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Either way, with the current tension bubbling at an unsavoury level, it’s no secret that I’m unwanted here. Stalin’s usual passive demeanour has gone, and Tony has jumped on the bandwagon.
I give all the men a wide berth and decide to make some breakfast for everyone. It’s early, and even though I feel weak with nausea, I know I need to eat. I rummage through the cupboards for a few minutes, looking at what I have to work with, deciding on banana pancakes. I mix up the batter, mashing the bananas in whilst the pan heats and wash a mix of berries. Setting the table quickly with coffee, honey, and cutlery, I begin pouring the mixture in as all three men filter out. Their chatter ceases, and Stalin takes the lead, pulling a chair out and sitting down. Wordlessly, I fill up a plate with pancakes and place it in the middle of the table.
As soon as Callan is okay, I know I need to leave. I can’t allow myself to put them in danger. I’ve worried endlessly about the photograph of me and Callan and how it will implicate him, and now I have my answer. I will make sure Callan goes ahead with the party at Nexo. After that, I can walk away and resume my life in the limelight. I was naïve and stupid to think that I could do this and actually get away with it. Maybe fate already intervened, and I was always supposed to be in this life—this is my path. Maybe some higher power believes I am owed a grizzly death. I just need to make sure he is okay, and then I will remove myself from this situation, not only because having three sets of untrustworthy eyes on me feels like I’m being poked with acid injected spikes, but knowing that Callan is going to follow through on his promise, and remove me from this life, hurts more than I can cope with right now. Seeing him shot made me realise just how much I had grown to care for him. I honestly thought he was going to die, and my heart was repulsed by the thought of that—of the possibility of him being out of my life permanently. I can't think of it. Couldn't bear it. If I have to witness him hand me over to a new life without so much as a second glance, I’d rather face the wrath of the Yovenko’s. I’m in love with him. I love his harshness. I love the small amount of kindness he only shares with me when we are alone. I love how peaceful I feel in his presence and that my jaw aches from smiling. I love that no matter how many times I have undressed in front of a camera without so much as experiencing a hint of emotion from my audience, that he can make me feel alive with electric heat from one blistering look. I have stepped out of my skin and donned a new one, one only he can see. One I only want with him. I want to escape the never-ending lights of my current life, but he is a small piece of darkness I want to take with me, and I can’t.
“Thanks,” Stalin says gruffly. I look up, being pulled out of my thoughts, but I can’t muster a smile. I’m flooded with pain, pain that rivals that of when I lost my father.
The distinct sound of someone kicking someone else fills the quiet.
“Yeah, ta,” Tony mutters.
Jefferson smiles at me. I only allow our eyes to connect briefly. I otherwise keep my face down as I load up a few berries onto my plate and drizzle a little honey over my pancakes. The men begin talking, mainly about Callan and what they expect for him in the next twenty-four hours. I don't comment, silently grateful for an update.
Stalin’s deep voice pulls my head up once more. “Zara, I’m sorry for reacting as I did.” His calm and concise voice settles any further conversation as all three sets of eyes turn to me.
Shrugging, I stab a blueberry and pop it in my mouth, chewing, but not tasting.
“You could at least acknowledge him,” Tony laughs shortly. He shakes his head disapprovingly across the table at me. He intermittently watches Stalin and me with hard, cynical eyes. Is he expecting the bigger guy to teach me a lesson, knock me about? These men demand respect but never give it out. Tony certainly has never shown me any, and it’s obvious Stalin has some reservations about me.
“Why? It’s evident you have all made up your minds about me. I’ve learnt from experience, it’s better to say nothing.” I push a strawberry around my plate. “You think I’m an air-headed spoilt princess, who is materialistic and selfish, and that's fine.” I sigh wearily. I’m so done. I’ve had enough of plastic people and envious eyes. I never want to look down the lens of a camera again. I wanted to live for so long, and now that Callan has begun to make it possible, I’m terrified of living alone. I’m happy to just exist once more. Even if it’s for a short while as a retired model until they come. I give up. They can come. I stand tiredly and stare down at my plate. “As soon as Callan is okay, I’m leaving. I know he and I made a deal, but I never thought you’d be in danger or that something like this would happen.”
