Page 41 of Imperfect Desires

Yelena’s expression softens as she pulls me into a hug, pressing my face against her shoulder.

“Oh, Alina,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“I feel pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic.”

Tears roll down my eyes. “Then why does it feel like I am?”

Yelena strokes my hair, her voice low and steady. “Because you’ve been holding onto something you can’t control.”

I pull back, wiping at my eyes. “If he wanted me, he would have made a move by now.”

Yelena hesitates. “Maybe he’s holding back because of Viktor.”

“Maybe.” My throat tightens. “Or maybe he just doesn’t want me.”

Yelena’s lips press together. “He’s an idiot if he doesn’t.”

A faint laugh escapes me, but it’s bitter.

I sit back, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I can’t keep doing this, Yelena. I can’t keep waiting for him to notice me.”

Yelena watches me carefully. “So, what are you going to do?”

I lift my chin, my gaze sharpening.

“I’m done,” I declare, my voice steady and resolute. “I’m done waiting for him. It's time for me to take control of my own life.”

That night, I lie awake in Yelena’s guest room.

Moonlight filters through the sheer curtains, casting soft silver shadows across the white sheets.

I stare at the ceiling, my heart a slow, heavy thud beneath my ribs. I came here to get away from everything that reminds me of him. To have the space to think clearly about the choices I have made in life.

My choices for the past seven years. Years of waiting for Lev to see me. To want me. Years of wasted hope. I close my eyes and take a steady breath—no more.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to New York.

And when I do—

I’m done chasing after Lev.

14

Lev

I sit in Viktor’s office, listening as he lays out the final plans for the hotel’s grand opening.

The room is dimly lit, the heavy scent of leather and aged wood pressing in around us. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the New York skyline, the lights of the city stretching out beneath us. Zasha sits across from me, his dark gaze sharp as he reviews the architectural plans laid out on the table.

“It’ll be the crown jewel,” Viktor says, leaning back in his chair. His eyes are cold and calculating. “Every businessman worth his salt will want a room. Politicians. CEOs. The elite.”

“And security?” Zasha asks.

“Tight,” Viktor says. “It needs to be impenetrable. It’s not just a hotel—it’s a symbol of power.”

I lift my glass to my lips, taking a slow drink. The whiskey burns down my throat, but it’s a distant heat compared to the tension twisting low in my gut.

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