His eyebrow raises slightly—the Orlov equivalent of rolling his eyes. “Clearly.” His gaze drifts past me to where Vincent sits. Something flickers across his face, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it. Disgust. Anger. Something darker.
Vincent doesn’t flinch under my father’s gaze, but I see his throat work as he swallows.
“My friends were just leaving,” I say, turning to the others. “Right?”
They take the hint, gathering their things with renewed urgency. My father steps aside with exaggerated courtesy to let Kayla and Rina pass.
Mark and Ed mumble hasty goodbyes, not making eye contact with my father as they squeeze past the bodyguards. Ronan hesitates, glancing back at me with concern.
“Go,” I tell him. “I’ll call you later.”
He nods, claps a hand on my shoulder, and follows the others.
As my friends file toward the elevator, Vincent stands from the table. I expect him to join the exodus, but instead, he walks toward me. My breath catches as he approaches, his face set in determination.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks.
I nod, stepping into the hallway with him, aware of my father’s eyes tracking our every movement. Vincent pulls me around the corner, just out of sight but not out of earshot if anyone speaks above a whisper.
“I’m not leaving,” he says immediately, his amber eyes fixedon mine.
“Vincent—”
“No,” he cuts me off. “I ran once. I’m not running again.” His fingers grip my arm, digging in hard enough to hurt. “If he wants to threaten me, he can do it to my face.”
My chest tightens with a mixture of pride and fear. “He’s dangerous,solnyshko.”
“I know.” Vincent’s jaw sets in a stubborn line. “But I’m not leaving you alone with him. Besides, this concerns me too.”
Before I can argue further, the sound of the elevator doors closing echoes through the penthouse. My friends are gone. It’s just us now—Vincent, me, my father, and his trained killers.
Vincent squeezes my arm once more, then releases it. We walk back to the main room together, shoulders brushing in silent support.
My father has made himself comfortable in my living room, seated in my favorite armchair like it’s a throne. He’s dismissed his bodyguards to wait outside—a clear message that whatever happens here, he doesn’t need unnecessary witnesses.
“Sit down,” he says, gesturing to the sofa across from him.
“I prefer to stand.”
His eyes flick to Vincent, who’s positioned himself slightly behind my right shoulder. “I see you’ve kept some… company.” He says the word like it tastes foul in his mouth. “Rather intimate company, judging by appearances.”
The marks on Vincent’s neck are clearly visible above the collar of my borrowed t-shirt. I resist the urge to shield him from my father’s gaze. That would only confirm what he already knows.
“Cut the shit, Dad. Why are you here?”
“Language, Sasha,” he chides, as if I’m still twelve years old. “Your mother would be disappointed.”
The mention of my mother makes my hands curl into fists at my sides. “My mother has been dead for fourteen years. Don’t use her to manipulate me.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes—I’ve hit a nerve. Good.
“Very well,” he says after a moment. “I’m here because I received a concerning phone call last night. From Jessica’s father.”
There it is. Exactly what I suspected. “Let me guess. Jess ran crying to Daddy when she realized I wasn’t going to beg her to come back? And he called you because what—I hurt his little girl’s feelings?”
My father’s lips thin into a hard line. “Jessica witnessed something… disturbing at your party. Something that required her father to contact me immediately.”
“She went behind my back to her father instead of talking to me about it. How fucking mature,” I say flatly.
