He reviews the ledgers in silence, methodical and unhurried, the same way he does everything. No turmoil. No raised voice. No sudden mood swings that leave me bracing for the next explosion.
I catch myself staring.
The unwanted feeling stirs again, warmer this time, more insistent. The memory of his hand at the small of my back tonight, gentle yet steady through the silk. The way heads turned when we entered the gallery. The quiet safety I felt walking beside him amid all those powerful people, even with Fadir watching like he wanted to drag me back by my hair.
Furious at myself, I snap before I can think better of it.
“You’re basically ancient, you know that?”
The words come out sharper than I intended, laced with sarcasm to cover the dangerous warmth blooming in my chest. I cross my arms, leaning against the opposite side of the island. For some unknown reason, I had the need to bring up our age difference.
“Thirty-four. Practically geriatric compared to me. All this quiet competence and ledger-reviewing at ten o’clock at night. Most guys your age are still figuring out how to do their own laundry.”
Alexey lifts his gaze slowly, chocolate eyes meeting mine across the marble. There’s no anger, no offense. Just that small, knowing half-smile that tugs at one corner of his mouth. It's the one that makes something traitorously soft twist in my stomach. He sets the pen down without hurry.
“Ancient,” he repeats, tone dry but level. “Noted.”
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t flirt back or turn it into something else.
He simply picks up the pen again and returns to the ledger, calm as ever. The professional line we agreed on stays firmly in place, exactly as he promised the morning after the deal.
No blurred edges. No expectations. No taking advantage of the fact that I’m living under his roof, dependent on his protection, while we tear Fadir’s world apart.
I stand there a moment longer, cheeks heating with a mix of embarrassment and frustration at him for being so unflappably steady, at myself for noticing. For the way I still wake up some mornings expecting to hear Fadir’s voice calling from the master bedroom, smooth and manipulative, only toremember I’m across the hall from a man who has never once crossed that line.
Despite me wanting him to.
Alexey’s quiet presence has become its own kind of constant. The roof over my head. The resources. The steady hand at my back for the cameras. The way he listens when I offer intel without treating me like I’m fragile or disposable.
It terrifies me how safe it feels.
I push off the island, muttering something about needing sleep, and retreat to the guest suite. The emerald gown pools on the floor as I change into an oversized t-shirt and slip between the crisp white sheets.
The penthouse is silent, and I’m frustrated.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. I lie there staring at the ceiling, replaying the night. Fadir’s drained face. Alexey’s hand was warm and sure against my back. The way he reviewed those ledgers in perfect quiet competence, and never demanding anything more from me than the deal allowed.
The age gap I threw at him like a shield. Thirteen years that should make this easy to dismiss. He’s older, dangerous, and part of the same world I ran from.
Yet he’s never once made me feel trapped. Never raised his voice. Never made the professional boundary feel like a cage.
The quiver in my chest refuses to die. It’s not gratitude anymore. Not entirely. It’s something warmer, more dangerous, that has no place in a revenge plot.
I roll over, pressing my face into the pillow.
This is supposed to be about hurting Fadir. About walking away with enough money to start over, far from here. About proving I’m not the broken girl who lets men use her.
But tonight, alone in the stillness of the night, I can’t stop seeing Alexey’s steady eyes across the gallery. The quiet way he keeps choosing the professional line, even when I snap at him like a cornered animal.
He’s nothing like Fadir. That might be the most terrifying realization of all.
***
We return from yet another public outing in the sleek black SUV, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows in a blurry fashion. The art auction has been another carefully orchestrated performance.
Alexey’s hand resting lightly around my waist for the cameras, my smile polished and practiced, Fadir’s furious gaze burning into us from across the room. By the time we step into the penthouse foyer, my feet ache in the strappy heels, and my shoulders feel tight from holding the role for so many hours.
Alexey shrugs off his suit jacket and returns it to the velvet hanger with his usual precision. “You did well tonight,” he says, voice low and even. “He looked ready to shatter his glass.”
