VOICE MEMO – 12:03 AM

Things I should have said: “No.” “Stop.” “This isn’t okay.” “I quit.”

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YES | CANCEL

The fiftieth floor is nothing like the fortieth. For starters, it’s basically empty.

Whereas the fiftieth floor is a buzzing labyrinth of gray cubicles drowning in an ocean of murky brown carpet, this place is vacant and pristine, acres of white marble shot through with veins of black. The walls are lined with snake plants, so dark green that you can almost see yourself in them. At the far end, I spot my old desk, seated just outside of a set of magnificent mahogany double doors.

I walk that way.

One of the doors is cracked open. When I’m close enough, I steel myself, then knock and slip inside.

Lukas Lazarev sits behind a gargantuan desk that makes Kir’s look like a flimsy little card table. It’s huge, black marble that’s the inverse of the white flooring outside, and yet he still dwarfs it.

He’s on the phone. He glances up when I enter, points with one huge hand at a chair across from him, and keeps talking.

I sink into the chair he indicated and try not to fidget.

He’s different in daylight. Well, that’s not quite true. It’s just that I can see more of him.

He’s just as massive and intimidating as he was Friday night. But instead of being drenched in shadows and illuminated only by the dancing flame of a cigarette, he’s stern and silver in the fluorescent light.

Today’s suit is navy. Still no tie, and he’s still wearing those chunky silver rings. He drums his fingers on the table as he snarls into the phone.

I look down at myself. These black slacks are Target’s finest, and the blouse was a hand-me-down from Jillian. My scuffed flats are worn so thin from the daily walk to the office that I can feel every pebble in the road.

I dressed carefully this morning. At the time, I thought I looked professional. Put-together, even.

That’s a joke.

Compared to Lukas, I just feel cheap. I’d almost rather be naked.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.

I wonder if I’m what he expected.

I wonder if I’m already disappointing him.

I sit. I wait. But still, the conversation goes on.

And on.

And—my God—on.

It takes me an embarrassingly long second to realize that the reason I don’t understand what he’s saying is because he’s speaking in Russian. Shockingly, my two years of high school Spanish are doing me no favors in terms of figuring out what he’s talking about.

“It seems like you’re busy,” I mumble after another couple minutes have passed. “I’ll come back.”

I start to stand—then, without pausing his conversation, or even looking at me, Lukas moves.

He raises one hand, palm out.

Sit the fuck down, it says.

Then his finger curls downward.

Stay the fuck there, it says.

My ass hits the leather before my brain catches up. I swallow hard. Sir, yes, sir.

I fold my hands in my lap and do my best to calm my racing heart. I don’t try to move again. I don’t even think about moving.

Because when Lukas Lazarev tells you to sit, you sit.

While I wait, I study the office because there’s nothing else for me to do. It’s as haunting and bare as the rest of his top floor domain. The oil painting off to my left is a vast, colorless snowscape, with a tiny smudge of black in the middle that looks like a traveler lost in the tundra. Pretty depressing, if we’re being honest. On the bookshelves, I see titles in Russian and English mixed together, their spines cracked from use. The desk is devoid of everything but a laptop, a leather-bound notepad, and a thick gilded pen, all resting alongside an ashtray that’s half-full.

It’s like a room designed by someone who wanted to prove they needed nothing. Mission accomplished, I’d say.

The phone slams down without warning. I jump in my seat. I don’t scream, but it’s a close call.

Lukas swivels to face me. Those gray eyes are stormy this morning. But the beard, the suit—everything else about him is flawlessly groomed.

“Ms. Everett. You came.”

“You didn’t give me much of a choice, Mr. Lazarev.”

He raps his fingers on the armrest. “I recall specifically saying you had choices.”

“You also had my desk moved over the weekend.”

“Did I? How strange.”

I wait for him to explain. He doesn’t.

Instead, he settles his bulk back in his chair and folds his hands over his lap. “Let’s get to know each other,” he says.

I gulp and nod. “Oh. Okay, sure. Yeah.”

“Tell me about your brother.”

My stomach plummets through the marble at my feet. “Pardon me?”

He arches an amused brow. “Didn’t you know? You have a brother. His name is Gideon Everett. He is twenty-one years old, currently a resident at Westgate Recovery Center in Saugerties, upstate.” I don’t know if he’s fucking with me or not, but Lukas’s face shows no emotion whatsoever. “How long has he been there?”

“With all due respect, sir, that’s none of your⁠—”

“Almost eight weeks, is the answer,” he continues in a bored drawl. “This is your third attempt at getting him clean. The first two didn’t take. It’s a tough business, kicking addictions.”

I grip the armrests of my chair, white-knuckled and furious. “How the hell do you know any of that?”

“I know many things, Ms. Everett.” He picks up the pen on his desk and rolls it between his scarred fingers. “How much do you owe for his care?”

My face is splotchy with anger and heat. “I don’t see what this has to do with⁠—”

“Fifty-three thousand dollars.” He sets the pen down. “Give or take.”

I look away for a moment so he can’t see my burning cheeks. “Is there a point to this?”

“I’m establishing context.”

“For what?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he asks, “Do you cook?”

I blink. “What?”

“Cook. Prepare food. Do you do it?”

“I… Sometimes? I guess?”

“What do you make?”

“I don’t— Why does that matter?”

“Answer the question.”

“Pasta, mostly,” I say. “Eggs. Basic stuff. My mom taught me a little bit. ‘Housewife 101,’ she called it.”

He nods. “Do you sleep well?”

“No. Not ever.”

“Why not?”

“Because my life is stressful and I can’t afford therapy.” I grab the edge of his desk and scoot myself closer. “Mr. Lazarev, can you please just tell me what any of this is about?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not yet.”

I want to scream. “Then what am I doing here?”

“Being interviewed.”

“For a position you won’t describe.”

“Correct.” He picks up the pen again. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

I flush even hotter than before. I know my body hates me, because the mere mention of the word “boyfriend” coming out of Lukas Lazarev’s makes my thighs press together and my nipples tighten beneath my bralette. “That’s not appropriate.”

He says nothing.

After a frustrating minute-long staring contest, I snap out, “No, I don’t.” I’ll say anything to hurry along this excruciating conversation.

Lukas continues to seem unbothered. “Have you ever?”

“That’s really not⁠—”

“Ms. Everett,” he interrupts. “I don’t ask questions I don’t need answers to.”

I swallow hard. For some reason, I answer his ridiculous question. “Not really. Nothing serious.”

That’s a lie, croons an ugly little demon in my head. “Nothing at all” is the real answer. Go on, tell him. Tell him how you watched from the sidelines while life for the normal kids went ahead and left you behind. Tell him how badly it burned you up inside to see all of them date and laugh and live and love and fuck and kiss and hold hands and cuddle and comfort each other. Tell him how you never got any of that, and tell him how, the one time you tried, it all went wrong, and your big reward was a pair of matching coffins and a brother fraying at the seams.

Tell him the truth, Rae.

Tell him.

Lukas watches me. I can’t tell what he’s looking for, but whatever it is, he seems to find it.

“That’s all for today.”

I stare at him. “That’s it?”

“For now.” He gestures toward the door. “Your desk is outside. All the documents you will need have been pre-loaded onto your computer.”

“But you haven’t told me anything! I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”

“You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out.” H couldn’t be less concerned.

“Mr. Lazarev⁠—”

“Lukas.” He’s already turning back to his laptop. “You’ll call me Lukas, Ms. Everett.”

I stand on shaky legs. My head is spinning. I have more questions now than I did when I walked in.

But he’s turned to face the window, and the message is beyond clear:

I’m dismissed.

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