Page 189 of Morally Corrupt

"You made me believe you were dead, asshole?" I demand, and he crosses his arms.

"And you made me believe you were just a friend from work." He arches an eyebrow at me.

Okay, yeah, I did do that.

"When did you remember?"

"Not too long after you left," he admits, and I get even angrier.

"And you waited until now to show up?"

"See here, Miss, you were the one who leftme," he says indignantly.

"Only because I thought you might never remember, and I wanted you toneverremember certain things." I try to defend myself. I also have to add, "I do the onlynotselfish thing in my life, and you throw it in my face?"

Adrian chuckles. "Well, I think I like you better when you're selfish."

"Asshole," I mutter under my breath, but I can't help a little smile.

We sit, and he manages to salvage some pancakes.

"How did you remember?"

"A few hours after you left, I started getting flashes of memories. I needed some time to come to terms with what had happened."

"Especially with Jimenez and Marcel… I thought you were also trying to give me space. But when you failed to show up, day after day, I looked for you. Vlad was very forthcoming, for once."

"That traitor."

"I would have come sooner, but I needed some time to set up everything for Theodore Hastings' death. I was supposed to get here before you saw the news, but my flight had severe delays," he recounts.

"So now, you're just Adrian Barnett?"

"Yep, and all yours." He flutters his eyelashes at me the same way I used to do to him. "I'm unemployed now, though, so you'll have to support both of us. Think you can manage with a househusband?"

"For you, I'll make an exception," I tease. "Besides, we need to stay here for a year until my contract ends."

"And then?"

"Wherever life takes us."

55

BIANCA

ONE YEAR LATER

“How long have you been planning this for?” I ask Adrian as we step into a sumptuous ballroom. The orchestra is playing by the side, a beautiful rendition of Blue Danube.

There is no one else inside the room.

In the middle, there is a round table with two chairs waiting for us.

“A month?” He tips his lips up in a mischievous smile. “I’ve been counting down the days until your contract ran out—and until we got out of Russia.” He feigns a shudder.

He’s not the biggest fan of Russia, mostly because he's sick of hearing Amerikanski, followed by an interjection every time he interacted with a Russian. Oh, and the random American brands thrown at him.

The moment my contract ended, two days ago, he announced that he’d booked tickets for a vacation in Venice. I’d been surprised by his choice of location, but when he’d spun some romantic tales about gondolas and carnival masks and some other things I forget, I was convinced. Mostly about the romance aspect. I don’t care about weird ass masks and boys on boats. I can drive my boat, thank you very much.

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