Luka’s arms were folded, his face half in shadow. “Just what you said.”
I let out a laugh, exhausted and brittle. “Well, in case I was unclear, Richard-fucking-Montgomery is not only a first-rate pervert, but he also just reported me to my boss. Apparently, I’m ‘wholly incompetent, inappropriate, and unfit for work.’” I attempted Richard’s accent. Badly.
Luka didn’t move. Only the tight flicker of his jaw gave him away. “They’re sending you home?”
I nodded, swallowing against the next wave of tears. “First flight out tomorrow morning.”
He stepped closer. I avoided his eyes, picking at a splintered cuticle on my thumb. My chest ached with anger and grief. I wanted to disappear—not just from the city, but from themap. From the version of myself who had arrived in London convinced she was untouchable. The one who thought this was just another arena with higher stakes and better whiskey. A place to prove myself and launch to the next level of my career.
Luka didn’t move for a long time. It felt deliberate, like he was fixing something in his mind. Then, without warning, he closed the distance and pulled me into him.
I stiffened, but he held fast—a grip so fierce I couldn’t have broken it with a crowbar.
My body went rigid, then slack. I crumpled into him, sobbing—loud and unrestrained.
He said nothing, just rocked me slowly, his chin resting against the crown of my head. I clung to the coarse knit of his sweater and soaked it through with tears. I didn’t care.
The sobs thinned to shuddering breaths, then to silence. Luka never loosened his hold, only tightened it when my knees threatened to buckle. He didn’t offer platitudes. He didn’t try to fix me with empty words. Just braced my body with his, anchoring me against the cold that had settled beneath my sternum.
His heartbeat thudded against my cheek. The radiator clicked across the room. Luka cradled the nape of my neck, his thumb sweeping slow arcs along my hairline.
Eventually, he pressed his lips to my temple. “Tea or more vodka?”
I huffed a hopeless, hiccuping laugh. “Vodka.”
He nodded and stepped away to pour. The clear liquid ribboned into the short glasses. His hands were steady—always steady—as he handed me one drink and took the other for himself.
“Sit.”
I didn’t resist. I sank into the leather chair, weary and hollowed out, and cradled the vodka with both hands. Lukaperched on the ottoman opposite me, knees bracketing mine. He waited until my breathing evened out.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
“I don’t know.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—just open. For the first time in hours, my pulse steadied.
“I really don’t know what I need,” I repeated, quieter this time. “I don’t want to crawl back to Atlanta like a failure. I don’t want Richard to win. But I can’t see a version of this where I’m not the villain. Or the punchline. Or the cautionary tale.”
“In what world are you the villain?”
“If we go after him now, it looks like I’m trying to cover myself. I need to walk into that office clean.” I took a slow drink. The vodka burned a path down my chest. “You can ruin him,” I said, studying the glass. “But then I’m just collateral. The desperate chick who torched a client because she couldn’t hold her ground.”
Luka started to respond, but I placed a palm flat against his chest.
“I’m not saying no.” I drew in a breath and exhaled through pursed lips. “Just not right now.”
He nodded once, and something inside him seemed to realign, like a joint sliding back into place. He took the glass from my hand and set it aside—carefully, deliberately—the motion at odds with the raw energy in the room.
“What now?” he asked.
I glanced around the flat. “Well,” I said, voice scraping up from the bottom of my rib cage, “I should probably pack.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, the beginnings of a headache pulsing behind my eyes.
He tilted his head. In the stark light, the skin under his eyes was faintly shadowed.
“When did you last sleep?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”