“This had nothing to do with the Russians,” Stalin says calmly.
“Maybe not, but they won't be coming for a cup of tea, will they?” I eye him, and his jaw clenches. “You think I’m weak for running now, but I’ve been running my whole life, Stalin, and perhaps I am weak. I survived my father’s murder and the streets at twelve, and I’ve somehow survived and mastered this fucking industry until now, an industry I have no love for. You think I can’t cope with your disapproving stares? I get them daily, but I refuse to put others in harm’s way to save myself—not when I don’t have anything worth saving or someone to save it for, and I’m okay with that,” I say shakily. I turn my eyes to Tony. “So you can keep looking at me like dirt, and you can think what you want of me. I’ve had to stare back at many people who think like you do, but they have no idea who I am. You have no idea who I am,” I spit, “you’re too damn blinded to want to learn, and you may be loyal to that man, but you’re piss poor company.” I laugh scathingly. Tony’s fingers tighten around his cutlery, and Jefferson clears his throat. Stalin looks partially regretful but equally mad.
“You finished giving my men a telling off?” Callan laughs painfully from the door. I gawp, sniff, and pelt around the table to him. He must anticipate my hug because he opens his good arm for me.
“I thought you were going to die,” I sniffle and press my face into his chest.
“You wish,” he coughs, then groans, wobbles, and leans into the door. I try to hold him up, but luckily Stalin is there.
“You should be in bed,” Stalin tells Callan sternly.
“Now, I know you care about me, but I’m not ready to take our relationship to the next level.” Callan grins. Stalin chuckles loudly and drops his head, shaking it.
“Is he high?” I ask, twisting to look at Jefferson.
“I gave him some morphine. He needs to sleep. His body is weak.”
Callan flexes his arm. “Nothing weak about that,” he grins, then licks his dry lips, “my lips are sore. You been kissing me, woman?” He eyeballs me.
“No, I’d never kiss you without your permission. You’d never forgive me,” I say earnestly. Stalin shifts uncomfortably, and my cheeks flame. Tony is eyeing me, so I nod him my way. He comes over, and I slip free, giving him Callan’s good arm.
“Not even a peck?” Callan laughs. This conversation is leaving me feeling more and more insignificant by the second. What must these men think of me, that I’m a whore who made a deal with their boss, a boss who won’t even kiss me?
“No,” I whisper. My cheeks are hotter than Callan’s clammy body was earlier. I eye both men either side of him, feeling their stares right down to my insecure toes, tight on the marble floor.
“I’d have kissed you,” Callan states proudly. He sways, and the men stagger with his weight.
Laughing, I lead the way back to the master suite. “I just bet you would have.”
“What’s this I hear about you leaving?” Callan tries to sound stern, but he is too drugged up to really be able to convey his anger.
“Oh, erm.” Swallowing, I look to Stalin, then back to my black-eyed fiend being lowered and positioned comfortably on the bed. Jefferson is reattaching his IV and checking his vitals. “Well, a few reasons,” I say quietly. Stalin is watching me discreetly whilst Tony is standing, arms folded, legs apart, waiting for me to break my deal. He even lifts his brow menacingly. I lower myself to Callan’s side. He looks sleepy.
“You’re sex on legs, you are, girl.” He grins, his head lolling. Jefferson chuckles before giving Stalin a nod. He’s letting us know he is okay. That Callan will be okay.
I want to laugh, but instead, my mouth turns down, and my eyes fill with a combination of happy and sad tears. This man has no idea the effect he has had on me, that despite being devastated that I need to walk away, I am so thankful to him for giving a little of himself to me, for sharing his home, which has felt nothing short of a sanctuary. For giving me the kind of protection most celebrities pay hundreds of thousands for, for giving me the strength to say no to my agent and allow myself the odd break. These past two weeks, although short, have been the happiest of my adult life. It is the longest I have gone without feeling crippling fear. It’s a small luxury he has given me without even knowing he has done so.
