Page 94 of Porcelain Lies

Something about neurotransmitters and synaptic connections, but my mind keeps drifting to the unanswered text I sent three hours ago.

My fingers trace the edge of my tablet, following the same nervous pattern they’ve been repeating since I hit send. The scientific terms that usually fascinate me — dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin — mock me with their relevance to my current situation. Chemical reactions in the brain leading to attachment, to poor decision making, to…

My eyes drift back to the phone for the hundredth time. Still no response. I force myself to look at the tablet again, determined to at least feel productive. The paragraph about neural pathways swims before my eyes:

The mechanism by which neurons communicate involves the release of chemical messengers across a synapse…

The sudden blaring ring of my phone makes me jump, tablet clattering to the floor. My heart pounds as I grab for it, hands trembling as I see the caller ID.

Aleksei Tarasov.

Shit!

Holy shit!

I’d sent the message without truly anticipating a response. Now what do I do?

“Answer it, stupid,”says Boyana.

My trembling finger hits accept, but instead of Aleksei’s voice, I hear what sounds like a riot — shouts, screams, the crash of something breaking.

“Hello?” I press the phone harder against my ear, straining to make sense of the chaos.

More crashes. A woman’s hysterical voice rises above the din, followed by rapid-fire Russian that I can barely follow. Something about “humiliation” and “family honor.”

I pull the phone away, checking to make sure I didn’t imagine his name on the caller ID. The call is still connected, but all I can hear is more shouting and what sounds like running footsteps.

“Hello? Is anyone-?”

“Where are you?” Aleksei’s voice suddenly cuts through the mayhem, sharp and commanding. The background noise seems to recede, as if he’s moved somewhere quieter.

“I- I’m at home,” I stammer, caught off guard by his tone. It’s not a question so much as a demand.

“Address. Now.”

My mouth goes dry at the authority in those two words. This isn’t the passionate stranger from that night or even the controlled Bratva boss from his office. This is something else entirely.

“I can’t just—”

“Your address, Stella.” His voice drops lower, more dangerous. “Don’t make me ask again.”

“4510 Sycamore Avenue, Apartment 3B,” I manage to get out. The words feel strange on my tongue, like I’m giving away a secret I shouldn’t.

The line goes dead.

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the screen, the call duration mocking me. Forty-seven seconds. Less than a minute to completely upend my world.

My hands won’t stop shaking as I set the phone down. The background noise during that call — the screaming, the chaos — replays in my mind. What have I done? What was I thinking, sending that text?

“You weren’t thinking,”Boyana chimes in.“That’s the problem.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, pacing to my window. The street below looks ordinary, peaceful. Cars parked along the curb, Mrs. Carter walking her Pomeranian, everything exactly as it always is. Yet nothing feels normal.

I check my phone again. No new messages, no missed calls. Just the silence after his demand for my address.

Time stretches out, each minute lasting an hour. I straighten the pillows on my couch, then mess them up again. Pick up my tablet from where it fell, set it on the coffee table, move it to the kitchen counter instead.

“He’s coming,”Boyana says unnecessarily.“The Bratva boss you slept with is coming to your apartment.”

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