by Vivian Wood
And then there was the sex. Heat flushes through my body just thinking about how good it is with Misha. I thought sex with a sugar daddy would be impersonal or, worse, gross and unpleasant. No eye contact, sloppy kissing, zero arousal, silently begging for it to be over. I beg when I’m with Misha, but it’s to beg for more.
Several times over the weekend I was tempted to tell him everything. About Mr. Ravnikar. About the fear, the blood, my parents. I feel so safe with Misha and I want to confide in him, but I think he would feel compelled to act for me. If I told him about Mr. Ravnikar and the danger I’m in I’d feel like I was manipulating him into giving me more money. Besides, I couldn’t control how he acted for me. He might go to the police, or he might try and murder Mr. Ravnikar on my behalf. Maybe he’d be able to hold his own against a man like Mr. Ravnikar. I remember the ragged scar on his chest. It’s not a surgical scar. Either he was in an accident, or someone tried to kill him, and he survived.
After we land the Bentley is there to collect us, and I feel my warm, holiday glow ebbing away as I look out on the motorway speeding by. Back to reality. Back to study and class and figuring out when I should take my next payment to Mr. Ravnikar.
At “my” house Misha gets out of the car to kiss me goodbye. The sun is shining even in London and I’m glad to see that his face is still burnished with happiness. “Ljubica. Thank you for a beautiful weekend.”
He slips an envelope into my handbag and I try to feel pleased as I say goodbye. I plaster a smile on my face and wave as the car pulls away, thinking of all the things I don’t dare say. I’ll miss you. When will I see you again?
I drag my wheel-along suitcase to my actual house. Upstairs, I look around my room, missing the comfort of Misha’s presence already and, if I’m honest, the five-star hotel room and luxury jet. It’s easy to believe in his gilded world that nothing bad can happen, but when our time is over I’m thrust back into the cold, discarded and unprotected, until he decides he wants my company again.
I can’t keep letting myself wonder about love and feelings. I’m a prop in his life, not a person, the same scared, broke girl in a designer dress. And I have to protect my heart.
I change out of the Chanel clothes and put them carefully away, dress in sweats, and make myself an instant hot chocolate. I stare into the mug, trying to think objectively, not emotionally. Misha could ghost from my life at any moment. I’m just someone who takes his mind off his work for a while, and who knows, maybe he’s tired of me already and that’s why he didn’t tell me he’d see me soon when he said goodbye.
I remember seeing one or two posts about the dangers of catching feelings for your sugar daddy and I disregarded them at the time because I thought they would never apply to me. I turn on my laptop and go back to Tumblr and try to find more information, but with no luck. There’s a popular blog that doubles as an agony aunt column and I send in an anonymous question: What should you do if you think you’re catching feelings for your sugar daddy?
I sip my hot chocolate, and wait. I assumed that sugar work was all about booty, not brains, but it’s hard, mentally draining work, and dangerously emotional.
The reply to my question is posted twenty minutes’ later. Dump him.
First thing in the morning I take the envelope of money Misha gave me round to Ravnikar Enterprises and hold it out to the receptionist. My bonus was five thousand pounds and Mr. Ravnikar is getting every note of it.
The receptionist recognizes me. “Mr. Ravnikar would like you to go up to—”
I slap the envelope on the counter and turn away, but she calls after me, “Miss Alders. I’ve been instructed to incinerate anything you give me.”
I come to a halt, my fists clenching. Asshole. “Up?” I ask. “Which floor?”
“The forty-fourth.”
Oh, Jesus. I guess it’s leg day. I go back to her and pick up the envelope. “Would you please point me toward the stairwell?”
The receptionist’s eyebrows creep up her forehead and she points across the lobby. “Over there. But the elevator is working—”
“No, thank you.”
I cross the lobby and open a non-descript door. The flights go up and up. I take it slow and steady, but even so by the seventh floor I’m breathing hard. On the eleventh I’m only a quarter of the way but I have to stop for a few minutes. On the seventeenth floor I find an office worker sitting on a step, looking at her phone.
