Page 61 of 10 Days to Ruin

ARIEL

Why am I not surprised?

Sasha’s text last night was a masterpiece in brevity.Noon tomorrow,plus a location pin. Someone ought to teach him how to form complete sentences one of these days.

I guess, technically speaking, this would count as one of our ten dates until death mercifully parts us, or whatever. As far as I’m concerned, it’s nothing but a new battlefield for the same old war to continue.

What’s worrying is that I’m less certain of my tactics than ever.

Yesterday’s intrusion at his office was supposed to be my big offensive. It was supposed to put him in his place and change the tide of this whole shebang.

For a while, it did.

But then he showed up at my apartment. Even if he hadn’t interrupted me mid-personal-time, it still would’ve felt like a changing of the guard. Like the terms of engagement had gotten completely flipped on their head.

Between Zoya, the restaurant, those whispered alleyway confessions as our clouded breath mingled in the winter air… Somewhere in the middle of all that, things shifted.

What things?

I’m not sure.

Where does that leave us?

Fuck if I know.

What comes next?

I guess I’ll find out today at noon.

Sasha chose today’s venue—an underground bathhouse hidden beneath a Tribeca art gallery—so of course it’s all black marble and gold faucets and servers who float around like ballet dancers on ketamine. The kind of place that names its massage oils after the seven deadly sins and charges you five hundred bucks to whispergluttonywhile rubbing juniper berries on your lower back.

I wish I could bring myself to hate it more than I do.

His assistant had emailed me a set of instructions after his so-blunt-it-could-barely-be-called-a-text message.Mr. Ozerov requests that you bring a swimsuit,she wrote.

Do I love being dressed from afar like a Barbie doll? No. No, I do not.

But did I listen? Sure did. In a manner of speaking.

Meaning I brought a bikini that makes dental floss lookthicc.

And at the first opportunity, I intend to lose said bikini. Because fighting fair is for losers, and this is one fight I absolutely have to win.

“You’re late,” Sasha says when I stride into the dimly lit lounge. He’s draped across a chaise, shirt already unbuttoned to reveal a slice of scarred chest, covered in wavering shadows cast by the actual, literal torch flickering in the sconce over his head. His blue eyes follow every step I take.

I drop my tote bag on the floor with athunkloud enough to make the attendant wince. “You said noon. It’s noon.”

“It’s 12:07.”

“Close enough.” I flop onto the adjacent chaise, letting my coat fall open just enough to flash the scandalous slash of spandex beneath. His gaze dips. Lingers.

I pretend not to notice.

A server materializes with two frosted glasses of cucumber water. Sasha takes his without looking. “Where’s your swimsuit,ptichka?”

“You’re looking at it.” I cross my legs, letting the coat ride up to show that there’s as much not-there on the bottom half as there is on the top.

He takes a slow sip. Ice clinks in his glass. “That’s not a swimsuit. That’s a health code violation.”

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