“I don’t… I don’t think you’re a blackmailer who turned out to be nicer than I expected. I think you’re an awful Russian blackmailer who was acting nicer than I expected. But it was just acting.”
I know I’m right in my assessment when his eyes go dead at my words. “You still owe me a day, krasotka. Or did you forget?”
“No, I didn’t forget…” Tears of shame and disappointment threaten to descend, but I blink them back. Because I’m not weak. I’m a strong black woman, and I did not claw my way into a better life to let some hockey player demean me.
And I prove it by striding out of the kitchen and back to his bedroom.
There I yank open a few drawers until I find something I can work with—exercise clothes. I throw on a plain grey tee, and I’m pulling on his basketball shorts when he follows me into the room.
“You look silly. And this is a violation of the good pet rules. Take off my clothes.”
“I’ll pay you back for the outfit. And for the day,” I answer. “I’ll put a check in the mail as soon as I get home.”
With that, I charge forward to push past him.
But he steps in front of me. Like a big Russian wall.
“Get out of my way!”
“Krasotka…” he starts.
“What does that even mean?” I demand.
He rubs a hand over his closely cropped hair. Like he’s having a hard time being patient with me. But he answers. “Beauty. It means beauty.”
A day ago, even a few minutes ago, I would have found that meaning complimentary. But now… “No! Don’t call me that! I’m not a beauty queen or an animal or a pet or whatever you wanted me to be for these five days. I’m an accountant—a boring accountant who got in way over her head with you.”
I try to sidestep him again. But he steps in front of me again.
And I just lose it.
“Get out of my way!” I scream at him. “If you keep me here, that’s kidnapping on top of blackmail!”
He grits his chiseled jaw, but after a heated beat, he steps aside.
I rush past him and grab my phone off the table with the chessboard which I set back up after his temper tantrum about me leaving on Saturday. He’s still playing himself, I see. A few more pieces have moved on both sides of the board.
Whatever, I’m done here. So done. I continue toward the exit but stop again when I find Vlad in front of the elevator doors.
“No leaving,” he reminds me. “You still have one more day until your time is up.”
Before I can answer, a voice behind me says something in Russian. Harsh and short.
I look over my shoulder to find Cheslav. His hands are loose at his side, and his expression is shadowed over with fury.
I brace, prepared to fight my way out of this penthouse if that’s what it takes.
But then Vlad says, “I will take you to your home now, Princess South Carolina. Sorry for mistake.”
So in the end, I don’t have to fight my way out of the Russian’s penthouse. Vlad takes me by the elbow and escorts me into the elevator.
I’m relieved. Or at least I should be.
But for some reason, it feels like my chest is cracking as I step into the elevator. And my eyes immediately find Cheslav again when I turn to face forward.
I look at him, wondering what parts of our time together were real and what parts were just his game.
He looks back at me, his eyes green ice.
Then the elevator closes.
Chapter Eleven
When I get home, I find my brother gone. There’s a hastily written post-it stuck to my door: Sorry, sis. Talked to Nat, and she said I can move back in.
I don’t know if he’s sorry about the position he put me in or for moving out. Either way…
I crumple up the post-it and toss it in the very smelly trash he didn’t bother to take out before leaving. Why do I have the feeling this is the last I’ll see of Clemson too—at least until he needs something else.
No matter what…
I know I promised my mother on her deathbed, and I love my brother. But sometimes it feels like I’m a doormat. Something that only gets used when he needs to wipe his feet.
After taking a shower and changing into my own clothes, I find about a thousand messages from my boss when I sit down at my laptop to check my work email. My firm has called a company-wide meeting about whether to switch to a remote work model into the foreseeable future. So even though I’m taking a sick day, I’ll have to go into the office.
Okay…
First, I do some funds shuffling between my personal savings account and the one I made to hold the money I set aside for my brother. Then I write a check for forty-three-thousand dollars to Cheslav Rustanov and I drop it in one of my pre-stamped envelopes. After that, I pick up everything I’ll need to work from home.
