My phone buzzes and I stare at Faye’s message like it might bite. Brunch + pool?!? Bring the grump!


    Brunch.


    In an hour.


    Me and Oleg.


    The thought is terrifying. The outside world is terrifying.


    Oleg and I know how to exist together in his penthouse. Ever since I cooked him a dinner we never actually ate, we’ve found a rhythm. One where we’re both undressed within minutes of him walking through the door and food is something we consume out of necessity and, preferably, off of each other’s bodies while we satisfy a different kind of appetite.


    We’re safe in this bubble—alone.


    But what are we when we walk outside? When other people can see?


    It probably doesn’t even matter. Oleg is always busy with work. He isn’t going to cancel the day’s ns to do a silly little brunch and pool party with me and Faye’s family. I’ll go alone and?—


    OLEG: Pick you up in fifteen?


    The message sends an electric current through my body that I refuse to acknowledge as hope.


    I’ve gotten good at thattely: denial. Like when Oleg’s hands found my waist in the hallwayst night, steadying me while he took me against the wall.


    Or when his eyes followed me when I padded across the floor to his bathroom, only for him to follow me a secondter and join me in the shower.


    Both times, I told myself that I feel nothing.


    That this is temporary.


    That I don’t need it.


    And I don’t. I don’t care if hees or not. What does it matter to me?


    SUTTON: You’reing to Faye’s?


    OLEG: I was invited.


    I respond with a thumbs up because it’s all I can manage with my shaky hands.


    I throw open my closet and tear through my oversized, neutral wardrobe. Everything I own makes me look like a preschool teacher having an existential crisis.


    Then I find my denim cutoffs buried in the bottom of a drawer and a cropped beige sweater that hits just above my navel. I pull them on over the hot pink string bikini Sydney bought for me after ourst trip to the beach. Apparently, my one-piece was “a crime against curves and camel toes everywhere.”


    I swore I’d never wear it, but…


    No more hiding.


    Oleg texts that he’s downstairs, and I give him another thumbs up.


    Cool. Casual. Like my heart isn’t doing jumping jacks in my chest.


    Oleg is waiting in a gleaming red Porsche SUV. The window slides down, and he peers at me over designer sunsses, looking like every bad choice I’ve ever wanted to make.


    “Hey, you must be my Uber driver?” I quip, hoping my voice doesn’t betray how dry my mouth suddenly is.


    He snorts, but I catch the way his eyes drag over my bare legs. “I might be. Unfortunately, I don’t take cash or card. You’ll have to find another way to pay me.”


    He’s teasing, but I slide into the passenger seat, already clocking the depth of the seat, curious if we can make something happen on the way. “I’m sure we can work something out.”


    Suddenly, his warm hand is on my knee, sliding along my thigh. “We’re going to have to when you show up wearing this. I only get to see this much skin after I dig throughyers of fabric first.”


    “You don’t like my sweats?” I feign shock, even as his hands on me threaten to short-circuit my brain.


    “You deserve more than sweats, princess.” His voice drops an octave. “Although I understand where it’sing from.”


    “Enlighten me,” I say, forgetting about my seatbelt. “Where’s iting from?”


    He doesn’t sugar-coat it. “You’re trying not to be noticed. By people in general, but especially by men. You’ve gotten used to hiding behind baggy clothes because you think you’ll be safer that way.”


    The observation stings because it’s true. Because in the weeks I’ve known him, he’s seen straight through every wall I’ve built.


    “That’s not true,” I lie, but my voice wavers.


    He gives me a look that’s equal parts understanding and challenge. “I’ve never seen a woman like you so intent on hiding her assets rather than showing them off.” His eyes soften. “You realize women go under the knife to get—” He gestures at me with both hands, encapsting every blushing bit of me.


    “Aren’t we supposed to be going somewhere?” I cut him off, staring straight ahead.


    “Sure, we are.” He dangles a fancy silver key fob in front of me. “Just as soon as you take the wheel.”


    “You want me to drive?”


    “Why not? It’s your car.”


    My heart stops. Literally stops. “My what?”


