Always yours, Slava.
Fuck. He really doesn't get it, does he?
And the worst part is, I feel my face flush—at the compliment, at the attention, at all of it. I shouldn't think about him. But some days it's hard not to. We were together five months. We were supposed to get married.
As much as it kills me to admit it, I miss him at night, when I'm alone and he used to run his fingers through my hair and kiss the back of my neck until I fell asleep. I miss him when the achebetween my legs goes unanswered because that man never once left me hungry. I miss coming home late and having him rub my feet and ask about my day.
But that's gone now. Because it turns out my boyfriend is a criminal.
I wipe my eyes, reeling myself in so I don't cry, and head to my meeting. Same as every day for two weeks, I can't concentrate. I keep glancing out the window at that same tinted car parked on the corner. At the drawer that could fund six kids through college. At every man who walks by, waiting for one of them to charge at me.
But deep down, I know that won't happen. As disgusting as it is to admit to myself, he's protecting me. He won't let anything happen to me.
He's just never been a patient man. And what scares me isn't the men on his payroll—it's being dragged back to his side. Because I know myself. I'll cave to the sweet words and the dark eyes and his obsessive tendencies, and I'll end up living in the underworld next to a criminal.
I can't let that happen.
The meeting wraps, and I gather my notes—which are mostly gibberish at this point—and follow the herd of employees back out into the open floor.
"It's finally overrr," Darla says beside me, one of my favorite people in this firm. "If I have to plan marketing for another subpar blush shade, I'm going to actually throw up on someone's desk."
We all laugh, and she throws an arm around me for a side hug.
"Have you been feeling okay? You haven't really been yourself lately."
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."
"Mm-hmm," she says, lifting a brow.
The other girls in our little circle perk up. "And the flowers?" one of them asks. "Are you secretly dating a millionaire we don't know about?"
Millionaire? Sure. Clean money? Morals? A conscience? Absolutely not.
I click my tongue at them. "I'm not dating anyone."
"Then who's sending you flowers every single day?" Darla presses, arms crossed, clearly not letting this go.
"Yeah, nobody sends flowers for two weeks straight and means nothing by it," another one chimes in.
"Maybe it's a secret admirer," someone offers.
They overshare about their own love lives constantly and expect the same from me. I prefer to keep my trauma private, thank you.
But they wait, and the silence gets uncomfortable, so I give in. "It's my ex."
A chorus ofno waysandewsrises up from the group, and I bury my face in my hands.
"Does he deserve a second chance?" Darla asks.
Do murderers and drug lords deserve second chances? I don't think so. I obviously don't say that part out loud.
"No," I say instead. "He doesn't."
"Okay, then I have the perfect plan."
"Oh no. You always have the absolute worst plans," I whine.
"The new club downtown, baby."
