Page 22

I shoved past the dresses, grabbing a loose, dark gray hoodie and a pair of faded, skin-tight blue jeans that hugged my legs just right. Casual, a little rough around the edges, with a street-smart vibe. In the mirror, I tied my hair into a high, messy ponytail, letting my neck and forehead breathe. No makeup, just a swipe of clear lip balm. The girl staring back at me looked fierce, stubborn, ready to face a storm head-on.

Perfect. I wasn't your delicate little ???????, Gennady. I was Cassie Monroe, and I was coming for you.

The Regis Grand's top-floor restaurant was like something out of a damn movie. Massive crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, casting soft, expensive light over everything. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed off the city's glittering skyline, sprawling beneath us like a sea of stars. White tablecloths, polished silver, fresh flowers—everything screamed money and power.

My heart was hammering, my palms sweaty. My hoodie and jeans stuck out like a sore thumb among the designer gowns and tuxes. Shit, Cassie, what are you doing here? I felt like an impostor, ready to bolt.

"Reservation?" the waiter asked, his tone polite but his eyes flicking over my outfit with a hint of judgment.

"I'm here for Gennady Sokolov," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady.

"Of course. Right this way."

I followed him through the restaurant, feeling every stare—curious, judgmental, outright confused. Who was this chick in a hoodie crashing their fancy party? My cheeks burned, but I lifted my chin, straightened my spine, and kept walking. Fuck 'em. I wasn't here for them. And I was sure as hell not here to impress him.

Then I saw him.

Gennady Sokolov.

He was at a corner table with the best view, like he owned the whole damn place. He had swapped the suit for a black silk shirt, top buttons undone, showing off a slice of tanned, muscled chest that was pure sin. His silver-gray hair caught the light, and those emerald eyes—God, those eyes—were locked on me, intense and unblinking. He was a predator, lounging like he was waiting for his prey to stumble right into his jaws.

I held my breath, waiting for his reaction to my outfit. Disappointment? Annoyance? But his lips curved into a slow, approving smirk, like I had just passed some kind of test. What the hell? Was he into this?

He stood, moving with a dancer's grace, and pulled out my chair. It was a gentlemanly move, but when he leaned in close, his cedar-and-leather cologne hit me like a drug, and his body heat wrapped around me like a net. My pulse spiked. I could see the hint of chest hair at his collar, hear his steady breathing, and feel the raw power rolling off him.

"Your choice," he said, his lips brushing my ear, voice low and rumbling, "is… striking." His breath grazed my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. "I thought you'd wear a dress."

My heart was pounding, but I forced myself to sound cool. "I don't do what people expect." My voice wobbled at the end, betraying me.

He chuckled, a deep, sexy sound that tickled my nerves. His hand "accidentally" brushed the back of my neck, his fingers hotagainst my skin, sparking a jolt that shot straight to my core. Fuck. One touch, and I was already unraveling. My legs went weak, heat pooling low in my belly, my body screaming for more.

"I know," he said, his voice dripping with intimacy, "and that's why I can't look away."

He sat across from me, picking up his wine glass with lazy confidence, but his eyes never left mine. They were dissecting me, reading every twitch, every flush. "Something to drink?" he asked, his tone casual but laced with something darker.

"Whatever," I said, trying not to stare at his open collar. That glimpse of skin was doing things to me I didn't want to admit.

He signaled the waiter. "Dom Pérignon for the lady."

Silence settled, heavy and charged. I racked my brain for something to say, but all I could think about was him—his presence, his stare, the way he filled the room. Why was he looking at me like that?

"You nervous?" he asked, a knowing smile in his voice.

"Why would I be?" I shot back, but my voice cracked, giving me away.

He set his glass down, leaning forward, his gaze sharpening. "Because," he said, glancing at my hands on the table, "your fingers are shaking."

I started to pull my hand back, but his voice pinned me in place. "And," he added, locking eyes with me, "you keep dodging my gaze."

Shit. He had me pegged, and the mix of embarrassment and thrill made my heart race faster. He was reading me like an open book, and part of me loved it.

I forced myself to meet his eyes, defiance kicking in. The air crackled as our gazes collided, electric and heavy. My cheeks burned, my breath quickened, and I could see his pupils dilate, his breathing not as steady as before.

"I'm not nervous," I said, steadier now. "I'm thinking."

"About what?" He leaned closer, his presence overwhelming, like a storm closing in.

I gestured vaguely at the opulent room, then at him, then myself. "This. You. Me. Those late-night texts. What happened in the hallway. What the hell does it all mean?"