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MIA

The rest of the weekend goes on in a peaceful haze.

Eli is over the moon about his new shoes. He wears them around the house all Saturday, then falls asleep in them. On Sunday, I have to bribe them off his feet with Fruit Loops.

It’s the best weekend I’ve had all year.

When I have to go into work for my night shift, I tuck in Eli and kiss him goodnight. “Be good with Uncle Reese. I’ll pick you up in time for school, okay?”

“Promise?” Eli pleads. His tiny hand clings on to my sleeve, as if afraid I won’t show up. That I’ll leave him on his own again.

It makes guilt pierce me even harder.

“I promise,” I whisper.

I mean it.

Never again.

Things are gonna be different from now on.

At work, Kallie is surprisingly understanding when I give her the whole insane rundown. “Oh, you poor thing,” she says when I finished my story. “I can’t believe I was mad at you!”

“To be fair, you had every reason.”

“No, I didn’t! You got caught in a shooting, Mimi. That’s a get-out-of-jail-free card if I ever saw any.” She hugs me tightly, almost squeezing me to death. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Positive,” I croak. “Can I please have my lungs again?”

“Nope. All mine now.”

Afterwards, Kallie tries to grill me about the mysterious billionaire-slash-bad boy who hired me to be arm candy for ten thousand smackaroos.

But I’m not ready to get into all that yet—especially not the Brad part—and so she reluctantly lets me off with another bone-crushing hug and a rain check for tea and yap.

The shift is, of course, grueling.

By the time I’ve dropped Eli at preschool on Monday morning, I’m beat. All I want is to curl up into bed and shut off my brain for a couple of hours. Forget about my wild Friday night and sleep like the dead.

Unfortunately, it seems the universe has other plans.

“Ms. Winters. We need to talk.”

When I see him on my doorstep, all dark suit and husky voice, my first thought is: Oh, no. He’s back.

And then: Oh, no. He’s hot.

I slap myself mentally. The fact that he’s here cannot be good news—at all .

I don’t care how good he looks in those tailored slacks and that barely-buttoned shirt: Yulian Lozhkin is trouble.

With a capital fucking T.

“Mr. Lozhkin.” I steel myself. “What a surprise.”

The corner of his mouth curls. “Not that much of a surprise, it seems. You’ve done your research.”

“And you’ve done yours,” I bite back. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t know at which door to loom.”

“Is that what I’m doing? ‘Looming’?”

Focus, Mia.

Don’t get distracted by his abs, Mia.

You’ve got no cheese left to grate, Mia.

“You tell me,” I say with a nervous swallow. “You’re the one blocking me out of my apartment.”

He looks at me with a hungry glint in his eye. An intense, predatory look, the kind that makes you suddenly realize how interesting the floor between your toes is.

Slowly, he takes a step towards me. “First, I was blocking you in,” he drawls. “Now, I’m blocking you out.”

I force myself to hold his gaze. “Points for consistency, I guess.”

We stay like that for a while, in silence, just staring at each other. Waiting to see who will blink first.

Get comfortable, Mr. Lozhkin, I seethe at the back of my mind. ‘Cause it sure as hell ain’t gonna be me.

Eventually, he takes a step back and concedes. Not like someone who’s lost, though—like someone who’s got much bigger games to play.

Somehow, it gets even more on my nerves.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asks.

“No.” I cross my arms and plant myself in front of my door. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it right here.”

“It’s cute that you think a locked door could stop me.”

“It’s cute that you think I’ll let you in where my kid sleeps.”

His lips twitch again with that quicksilver smile. I hate that he’s getting a laugh out of it. Out of me. It makes me want to fist that perfect shirt and scratch those perfect abs and?—

Nope. Wrong train of thought.

Still, the sentiment stands.

Eventually, Yulian plucks a manila envelope from under his arm. I was so preoccupied with him, I hadn’t even noticed it.

“Read,” he says, with the calm confidence of a man who expects to be obeyed.

Warily, I take the file.

My eyes narrow as I scan it, but every word I read pries them wider. At one point, I’m convinced it must be a prank. Yulian doesn’t seem the type to clown around, but who knows? Maybe he’s secretly a big joker.

Or maybe I’m the clown.

“This is a contract,” I blink.

“An astute observation.”

“To be your fake fiancée. ”

“Again, glad to see your reading skills are up to the task.”

I grind my teeth into dust. God, what I wouldn’t give to just grab his face and—and— urgh!

“Yulian, what the hell is this?”

His pupils widen—just a fraction. Belatedly, I realize this must be the first time I’ve called him by his first name.

He recovers quickly, though. “As you so cleverly noticed, it’s a contract of employment.”

“To be your girlfriend.”

“ Fake girlfriend.”

“For the next six months.”

“If you’re fishing for compliments, I’m afraid I’ve already said everything I’m going to about your comprehension abilities.”

