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“All hail the head of Mr. Egorov’s Personal Management team!”
“Will you keep your voice down?” I hiss.
Syrah finishes her curtsy and blinks innocently as she hands me a cup of iced tea. “Why bother? Everyone already knows.”
“They do?”
She shrugs. “Office gossip. Word gets around fast.”
I groan and drown my frustration in peach iced tea. “This tea is the only thing that’s gone right for me today,” I mumble miserably. “Thanks for getting it, by the way.”
“Anything for my knocked-up work wife,” she says with a wink. “I know how to take care of my boo.” Settling into the seat next to me, she props her temple on her fist and gives me a meaningful look. “Sooo, time to spill. I wanna know everything. What does this job involve? Are you in charge of giving him sponge baths and back massages? Because I’d have definitely applied for that job if I knew it was up for grabs.”
I put down my drink and scowl at her. “Shouldn’t you be getting home?”
Syrah giggles. “I’m on my way out. Just wanted to stop by and say hi first. Or bye, rather.”
I raise my cup in a sarcastic salute. “Bye.”
“Alright, alright. I can take a hint.” She looks around conspiratorially and drops her voice. “Does he know you’re pregnant yet?”
“Uh…” Some lies are necessary, right? I mean, truth is a spectrum. Or a process. Or… shit, I dunno. “Er, no, not yet. Not as such.”
“Good thinking,” Syrah agrees with a wink. “He probably doesn’t want the head of his personal management team yakking up all over the seating charts for his charity galas. But again, just so you know, if you ever need a stand-in, I’m happy to take on sponge bath duties.”
I scrunch up a stray piece of paper and lob it at her. “Get outta here.”
Laughing, she blows me a kiss and sashays off down the hallway. I turn restlessly towards the closed door of Dmitri’s office. He told me that he had only one more Zoom meeting to finish and then we could head home. But that was over thirty minutes ago, and the door has stayed resolutely shut.
The first day back has been hectic as hell and I’m all-caps WIPED. As pretty as these Jimmy Choos are, I want to get out of them with a quickness because they might’ve actually been designed by Satan himself to torture poor, unsuspecting women like me.
I actually have a really nice pair of secondhand heels at home that I could have worn today. If only I’d been allowed out of the penthouse before now.
Which gets me thinking…
I sit up and look around. I can’t see my bodyguards anywhere. It’s well past six, so most of the Egorov employees have left for the day. And my apartment is only a short ten-minute walk from here.
I could make it there and back real quick, right?
I grab my bag and dash towards the elevators before I can be spotted by my annoying shadows. That includes my bossy baby daddy. Pun very much intended.
To my utter shock and delight, it’s a clean getaway. I make it out of the building without any problem and, when I hit the streets, the fresh air feels like a cool hug.
Even the walk is exhilarating. It’s pathetic how much I enjoy myself as I saunter down my go-to route to get back home. My house keys are burning a hole in my pocket. Weirdly enough, I underestimated how much I would miss my apartment. My pillows. My things.
“Hello, home!” I call out enthusiastically when I walk in.
The mess I left before leaving for work that day over a week ago is waiting happily for me. A half-eaten bag of chips lies almost insultingly in front of a bowl of half-rotted fruit that I probably should’ve been eating instead. Shoes are scattered everywhere, including the heels I wish like hell I’d have worn in place of these Jimmy Choos. Laundry waits in a monstrous heap dumped in one of the armchairs, and I could swear that it’s staring at me balefully like I should feel guilty for not having folded it much sooner.
I jump out of Bee’s borrowed heels and leave them stationed in front of the door. I deposit my bag onto the floor by the sofa. My jacket gets hung over the sofa and by the time I reach my bedroom, my clothes are halfway off.
Change of plans: I’m not rushing back to the office. Dmitri is gonna take forever and a half to wrap up work, anyway.
Besides, there’s nothing quite like end-of-the-work-day nudity in your own home to make you let loose that sigh you didn’t even know you were holding. Taking off my bra feels like doing crack cocaine.
Honestly, being in this place is already calming me down. Albeit not enough that I manage to forget about the silver-eyed pain in my ass who handed me a freaking dagger this morning like a special little snack for my lunchbox.
I decide not to be a bitch and send him a text message to let him know where I am, but as it turns out, my phone’s died on me.
