The elevator dings, arriving at the correct floor. I shuffle out, anger starting to course through my veins as I remember him throwing me out of his apartment two days ago.
“You should really start wearing clothes that make you look more professional,”his voice plays in my head.“Nobody’sgonna take you seriously wearing ripped jeans. You’re not a teenager anymore.”
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.
Grief sinks its familiar claws into my heart as I stride down the corridor, approaching his apartment door.
I stand outside of his door and take a sharp breath.This is it.The final time I ever step inside of the bastard’s apartment.
I try the door. It’s locked, which means I was right about him being out. But what the hell does he do all day if he’s not selling houses?
The forged documents…
Him lying about working in real estate...
Something isn’t adding up.
I glance over my shoulder before taking two bobby pins out of my bag. I don’t know the first thing about picking locks, but people in the online forums told me this was the easiest way.
I stick both devices into the lock. Now for the fun part—pull until the lock loosens.
A minute later, I’m working up a sweat, no closer to unlocking anything. The only thing loosening is my grip. One of the clips falls to the ground and I jump even though it’s silent.
And then I feel a pair of eyes on me.
I turn to the side.
Please don’t be Igor.
Please don’t be?—
This is worse than Igor catching me.
There’s a man watching me from the other side of the corridor. He’s four times my size. And I wish that was an exaggeration.
My breath falters as we lock eyes. He could eat me for dinner in one single bite.
I drop my eyes, scanning his body as he continues staring at me. It shouldn’t be legal to have this much muscle. It’s unfair on the rest of us. I go to Pilates, keep myself looking toned, but I don’t know the first thing about winning a fight.
The same way this guy probably doesn’t know anything about losing one.
Fuck.I’m totally screwed. His presence shakes me to my very core. He hasn’t said a single word and we’ve been holding eye contact for at least a minute.
A shiver runs up my spine. He looks cruel. Like an apex predator.
And he’s caught me breaking into a very expensive apartment.
I look homeless in these low-rise ripped jeans. Especially compared to him. That is oneveryexpensive suit. I’m pretty sure I wrote a commentary about it last month in one of the men’s fashion magazines my company collaborates with. Alexander Amosu—The Vanquish. Each button is made of eighteen-karat gold.
My breath hitches, heart stammering in my throat. “Um,” I stutter. “I promise I have a very good explanation.”
What the hell am I even saying?I can’t even speak in full sentences.
The buttons are almost as blinding as his eyes. His face really brings the outfit together. You can be wearing great clothes, representing a great fashion designer. But it really all comes down to the face.
And this man is one of a kind. I’m over the suit, the eighteen-karat gold. His face is the most interesting part about him, how his cheekbones pop like they were sculpted personally by God…if he even believes in religion.
He could create one of his own.