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MIA

I can still feel his lips against my cheek.

I should be repulsed. I should be terrified. I should have taken one look at Yulian’s true face, the way he cornered me in that alley, and ran for dear fucking life.

Instead, here I am one measly day later, waiting for him on the sidewalk in front of my apartment, all dolled up for him.

I can practically feel the feminism leaving my body, along with my hard-won self-respect. Goodbye, my friend! It’s been good knowing ya.

And all the while, I can still feel his lips against my cheek.

Mere steps from me, that alley he cornered me in gapes wide open, like a dark, hungry maw ready to swallow me whole.

But this isn’t about self-respect. That’s for people whose lives aren’t this royally fucked-up, who don’t attract trouble like flies to honey. For those who have choices.

Me? I’ve run fresh out.

Because the truth is, it doesn’t matter how much of an asshole Yulian is. It doesn’t matter how badly his closeness rattles me, with fear and something else.

I don’t even dare unpack that—I’m terrified it would land me exactly where I was five years ago, at the beck and call of Local Rich Dick who thought he could treat me however he wanted because he bought me nice gifts. When I thought I was in love.

Wow. The Venn diagram of my life really is a circle, isn’t it?

Except that, this time, it’s not about love.

I’m not that delulu little girl anymore, the one who thought slaps were caresses and punches were kisses.

The one who believed having her phone checked five times a day was a sign of care.

Who hoped that, one day, he’d realize she wasn’t going anywhere and stop trying so hard to keep her.

That her body’s bruises would fade, her soul’s scars would heal, and she’d land into the fluffy clouds of “happily ever after.”

No—this is business. Cold, hard business.

Nothing less, nothing more.

I’ve seen enough of Yulian Lozhkin to stay away for the rest of my life.

Six months. It’s such a small price for freedom, but when I count the days in my head, it feels like forever. Three times I’ve met him, and three times I’ve come away burned.

How long before his flames consume me?

How long before I don’t have a life to return to?

But you have Eli. You have your son.

It’s that voice in my head that keeps me going, keeps me steady enough to endure Mr. Choke-Me-Daddy’s knockoff Christian Grey attitude. If swallowing my pride is all I have to do to secure one million dollars—my son’s future—then I’ll open wide and say, “Pretty please.”

After all, I’ve already done it once for free.

One million. Suddenly, all the things I could do with that money crowd my head.

I could pay off my debts; I could buy us a house.

I could keep Eli’s tuition paid and his therapist covered, could take him for pizza and ice cream every weekend.

I could buy him all the sports gear he wants, fill his room with new toys instead of hand-me-downs.

I could spend more time with him. I could…

Make him happy.

And I could keep him.

I’m not stupid. I know CPS is going to pounce at the first infraction. The second that my bank account goes under, that I miss a payment on my loans, that I so much as misspell a word on a check, they’ll swoop in like vultures.

They’ll take Eli, dump him into foster care, and…

No. I slap my cheeks and force myself to stop thinking. I’m about to be a freaking millionaire—CPS won’t be a problem anymore.

With Yulian’s money, I can hire a whole team of custody lawyers. I can make the case go away. I can disappear, far away from here, where Mr. Lee won’t find us.

Where Brad won’t find us.

And then, maybe, if I pick my studies back up… if I can finish what I started…

If I can get the degree I really wanted…

Then we won’t have to worry about money ever again.

Just as I’m nursing that thought, Yulian’s Maybach pulls up. The window rolls down.

“Get in.”

And fuck you, too, I want to say.

But I slide into the backseat instead.

Yulian is there, all broody darkness and devil-actually-doesn’t-give-a-shit scowl. He doesn’t greet me, so I don’t greet him.

If silence is how he wants to play this, that’s fine by me.

“Hiya there, Nurse Wonder!” Maksim grins from the driver’s seat. His tattooed face peeks into the back. “So glad you decided to join the team.”

Did I have any other choice?

“Hi, Maksim.” I smile back. “Thanks for driving us.”

Out of the two Russian mobsters I’ve now tied my fate to, he’s by far the better hang. Polite, too, not that Yulian would know what that means.

“Hear that?” He wiggles his burned-off brow in Yulian’s direction. “She has manners . Refreshing, isn’t it?”

Yulian grunts something unintelligible. Then, “Drive.”

Maksim doesn’t need to be told twice.

We zoom off into the night. For a while, no one says anything. The tension in this car could be cut with a machete—and I don’t doubt Yulian’s got one stashed away in the mini-bar.

“I see you’ve managed to make our appointment,” Yulian notes eventually. “Despite the lack of… ah, notice. ”

His tone makes me want to break every oath I’ve ever sworn. Repeatedly.

“My best friend is a saint,” I say instead. “It’s not the first time she bails me out of an emergency. Though I’m not sure this qualifies.”

“No?”