    He nods,pletely serious. “You need your own vehicle. Something safe. Something that can protect you.” His jaw tightens. “I don’t like the idea of you being dependent on drivers, especially after what happened with Drew following you. You need to be able to get wherever you need to go.”


    The mention of my ex should kill the moment, but instead, it only highlights how different Oleg is.


    Drew used my dependence on him like an anchor.


    Oleg’s trying to give me wings.


    I run my fingers over the butter-soft leather seat. “This is too much.”


    “This isn’t about money.” He catches my chin, turns my face toward his. “This is about knowing you cane and go as you please. That you’re safe. That you have control.”


    Something warm blooms in my chest, expanding and stretching to the tips of my toes.


    “Take the keys, princess.” His voice is rough. “Let me do this for you.”


    A million things I can’t say bubble up, and I swallow them down. Gently, I take the keys from him and get out of the car.


    I practically skip around to the driver’s side, suddenly unable to contain my grin.


    The leather is warm from his body and it cradles me as I slide behind the wheel. Everything gleams—the dash, the console, the chrome detailing.


    “This is incredible,” I breathe, running my hands over the steering wheel. “I’ve never driven anything this nice.”


    “That’s because you’ve never been my fiancée before. My fiancée deserves only the best.” He programs the GPS while I familiarize myself with the controls, trying to tamp down the hope buzzing in my bones.


    He cares—about my safety and my happiness. Maybe even about me?


    I start the engine, and it purrs to life like a satisfied cat. “Thank you, Oleg. Really. This is the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”


    “Don’t thank me. It’s a necessary part of our little pantomime.”


    Just like that, the warm bubble of happiness around me pops, letting in the cold reality I’ve been trying so hard to ignore.


    None of this is real.


    The car, the engagement, the way he seems to understand exactly what I need—it’s all just an borate show. Method acting at its finest.


    “Is that what we’re doing?” My voicees out steady even as my hands tighten on the wheel. “ying pretend?”


    “And we’re doing a damn good job.”


    Simple.


    Direct.


    Like a knife between the ribs.


    I pull out onto the street, focusing on the feel of the powerful engine beneath me instead of the ache in my chest. “You’ll have to give me directions.”


    He taps the screen, and a familiar blue line appears. “Just follow the route. Should be there in about fifteen minutes.”


    Fifteen minutes to get my head straight and my heart under control.


    Fifteen minutes to remember that this is business, not pleasure.


    That he’s my employer, not my fairy tale prince.


    But as I navigate through traffic, hyper-aware of his presence beside me, all I can think is how cruel it is that he’s given me exactly what I needed—freedom, security, independence—while simultaneously reminding me that none of it is real.


    I’m halfway through a left turn when a sports cares screaming through the intersection, blowing past their red light.


    My heart stops. Time slows. I freeze.


    But Oleg doesn’t.


    His hand shoots out, grabs the wheel, and yanks us back into ourne as the car sts past, missing us by inches. The re of their horn is deafening.


    “Pull over. Now.”


    I’m shaking so hard it’s a miracle I can even guide the SUV to the curb. As soon as we’re stopped, Oleg is out of his seat, leaning across me to throw the car in park.


    “Are you okay?” His hands frame my face, tilting it up to his. His eyes burn gold with fury and something else. Something that looks terrifyingly like fear. “Sutton. Talk to me.”


    “I’m fine.” My voicees out whisper-soft. “I wasn’t paying attention.”


    “That piece of shit could have killed you.” His thumb traces my cheekbone, and for a moment, just a moment, the mask slips. Raw emotion shes across his face before he catches himself and pulls back. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”


    I grab his wrist before he can retreatpletely. “Please. I want to drive. I need to drive.”


    He studies me for a long moment, jaw clenched. “Fine. But we’re finding a quieter route.”


    I nod, trying to ignore how cold I feel now that he’s no longer touching me. How empty the space between us seems.


    “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks again, softer this time.


    “I’m fine.” I force a smile. “Just your average near-death experience. No big deal.”


    “Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t joke about that. Not about your safety. Not ever.”


    The intensity in his words steals my breath. For a second, I let myself believe it’s because he cares. Because I matter to him as more than just a means to an end.


    Even if I know better than that.