“Morning,” I pant, climbing past her, ignoring her stare.
By the forty-fourth floor I’m a hot mess but I don’t care. I march up to the secretary at her desk and ask to see Mr. Ravnikar, and she points me toward the open door of his office. I can see he’s not in there, but I go in. How long is he going to make me wait with nothing to do but look at the stupid modern art on his walls—
The door slams behind me and I whirl around, my heart in my throat. Mr. Ravnikar is there, looming over me in a black suit that makes his eyes look very dark.
I back away quickly. “Were you hiding behind the door? Who does that?”
“You have something for me?” I pass the envelope over and he weighs it in his hand, but doesn’t open it. The only exit is right behind him. Adrenaline courses through my body.
“Where are you getting this kind of money?” he asks.
I take a shaky breath. “That’s my business. It shouldn’t matter to you as long as I’m paying off my debt.”
There a vindictive flash in his eyes. “Fine. I want the same amount every week, to the penny, to the day, or you won’t enjoy what I’ll do to you. I think you know what I’m capable of by now.”
He wants me to struggle and worry and have sleepless nights because of him, to break the law or do things I detest. It will probably delight him if I get arrested or killed trying to pay off his debt. My face falls as if I’m shocked and upset, but inside I want to laugh. Five thousand pounds a week is easy.
“All—all right,” I quaver, as if I’m terrified by his instructions. “If that’s what you want.”
He watches me narrowly and I wonder if he can see through my pretense. “I’ll cut your debt in half right now if you tell me where you’re getting this money.”
My mouth goes dry. I would owe him two hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds instead of four hundred and fifty, less what I’ve already given him. That seems like a far more manageable sum.
Then I remember the soft look in Misha’s eyes as he holds me close. The feel of his hand enclosing mine. I can’t unleash a man like Mr. Ravnikar on him.
I pull out my phone. “I’d rather pay back every penny my father stole from you. Now get out of my way before I call the police and tell them you’re keeping me here against my will.”
Slowly, his body taut with anger, Mr. Ravnikar moves aside, but only just enough to let me pass. My body grazes his as I lunge for the door handle. Every nerve screams that I’ve brushed up against an apex predator and I feel his eyes boring into the back of my neck all the way down the corridor.
At university, I have four hours of classes and they pass uneventfully. Afterwards Sloane and I study in the library for two hours, and I finally start to feel normal again. Now that the terror has passed, it feels good to have stood up to Mr. Ravnikar. I won’t be bullied or bribed, and when he realizes I won’t play his games he’ll get bored of me and just let me pay my debt.
I hope so, anyway.
We’re packing up our books when my phone buzzes, and I see it’s a text from Misha. I take a deep breath, trying to quell the happiness that’s suddenly burst through me at seeing his name flash up on my phone. I can’t dump Misha. I can’t, and I won’t.
I know it’s late notice but are you free for supper? I have a tedious board meeting followed by an even more tedious dinner. It would make me happy to have you to look forward to.
I feel my heart turn over and reply straight away. Yes, of course. Where shall I meet you?
He sends me a location pin for a cocktail lounge in town and a
time to meet him. I say goodbye to Sloane and head out of the library towards the Tube stop, my head full of thoughts about Misha. What pulls me out of my reverie a few minutes later is the strange dark blot hovering at the corner of my vision every time I turn my head to cross a street or look in a shopfront. After the sixth time it happens, I start to feel uneasy, and I turn around and stare into the crowd of commuters filing past me.
Is someone following me?
I can’t see anyone suspicious and no one is staring at me or hiding behind a newspaper. I think I must just be being paranoid.
At home I shower and put my hair into hot rollers, which cool while I go over the notes I made today in the library. At nine p.m. I’ve got my makeup on and hair done, I’m wearing a dress and the Chanel heels and I run out the door to the waiting car.
