Page 127 of Sexting the Boss

“Excuse me?” I blink at him, still dazed. “I—what? Damien, you can’t just?—”

“I’m not asking,” he cuts in, voice quiet but firm. “Get in the car, Sasha.”

I stare at him, my whole body trembling, mind spinning from the attack, his appearance, and the way his voice leaves no room for argument.

The car door slams shut harder than necessary as I slide inside, still shaking. My throat feels raw, like I’ve been screaming even though I barely made a sound. Damien slips in beside me, his jaw clenched tight.

The car pulls away from the curb fast—too fast—and for a long stretch, neither of us speaks.

My mind won’t stop replaying it. The way the guy said Damien’s name. The way they knew who I was to him.

I swallow hard, voice hoarse. “They…they mentioned you.”

Damien’s head turns sharply. “What?”

I glance at him, hating how small my voice sounds. “One of them said…‘Let’s see how Zaitsev likes getting a message.’” I grip my knees, knuckles going white. “This wasn’t random, was it?”

His jaw flexes. He says nothing, just turns the car around.

“Wait,” I say, frowning. “This…this isn’t the way to my apartment.”

“Change of plans.” His voice is low, flat.

“What?” I turn fully, heart thudding. “Where are you taking me?”

He exhales through his nose but keeps his eyes on the road. “I’m not taking you back there, Sasha.”

My throat dries. “Then…where?”

A beat.

“To my house.”

I blink, the words hitting harder than they should. “Your house?”

He nods once, jaw still tight. “You’re not safe. Not out there. Not anymore.”

I sit back, stunned into silence. His house. The words circle in my brain as the city lights fade behind us.

20

SASHA

The long drivecurves past towering trees, the city long gone by now.

I blink at the sight ahead—mansionfeels like the wrong word, but it’s the only one that fits. The place is sprawling, almost too beautiful to exist in real life. Stone walls, tall arched windows glowing warm with light, and an ivy-covered façade that looks straight out of some old European estate. A cobblestone courtyard spreads wide in front of the entrance, lined with trimmed hedges and an ornate fountain gurgling quietly in the center.

But what sends a shiver down my spine isn’t the house.

Men in dark suits stand scattered across the property—at the entrance, near the trees, by the fountain—some talking quietly, some just watching as our car rolls in. They’re not your usual staff. No polished smiles or polished shoes. These men are built like soldiers, faces hard, eyes cold.

Security.Hissecurity.

The car stops. Damien gets out first without a word, a tall man immediately approaching him, murmuring something low. Damien just nods, his expression unreadable.

I force myself to move, stepping out onto the cobblestones. The air here feels different—crisper, too still. I glance around, taking it all in, heart racing.

The mansion is…beautiful. Intimidating. Massive French windows line the ground floor, warm golden light spilling out onto the stone terrace. There’s even a damn balcony up top with wrought iron railings. If I weren’t half terrified, I’d probably call it romantic.

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