Page 97 of Porcelain Lies

Actually, I do, but I’m pretty sure that “Go to hell” is going to get me in shit.

“Now!” he barks and I give a small jump.

“Coward!”Boyana laughs, but I’m not listening because I’m already halfway to my bedroom.

My hands shake as I pull open dresser drawers, trying to focus on what I actually need versus what I want to take. Aleksei’s presence behind me feels heated, his impatience radiating across the small space of my bedroom.

“Five minutes.” His voice carries that same commanding tone that makes my spine stiffen.

I grab handfuls of underwear and socks, shoving them into my overnight bag. “I can’t just throw everything in without—”

“Three minutes now.”

The urge to throw something at him wars with my instinct for self-preservation. Instead, I yank open my closet, the hangers scraping against the rod as I pull out work clothes.

“Leave those.” Aleksei steps closer, his cologne mixing with the familiar scent of my laundry detergent in a way that makes my head spin. “You won’t need them.”

“I still have a job,” I grit out.

His laugh holds no humor. “Not anymore.”

Is he fucking kidding me?

I grab the clothes anyway, my small act of defiance making my hands steadier as I fold them into the bag. The sound of his footsteps pacing behind me sets my teeth on edge.

My fingers brush against the soft material of my favorite sweater — the one I wear when I need comfort. The urge to curl up in it and pretend none of this is happening nearly overwhelms me.

“Two minutes.”

“Stop counting!” I spin to face him, clutching the sweater to my chest. “I can’t think with you—”

The words die in my throat as I take in his expression — dark eyes focused entirely on me, jaw clenched in barely contained frustration. His presence seems to fill every corner of my small bedroom, making it hard to breathe.

“One minute.” His accent thickens with each word. “Or I tell security to pack for you.”

I turn back to my closet, shoving clothes into the bag without looking at what I’m grabbing.

There’s a knock at the door, and he turns away, leaving me dithering in front of my closet. The pressure is making me indecisive.

He returns a moment later, impatiently taking the bag from me. “Zakonchi etol, pack what she needs,” he says to someone behind me.

My cheeks burn as two men in black suits methodically move through my bedroom, efficiently packing my most private possessions. One opens my underwear drawer without hesitation, transferring everything into a suitcase while I stand frozen in horror.

“The books, too,” Aleksei commands from the doorway. “All of them.”

I watch helplessly as they strip my bookshelves bare, my precious neuroscience texts and medical journals disappearing into boxes. Years of carefully organized research notes and margin annotations, handled like they’re just more items on a checklist.

“The bathroom,” Aleksei directs, and a third man appears with my toiletry bag. He moves through my personal space withclinical detachment, sweeping my medications, vitamins, and feminine products into the bag without pause.

“Thank God there’s no need for sanitary towels!”Boyana is remorseless.

“Stop,” I whisper, but no one acknowledges me. They continue their efficient invasion of my privacy, following Aleksei’s rapid-fire instructions in Russian.

Finally, he turns to face me. “Come,” he says, then heads to the door without looking back to see if I’m behind him. He simply expects that I’ll do as I’m told. And for some reason, I do.

I follow Aleksei down the stairs, my legs moving on autopilot while my mind races to catch up with the last twenty minutes. Two security men flank us, carrying my hastily packed belongings like they’re transporting classified documents instead of my underwear and books.

The evening air hits my face as we exit the building. Mrs. Carter stands frozen on the sidewalk, her Pomeranian straining at the leash while she gapes at the line of black SUVs blocking the street.

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