Page 23 of Ivory Ashes

“Come along, Margaret. I’ve waited long enough for you. Don’t waste any more of my time.”

She blinks. “But I don’t—I don’t go to these meetings.”

The disappointment on her face tells me all I need to know: Viviana wants to escape.

But until I understand why the sight of me has her running for the hills, I’m not letting her out of my sight.

“You do now.” I swipe her purse off of her desk and offer her an elbow. “I want to keep you close.”

8

VIVIANA

I have to get out of here.

Years ago, when I first brought Dante to the city, I had an escape plan. There was a Go Bag permanently stationed by the front door and a roll of cash in the freezer.

Then Dante learned to crawl and his favorite activity was unpacking the Go Bag and wedging the contents between the cushions of the couch.

The roll of money in the freezer lasted a little longer, but last year, he needed tubes in his ears to stop the onslaught of nonstop ear infections and I had to buy a new window A/C when the landlord refused to replace our old one during a heat wave.

Now, I have nothing except a deep-seated instinct to run and a five-year-old who loves his school and his friends and the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling. He’s going to hate me for ripping us away from his life.

My horoscope today told me to “be decisive and confident.” What it failed to mention is that a person from my past was coming to royally fuck my shit up.

A sharp elbow in my side sends me jolting like I’ve been electrocuted. Water glasses around the table slosh and every single set of eyes are locked on me. I grimace my apology to the shareholders, avoiding eye contact with the broad-shouldered devil stationed next to the door. Mikhail’s position right by the only exit is not an accident, I’m sure.

Instead of looking his way, I force my attention to Steve, the owner of the elbow.

“Yes?” I whisper, glaring at him.

How dare he and his halitosis draw attention to me. As if a set of ice blue eyes haven’t already been drilling into my skull for the last hour.

“Um…” he draws out. His onion breath might as well be a green cloud between us. “Mr. Novikov is talking to you.”

I frown. “What?”

“Mr. Novikov,” he repeats slowly. “He said your name.”

No, he didn’t. I know what it sounds like when he says my name. I’ve had countless dirty dreams of nothing but him saying my name. I would know if he’d said?—

“Margaret?” Mikhail taps his pen on the table like he’s trying to get the attention of an easily-distracted cat. “Can you hear me, Margaret?”

Oh. He didn’t buy the fake name before. He definitely won’t buy it now.

I smile politely at him, my cheeks practically cracking under the strain. “Yes?”

“Do these valuations look right to you?”

God, he’s gorgeous. Mikhail arches a brow, highlighting the angular slant of his cheekbones and the square line of his jaw. This man might as well be carved from marble. How am I supposed to think about any numbers with this face in front of me?

How am I supposed to think about these numbers when the only number running through my head is the very small one in my bank account?

I can’t afford to run, but I don’t have a choice. I have to?—

“Margaret.” He cracks the fake name like a whip and I jump to my feet.

“I’m not feeling well,” I blurt.

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