The air inside turned thick, heavy with his cologne—musky and old-world, clinging too insistently for daylight.
The harsh light reflected off his gel-slicked, gunmetal-gray hair. He leaned in, his coffee-tinged breath hot against my ear. “Rather chummy for so early in the morning, wouldn’t you agree?”
He let the question dangle.
I adjusted the crease of my slacks. “So, what’s on the agenda today, Richard?”
He took an unhurried sip, watching me over the rim of his cup. “First, a brief check-in with the board. Then we’ll walk you through the brand audit deliverables.” He let the pause breathe. “After that,” he said smoothly, “you’re all mine for the afternoon.”
For the second time this morning, nausea churned in my gut.
Eight hoursin the company of Richard Montgomery was enough to bleach the serotonin from anyone’s brain. By the time I made it back to the lobby, the day was blurry and indistinct—nothing but fluorescent conference rooms, whiteboard glare, and a blur of charts and slide decks.
The only breaks had been Richard’s “quick chats” at the espresso machine. Each one edged a little further: a hand on my shoulder, a joke at my expense, a comment about “work-life balance” delivered with the subtlety of a bowling ball on glass.
A knot of senior Hallstrom execs had claimed the corner of the lobby, their laughter sloshing across the marble—jackets off, voices louder, the day’s restraint slipping by the minute. Richard stood at the center—collar open, tie loosened, thinning hair raked back to expose the hard lines of his skull. He clocked me immediately, eyes brightening as if I were the evening’s agenda.
“Alex!” he called. “Come rescue us from the rugby talk—unless you’re secretly a fan?” He snaked his arm around my waist, steering me into the circle and the close orbit of his cologne and coffee breath.
I laughed lightly and shifted my weight, extricating myself from his grip. The other men laughed too, like they recognized a familiar game. Richard’s hand lingered a beat too long at my hip, thumb skimming the waistband of my slacks, before he finally let go.
“Well, come along then. There’s a pub just ‘round the corner. Time to show you how the Brits do Friday properly,” he said, already moving as if my compliance were assumed. The group collectively shrugged into their coats. “First round’s on me.” He raised his eyebrows, as though that settled it.
“Maybe next time,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “I’m running on fumes—jet lag and all.”
“Nonsense. You don’t want to get stuck in London traffic at five. Nightmare out there. The Tube’s worse.”
Around us, the group drifted toward the doors, rugby banter rolling them forward into the glassy dusk pooling on the other side. Richard’s palm settled at the small of my back—herding, not guiding. My spine stiffened, but I didn’t pull away. I’d learned long ago that men like him treated resistance as sport. Better to let it glance off and step clear when no one was looking.
The glass doors spilled us into the bruised residual light of a London February evening. Neon bled across the wet pavement. Wind skittered paper wrappers along the curb. My stomach flipped before I even looked. Of course he’d be there.
Luka leaned against his car half a block down, arms folded, black beanie tugged low, coat collar razored against his jaw. I didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was watching.
Richard followed my line of sight and gave me a sidelong look. “Is that your same driver from this morning? How…convenient.”
“Yeah.” I forced a sheepish smile. “Creature of habit.” I fished my phone out and made a show of reading the screen. “And if I don’t get in soon, the app’s going to charge me for a no-show. Surge pricing is murder.”
He gave a short, nasal laugh that didn’t touch his eyes. “Your loss. But if you change your mind…” The implication dangled. It would have wormed under my skin if I hadn’t already gone numb to the game.
“It’s been a long week, Richard. I’m too tired to be any fun tonight.” I shifted to leave, but Richard’s hand closed around my elbow.
“Oh, I doubt that,” he said, too soft for the others to hear. His thumb pressed into my arm—just a quick flex—before he released me.
I shucked free, offered the group a vague, apologetic smile, and cut for Luka’s car before I lost my nerve. Or my lunch. The cold hit like a slap through my flimsy jacket, but it was nothing compared to the fresh voltage that surged through me as I drew closer.
Luka hadn’t moved. He stood half in shadow, half in sodium light, tracking my approach. The closer I got, the more I felt his attention—heavy as a hand on the back of my neck, guiding me before I’d even reached him.
“You’re late,” he murmured as he opened the back door and waited.
I shivered—partly from the air, mostly from the note in his voice—and got into his car. He shut the door with a single pneumatic click, sealing the world out. The interior was dark, save for the faint, antiseptic glow of the dash display.
He circled to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel, movements controlled, unhurried. He didn’t look at me. Just shifted into gear and pulled us into traffic, silence filling the cabin, thick as smoke.
I gripped my briefcase, but my hands wouldn’t quite steady.
Finally, his voice cut through.
“Who was that man,” he asked evenly, eyes fixed on the road, “with his hand on you?”