk, fingers grazing the cold surface. Something was wrong with me. I'd never fucked up this much at work.

A week. A whole damn week. Avery's shadow clung to my mind.

I thought time would dull it, that I'd forget her like every other woman. I was wrong. Each day, her image sharpened—every expression, every move, the rhythm of her breath.

Irritated, I stood and hit the liquor cabinet. I'd downed more booze this week than in the last month combined. Whiskey, cognac, vodka—anything to numb her out. But the haze only lasted so long, and the pain hit harder when it cleared.

The phone rang. I picked it up, voice like steel. "Speak."

"Sir, Miss Carter called. She wants to pick up her things." Petty's voice was steady as ever .

My hand tightened, nearly crushing the glass. "What things?"

"Some clothes, personal items. A few books. She said she'd send someone tomorrow to get them." Petty paused. "She sounded tired."

"No one gives her anything!" She thought she could just cut me out, like what we had meant nothing?

Silence on the other end.

Petty's voice picked up a rare urgency. "Did something happen between you and Miss Carter?"

I sank back into my chair, drained. With Petty, I didn't need to fake it. She knew all my secrets, had seen me at my weakest.

"Yeah, I fucked up, Petty." First time I'd ever admitted failure to anyone.

"Want to tell me what happened?" Her tone softened.

I let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp in the empty office. "I tried to control her life. Told her to move in, quit her job, and live how I wanted. Thought she'd be thrilled with the money, the comfort. She told me to shove it and walked out."

Petty paused, choosing her words. "Miss Carter's not like the women you've known. She's got her own pride, her own fight. You can't handle her the old way."

"So what do I do, Petty? Tell me what the hell I do." My voice cracked with a helplessness I hated.

"First, change," she said, firm and steady. "Respect her choices, her life, her independence. Then, show her your heart. Not with money or power—real, raw feeling. That's the only way you'll earn her trust back."

"What if she won't see me?" The question had haunted me all week.

"Then wait," Petty said. "Wait until she's ready to hear you. Real love takes patience, sir. You've had everything handed to you your whole life. Maybe it's time to learn how to fight for something."

I hung up, leaning back, letting the shadows swallow me. The sun blazed outside, lighting up the city, every skyscraper's glass reflecting fire. But that light couldn't touch the cold darkness I was sitting in .

Change. The word felt foreign. I was used to bending the world to my will, fixing problems with power and cash. Now Petty was telling me to drop my only weapons, to learn shit I'd long since tossed aside—waiting, respect, patience.

Harder than starting a war.

At five, the clock chimed. Avery's shift was over.

I parked at the intersection she passed on her way home, sitting in my car for three hours.

The ashtray was overflowing with cigar stubs.

My fingers tapped the steering wheel—one, two, three.

My nervous tic. Smoke curled through the car, but nicotine wasn't calming me anymore.

My eyes stayed glued to the employee exit, like a hunter waiting for prey.

Except I felt more like a prisoner awaiting judgment.

5:03. She was three minutes late.

My heart started pounding, erratic. Was she off today? Did she leave through another exit? Would she never show up again? The thoughts coiled like vipers, tightening my chest.

Then the door opened. Avery stepped out.

With Mark. They walked side by side, their shadows stretching long in the afternoon sun, burning my eyes.

Mark wore a plain tee and jeans, one hand in his pocket. Avery tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint smile. She looked relaxed, unguarded, softer than I'd seen her in ages.

No.

A surge of jealousy, panic, and raw possession roared through me, torching what little reason I had left.

I shoved the car door open, hard enough to rock the frame. Ignoring the startled looks from passersby, I stormed forward, each step fueled by a rage ready to tear everything apart, straight toward those two figures that burned my vision.

They saw me at the same time.

Avery's ease and warmth froze, then shattered the second she spotted me. Her eyes widened, those clear pupils reflecting only my furious glare. Mark froze too, his dumb grin stuck, glancing between me and Avery, who'd gone pale as a ghost .

Avery stepped back, lips tight, body braced like she was ready to fight. Her eyes—sharp, icy—pierced me, silently demanding, What the hell are you doing here?

My presence was an intrusion to her.