Misha is already in a booth at the cocktail lounge and he stands up to greet me. I slink into his arms for a kiss and after his lips brush mine he murmurs in my ear, “Ljubica. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all afternoon.”
I press my body against his broad chest for a moment. God. Same. I step back and my fingers run down his tie, and I smile. “You’re wearing the one I gave you.”
“I am. It’s my favorite now. Are you hungry?”
We sit down close together and he keeps an arm around my hips. There’s a new intimacy between us since Dubrovnik and it makes my heart sing. “Famished. But did you eat already?”
He gives me a squeeze as the waiter appears, and then lets go so he can order for us. “Barely. I was waiting for you.”
Cocktails arrive, and then lobster macaroni and cheese and soft-shell tacos. I try to enjoy the food and Misha’s company but I get that strange being-watched feeling again.
“Something wrong, ljubica?” he asks finally, noticing I’m distracted.
People are sitting up at the bar, holding cocktails and glasses of wine. “Not really. I just wondered if…oh, it’s nothing.”
I expect Misha to go back to what he was talking about but he turns to look as well, his frown hard as he scans the room. It’s sweet of him to take my worries seriously rather than brush them off, but I’m sure it was nothing. Seeing Mr. Ravnikar today has made me paranoid.
When we finish our food and drinks Misha suggests we head home. I like sitting here with him, though, and that cocktail has helped me relax. “Just one more drink?”
He levels a stern look at me. “I believe you have class tomorrow?”
Rats. I do have class tomorrow. Misha walks us out to the front while holding my hand, and I remember how I thought this would feel awkward when I first met him. How I thought I would have to force affection for him. Happiness that’s got nothing to do with the alcohol fills me as I imagine all the days and weeks spread before us. We’ve got plenty of time together and I want nothing more than just to be his for every day of it. It’s not too much to ask, is it, just to be his? I don’t mean I want to be loved. Not really. Not out loud. I would never say it.
But if he did fall in love with me…
I make a mental note to look up the Slovenian for I love you when I get home. Just out of curiosity, so I can taste those foreign syllables in my mouth and swallow down their sweetness.
The Bentley is waiting by the curb. “Let me give you a ride home,” Misha offers. Then he stops short and turns back, digging a cloakroom ticket out of his pocket. “Wait, I forgot my jacket.”
He goes back inside and I stand on the street, enjoying the warm evening. I’ll give Misha my real address when he gets back and just hope he doesn’t mind that I lied to him. I think he’ll understand that I needed to protect myself. I want to show him that I trust him now.
As the driver gets out on the far side of the car to open the door for me, a nondescript black car pulls up behind us. I idly watch the passenger-side front and back doors open, and two very large men get out, their hard eyes on me.
They come straight for me.
Lost in thought, I don’t really understand what’s happening. One of them reaches inside his jacket, and finally it sinks in.
Danger.
I turn to run, not back into the bar toward people and safety, but along the street. I can feel myself making the wrong decision but it’s too late, and then I trip over my high-heels and go flying. I can see large gloved hands out of the corner of my eye and it’s falling, ironically, that saves me from being snatched. I sprawl on the concrete, landing heavily on one hand and grazing my knees savagely. Pain shoots up my left arm.
Mr. Ravnikar. I know this is happening because of him. He took exception to the way I disrespected him today and now he’s sent these men to hurt me to get revenge. Terror expands through me as I try to scramble up. Why did I think I’d be able to get the better of him?
“Ciara.”
There’s a shout. Scuffling feet. A man says in a confused voice, “Mr. Rav—” and then there’s a sickening dull thud, a groan, and a body slumps to the ground. I turn and see Misha grappling with one of my assailants while the other lies unconscious on the ground.
I expected to see Misha bleeding on the ground, but they haven’t touched him. He grabs the second man by the throat and slams him face-first into the door of the Bentley. There’s a cracking sound and blood spurts over the blue paint. The man slides loosely to the ground, eyes closed.