“You know what they say.” I smile tightly. “‘Lack of planning on your end does not constitute an emergency on mine,’ and so on, and so forth.”

His eyes glint with amusement. “But she came through.”

“She always does.”

“Seems like you had nothing to worry about, then.”

God, please give me patience, because if you give me strength, I’ll end up on the news.

“Good friends are hard to find. Thankfully, I found her. Which is extra nice, because I can’t imagine having to hire someone every time I needed help. I’d be broke and sad.” My smile widens. “Good thing I’m just broke, huh?”

Yulian’s amusement flickers. Something else mixes with it—not quite anger, but close. A simmering annoyance, perhaps. The kind of dry kindling you don’t want close to a spark.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he says, “Nice dress.”

I look down. The black lace ruffles around my middle and snakes up my arms in floral patterns. The butterfly sleeves give me something to torment with my fingers, though I won’t give Yulian the satisfaction of seeing it.

He can’t know how nervous I am. Last time we sparred, I blinked first.

Now, it’s his turn.

“Thanks.” I smooth down my skirt. “I got it off a clearance rack.”

His lips quirk. “A better rack than last time, I’m sure.”

He isn’t wrong—I did splurge a little. As in, way more than I ever thought I could spend on a single item of clothing. That receipt will be giving me nightmares until I die.

“Figured I’d need a work closet,” I say with a shrug.

Yulian hums appreciatively. “You could have done worse.”

I get the feeling it’s the most praise he’s ever given anyone. “I’ll try harder next time. To do worse, I mean.”

“No need.” He fixes his cuffs—a habit of his, I’ve noticed, even when there’s nothing wrong with them—and turns to me. “I’ll be handling your ‘work closet’ from now on.”

It should be a relief, but I don’t like the way he says it. Like I’m his thing to dress up. A doll he bought, and now gets to play with however he sees fit.

But I let it slide. It costs me, but I do.

It’s just work, after all, isn’t it? My body, my person—for the next six months, they’re his. He made it abundantly clear yesterday, in that alley.

I can still remember how it felt. His hands on me, his cologne around me. His husky voice, scraping my self-respect straight out of my brain.

It’s the only reason I didn’t freeze up completely: The man who was cornering me, who was grabbing me and threatening to do whatever he wanted with me—he was clearly someone else.

He was clearly not Brad.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t be worse.

I’ll have to tread carefully. Yulian Lozhkin is no fairytale prince, that much is for certain. He won’t open the door to the carriage for me, won’t gift me priceless dresses because he wants me to be happy wearing them, won’t shower me in luxury for my sake.

Everything, from the first silk thread to the last diamond drop, will be for him . To any other woman, he’d be the villain of the story.

Luckily for him, I’ve already filled that role.

Suddenly, I find papers being thrust in front of me.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Your contract.” Yulian’s voice is cold, businesslike. “Amended, like you wanted.”

You mean like you wanted, too. It’s uncanny how quickly he’s managed to forget half of these changes came from him.

I take the contract. It’s weightless, which is appropriate. It’s like Yulian said: One wrong move, and he’ll tear it up.

Only one of us is truly protected by it.

“Here.” Yulian passes me a pen. “In case you actually don’t own one.”

You swore an oath, Mia. Hippocrates would be really upset with you, Mia. You can’t punch the cocky Russian asshole who pays for your son’s schooling, Mia.

Swallowing back my anger, I take the pen. I also don’t stab him with it, which I count as my good deed of the day.

My teeth have been gritting nonstop since I’ve met Yulian Lozhkin—it’ll be a miracle if I’ll be able to eat anything other than soup by the time these six months are up.

But fine. With his million, I can pay for a damn dentist, too.

I scrawl a signature on the papers and hand them back to him. “Here,” I say. “All done.”

I try not to flinch when his hand grazes mine. Try not to shiver, either.

His closeness drives me crazier than his attitude. If I’m going to survive this, I’ll need to learn how to deal with it.

But that’s not going to happen tonight.

Because, the second the car stops, Yulian offers me his arm. “Shall we?”

Deep breaths, Mia. You can do this. You can survive one night with the devil.

And then another, and another, and another.

“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go.”

I take his arm. I let him lead me through two heavy, gilded doors, the word GOLDENROD gleaming on top in a golden arch.

I let him shepherd me through a luxurious lounge, all marble floors and chandeliers and glassware that’s worth more than all my organs.

I let him pretend I belong here, but I don’t.

“Relax,” he whispers. “You’re with me, remember?”

You belong wherever you decide you belong, kotyonok . Yulian’s words on that first, fateful night linger in my mind, warm and soothing. Most importantly, where I decide.

So I take a deep breath and try to act like it. Like I was born for this. Like this is all I’ve known all my life.

Like I’m the future Mrs. Lozhkin.

And then, out of the blue, a hand slaps my ass.