I blink, slowly. “What.”
“Happiness,” he says easily. “You could really live the dream life, Jude. You know that, right? Money. Freedom. A beautiful woman who wants you. All you gotta do is stop fighting it.”
The word happiness sounds so fucking stupid coming from his mouth. “Freedom?”
He huffs. “Free enough, kid. You still have a job, sure. But you’re doing just fine.”
Adriana giggles and nuzzles closer, her lips brushing my jaw. “You hear that, baby?” she murmurs. “You’re allowed to be happy.”
My head feels heavy. Everything does. I close my eyes for a second, then open them again. I’ve become so used to living on autopilot for other people that I rarely feel present anymore. Adriana was so busy trying to avoid Nolan's company tonight that she's gluing herself to me.
Nolan keeps talking. “Alexei wants us at his place this weekend,” he adds casually. “Wants to discuss some things.”
“Okay,” I say. The word falls out of me without effort. Agreement is easy when you’re chronically exhausted.
“Good,” Nolan says. He sounds satisfied. Confident, even. More relaxed than I’ve seen him in a long time. Like things are finally moving exactly the way he wants. He can’t see it, but when I look at him standing beside those other men, I see a house cat trying to fit in with lions. Still, both he and Adriana have seemed to shift their behaviors since we left the States. Even just slightly. I don’t really know what to make of it.
Perhaps they’re trying to become new and improved versions of themselves? I have to swallow down a laugh at that.
Adriana mumbles something incoherent, her fingers curling into the fabric of my suit.
Nolan chuckles at that, shaking his head. “She’s had a night,” he says fondly. Then, grinning, he adds, “I’m meeting one of my favorites from this morning later. Should be fun.”
“Poor woman,” I mutter.
“She’s a good girl,” he answers swiftly. “I actually like her. Unlike that one,” he adds, quiet enough that drunken Adriana doesn't register. "She's just a good fuck."
I don’t respond then.
The car pulls up to the hotel, and the doorman is already moving before we’ve fully stopped.
In the elevator, Nolan hums under his breath while he texts that woman, clearly in a good mood. When we reach our floor, he steps out first, adjusting his jacket. “Have a good night,” he says with a wink.
Adriana laughs again, sloppily.
I mutter a goodbye.
He disappears into his suite, leaving us standing there under the soft hotel lighting. As soon as his door shuts, Adriana’s hands are on me again—grabbing my jacket, tugging me through our door. She fumbles with the handle, still laughing, still annoyingly drunk.
I close the door for her, and then she’s all over me. She isn’t gentle, which isn’t new. She’s simply claiming what she thinks is already hers.
The bedroom is dark except for the city lights spilling over the king-sized bed. Adriana pushes me backward, hands on my chest. Her mouth finds mine again, tasting like alcohol. Her hands are already tugging impatiently at my suit jacket.
I let it happen. That’s the theme of life now.
She laughs softly when I stumble, steering me toward the bed. I let myself fall back, the mattress dipping hard enough to make the room tilt. Too much oxy, too much vodka.Fuck.
She doesn’t turn on the lights, which I don’t complain about. Darkness is easier to tolerate in moments like these. She climbs over me, the city reflected in the glass behind her. Her hair spills forward, hiding her face.
Her mouth moves along my neck, her body rolling against mine. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She always has. For a second, I consider staying still and letting it happen. Letting myselfdrift. Then something in me snaps a little bit. Honestly? This is just resignation with claws at this point.
I grab her thighs and pull her closer, grinding up into the motion she’s already started, giving her what she expects. My body reacts because bodies are stupid like that. They’re wired for reflex, not meaning.
I stare past her shoulder. The Moscow skyline is cold, endless, and beautiful. Somewhere down there, people are laughing. Crying. Living lives untouched by the kind of things I’ve done.
She whispers my name.
It doesn’t sound like it’s mine anymore.