All around us people are staring. Someone’s calling the police. I’m barely aware of it. I’m only aware of Misha. He stares at me, breathing hard, blood on his knuckles and a flat, destructive expression in his eyes.
I don’t recognize him at all.
Then his features shift and I see the Misha I know. He hurries over to help me up with gentle hands. “You’re safe now, ljubica. It’s all right. Get in the car.” With his arm around my waist he helps me into the Bentley. He gets in behind me and slams the door.
“Shouldn’t we wait for the police?” I ask, looking out the window at the men unconscious on the ground. The edges of my vision seem blurry and time seems to be passing in short jumps.
“Drive,” he practically snarls at the driver. “Head for the motorway.”
We wend our way through tight London streets while Misha checks me over, feeling my ankles for broken bones and my scalp for lumps and blood. He tuts in sympathy when he sees my scraped knees and the heels of my hands. “Where else are you hurt?”
“My wrist,” I say, holding it out to him and he takes it gently between his fingers. I can’t tell if it’s broken or not. Misha manipulates it carefully and feels the bones. I wince, but I let him do it.
“Did you feel a snap when you fell?”
“No, it just hurts a lot.”
“I think it’s sprained, not broken, but we’ll get you x-rayed as soon as we can.”
I search his face for that ruthless, frightening person I glimpsed while he was beating up Mr. Ravnikar’s men, but he’s gone. I wonder if I imagined him. “Is that where we’re going, to the emergency room?”
But he doesn’t answer, and I think I see a flicker of that brutality again, as if he’s imagining going back to the men who hurt me and fucking them up all over again. I start to shake uncontrollably, imagining the terrible things that could be happening to me right now if Misha hadn’t been there.
The patrons don’t even mind if the girls have a few scars. Makes them work harder.
Why did I think I had any power when I know how he wants to destroy me utterly? It was never about the money. I might have escaped tonight, but this is far from over.
I’m never going to be free.
Misha notices I’m shaking and puts his jacket around me, warm from his body heat. Then he leans over and opens a compartment in the passenger door next to him, rummages around for a moment and then pulls out a small box.
“It’s not a first-aid kit, but it’s a start,” he explains. I hear the snap of a blister packet and then he’s offering me his hand and a bottle of water. “Take these. All of them. They’re painkillers.”
Th
ere are four white pills on Misha’s palm and I obediently pick them up and swallow them down, two at a time. We keep driving and I wait for the pain in my wrist to diminish but all I can think is, What am I going to do now? There’s nowhere I’ll be safe. Mr. Ravnikar is never going to forgive this. Misha’s in danger now, too. I have to tell him so he’s ready. He’s going to be so angry with me.
Slowly, eventually, almost against its will, my mind slows down and I realize Misha is talking quietly to me, his lips warm against my temple. “You’re safe. Nothing can hurt you now. I’m going to see to it that nothing happens to you, I promise you, ljubica.”
I sink against him, grateful for his warmth and comfort. He hasn’t even demanded to know who the men are who attacked me. All he cares about is that I’m safe. All the anxiety seems to be seeping out of me as I lean into his embrace.
“How do you feel?” he asks softly.
Everything still hurts but I don’t really care anymore. I can’t even find the energy to tell him so. He pulls me up so I’m nestled in his lap, my cheek against his chest. I’m warm and heavy in his embrace, and strangely tired all of a sudden.
Misha’s voice near my ear is a soft murmur. “Just close your eyes for a moment. I’ll keep you safe.”
If I’ve had a shock shouldn’t I be wide awake? My eyes close and the relief is intense. I’m so very sleepy. No need to think. Just rest. Misha is here and everything is going to be all right. It will always be all right, because I have him.
Before I can slip into unconsciousness I reach up with fumbling fingers and stroke along his strong jaw.
“Misha?” I mumble, my eyes still closed. His heart is beating, strong and deep, against my cheek.
“Yes, ljubica?”
“I’m falling in love with you.” And then everything goes black.
Chapter Fifteen
Misha