Page 37 of Santa Daddy
Deciding what to do with a fake fiancée who wasn’t acting like a convenient prop anymore.
Maybe that’s good, a traitorous voice whispered. Maybe if you’re too much trouble, he’ll decide you’re not worth the hassle.
He didn’t strike me as the type to let go of anything once he’d wrapped his hands around it.
Somewhere between the shower night and the restaurant and that almost-touch in front of the window, I’d become his.
God help me, I’d let myself become his.
The realization should’ve sent me tearing apart drawers for a weapon. Knives, razors, anything sharp enough to cut myself loose.
Instead, it sent heat racing through my veins and left me staring at the bathroom door, wondering what would happen if I opened it.
You’re losing your mind, I told my reflection. You’re catching feelings for a man whose hobbies include charity galas and collecting corpses.
The woman in the mirror didn’t look insane.
She looked hungry.
That was the most terrifying thing of all.
I don’t know how long I stayed in there, gripping the counter like it could anchor me to common sense. Long enough for the snow outside to thicken, turning the city into a blur. Long enough for his footsteps to fade into other sounds—the faint clink of glass,the low murmur of Russian into his phone, the soft click of the office door.
Eventually, the penthouse went quiet.
He was still here. I could feel it. Like gravity. Like a storm sitting just off the coast.
He was waiting.
He knew I couldn’t hide in here forever.
When I finally got my fingers to unclench from the marble and cracked the door open, the living room was empty. My discarded shoes sat near the doorway where they’d crashed, one heel chipped like a casualty.
8
FIRE AND FURY
KONSTANTIN
Isat in front of the monitors far longer than I needed to.
The bathroom door had stayed shut after our fight in the living room. After she’d thrown shoes and accusations and that one truth that stuck in my ribs—your everything.
Eventually, the lock clicked. Barely a sound. I heard it anyway.
On the feeds, she stepped out of the bathroom, moving through the penthouse like a restless ghost. Black silk dress still clinging to every line I’d paid for, eyes too bright, mouth swollen from the kisses that hadn’t quite happened by the window.
She paused by her discarded heels. Looked at them. Left them where they were and headed toward the bedroom.
I killed the cameras with one tap.
I didn’t need grainy footage to follow the pull that’d been gnawing at me since she’d slammed that door. The need to finish what we kept starting and stopping. The hunger that had been scratching claws against my chest since the tree lot, since my shower, since her back had hit cold tile and she’d wrapped herlegs around me, since I’d watched her come apart on my cock for the first time.
She couldn’t run forever.
No one could.
Her door was open when I got there. She stood in the middle of the bedroom, framed by glass and gray winter light. The city sprawled behind her under a dusting of snow; icicles clung to the outer frame of the windows. The reflection of the white-and-silver Christmas tree spilled across the glass behind her like a faint halo.