“How about your comprehension abilities?” I cry out. “You realize I’d have to be crazy to say yes, right?” I thrust the papers back to him. “I mean, last night?—”

“Turn to article five.”

“Excuse me?”

His tone grows darker. “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself, Mia. ”

The sound of my name in his mouth sends a shiver down my spine. Suddenly, my legs feel like jelly.

I don’t know why I obey, but I do.

“Article five,” I read flatly. “‘Compensation.’”

“Go on.”

I’ll tell you where you can go. “For six months of service,” I grit, “the Employee will be paid…”

Then I stop.

I blink.

I reread the number.

Then I count the zeroes again, and again, and again, because it can’t possibly be?—

One million dollars.

But it is.

I turn my gaze back to Yulian. “You’re—you’re serious?”

“Like I said,” he rumbles, “I’m always serious.”

One million. One freaking million. My eyes are crossing, reading the number over and over, like it might change at any second.

I have to fight the urge to pinch myself, if only because I know Yulian would be insufferable about it.

Of course, he decides to be insufferable anyway.

“Not bad for six months’ work,” he points out. “It’s certainly more than you make right now.”

“How do you know what I?—?”

“I have my sources,” he says vaguely. “Besides, you’re a nurse.”

The dismissive way he says it makes my blood boil. Like nurses are just a disposable category—people you don’t really need . People who, when it comes down to it, can be replaced in a heartbeat.

It’s the way every hospital administrator in history has felt about us. The way every hotshot doctor treats us.

I want to tell him to shove his contract up his ass, but I can’t.

Because the truth is, it’s a lot of fucking money.

More than I make in six months, he says? Fuck that—it’s more than I’d make in ten years.

I bite my tongue, but I doubt there’s a point in secrecy. It’s not like my ratty scrubs and the bags under the eyes aren’t giving Mr. Bad Boy Billionaire the full picture anyway.

“You’ll be my plus one at events.” He fixes his cufflinks, not even looking at me as he speaks. “You’ll accompany me wherever I choose, whenever I choose. You’ll wear what I say, do as I say, and behave like a true Lozhkin fiancée would.”

It irritates me to no end—the way he says it.

Like I’ve already accepted.

Like it’s unthinkable I wouldn’t.

Like he can just waltz into my home and buy me.

“In exchange for that,” he goes on, oblivious to the dark glare on my face, “I’ll take care of all your debts. I’ll take care of your needs. I’ll make sure you never have to set foot in a shithole like this again.”

He knows about my debts. It’s like a bucket of ice water straight to the face.

Until now, I’d been downplaying how dangerous Yulian Lozhkin is, how resourceful. How capable of getting whatever it is he wants.

But now, I can’t ignore it anymore.

Yulian’s gaze flicks back to me. Calm, unbothered—like he’s already won.

In a way, he has.

There’s no world where I say no, is there? No universe. No version of reality. This is one million dollars we’re talking about. It’s life-changing money. It’s?—

“I’ll even throw in an investment fund for little Eli.”

At that, I see red.

“Keep my son’s name out of your fucking mouth,” I snarl.

Then I slam the contract into his chest.

Yulian’s eyes widen. Just a little, but enough to betray his surprise. If I didn’t know better, I’d even call it shock. “You’re refusing.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” I plant my fists on my hips. “What? You thought you’d just show up here and—and buy me?”

“You need the money,” he says again, like it explains everything. “Clearly, you do.”

“And clearly, you’re not the great negotiator you thought you were.

” Forgoing all thoughts of self-preservation, I get all up in his space again.

I may be half his size, but I’m fairly certain I’m carrying twice the rage he’s capable of right now.

“You come here, you insult my profession, you insult my home?—”

“I did not? — ”

“Yes, you did!” I snap. “This ‘shithole’ that you despise so much? It’s home to me, Yulian. To me and my son. And you do not get to come here and play sugar daddy with us.”

Yulian’s face is a mask of barely-concealed fury. I watch his throat work, his jaw set tight.

“If I have offended you,” he growls, “then you have my apologies.”

It feels like it costs him to say it—like he just had to swallow a lemon whole. I get the impression that the word “apology” is not usually a part of Yulian Lozhkin’s vocabulary.

“That said,” he adds, cold as ice, “I fail to see how what you’re doing here is smart.”

“What you fail to see,” I retort acidly, “is that I’ve had enough of rich men thinking they can own me.”

“You’re saying you won’t even consider it.”

“I’m saying?—”

Suddenly, my pocket starts vibrating. I pull out my phone, and?—

—and the preschool’s number blinks back at me from it.

“Shit,” I curse. “I have to go.”

“We’re not finished here.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Mia—”

I drop the papers at my feet and rush off.

Yulian’s stare burns holes in my back the whole way.