I walk toward the front door, each step heavier than the last. My fingers wrap around the door handle.
I should feel relief. I should feel satisfaction. I completed the mission. I'm about to deliver the intel to Ivan, and Victor will wake up to find proof that the Volkovs are innocent.
But all I feel is hollow.
I turn the handle and pull the door open. The hallway is empty, and I'm thankful for it.
I hold the door, shutting it slowly.
I walk down the hallway, trying not to make any noise. I rub my face with both hands, trying to shake off the exhaustion, the confusion, the ache in my chest.
Victor's scent lingers on my skin. It clings to me like a second skin, and for a split second, my body screams at me to stop.
Turn around. Go back. Get back into that bed beside him.
I shake my head, forcing the thought away.
There is no happy ending for someone like me.
And especially not with someone like Victor.
I reach the elevator and press the button. The doors slide open immediately, and I step inside, leaning against the wall as it descends.
My reflection stares back at me from the polished surface. Torn dress shirt, smudged makeup, and tangled hair.
The elevator dings. The doors open.
I step out into the lobby, keeping my head down as I cross the marble floor. The concierge doesn't look up. A few early risers sit in the lounge, sipping coffee and reading newspapers. No one pays attention to the disheveled woman making her exit.
I push through the revolving door and step out into the Sanremo morning. The air is cool and salty, the sun just beginning to climb over the horizon. The sea glitters in the distance, calm and endless.
I start walking, thinking about calling Ivan and telling him it's done.
But first, I need to get as far away from that hotel as possible.
Because if I don't, I might do something unforgivably stupid.
Like turn around and go back to him.
21
VICTOR
My eyes snap open.
The room is too bright as sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I reach across the bed instinctively, my hand searching for warm skin, for her.
But the sheets are cold.
I bolt upright, scanning the suite. The living room is visible through the open bedroom door.
"Danika?"
My voice goes unanswered.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand. The silence presses in. There's no sound of running water, no footsteps, nothing.
She's fucking gone.
