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“Put her whole team on it. I want the source of every deposit. Follow it upstream. And Mir—this stays between us until I say otherwise.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the call. But my brother recovers quickly. I can practically hear him nodding as he says, “You got it.”

I hang up, pocket the phone and head back inside.

As I sink back into my chair, picking up the loose thread of conversation where it falls, doing it on autopilot, I’m so fucking aware of the way Meera’s hand finds my knee under the table. She squeezes it, beckoning for my attention. I can’t help but look at her. To give her whatever she wants from me. That’s the pull this woman has on me, and I can’t fucking explain it, not even to myself.

The way she looks at me… Fuck, no one has ever looked at me like that before. And I don’t know much, but I know I can’t fucking lose that.

Not yet.

Chapter 16 - Meera

The plan had been to have lunch. It had been meant to be a ninety-minute affair, composed of pitching a believable cover story and assuaging my family’s concerns. Instead, this man washed dishes with my stepfather; Leonid washing, and Daniel drying, going on about some hockey crap I know nothing about. He hadn’t batted an eye, entertaining my mother’s endless questions about everything from his romantic history to his relationship with his mother. Somehow, by four o’clock, he’d had her giving him a tour of her garden. And that had been before Neil commandeered his attention, pushing a game controller in his hand and demolishing him at some ludicrous wrestling game. He’d played video games with my brother. He’d made it an event, much to Neil’s glee: he and Neil played against each other, then Neil and me, then my mother and me.

I don’t know how to deal with any of this.

This was not the plan.

We don’t leave my mother’s house until the streetlights are illuminating the path from her front door to the car door Leonid gallantly opens for me.

It doesn’t help the way my mind is reeling in the least.

His behavior is resolutely date-like—and I know, I know we agreed he’d pose as my boyfriend, but I still hadn’t expected him to take to it like a fish to water. Frankly, it’s helpful that he’s grouchily muttering into his earpiece, communicating with his security. My eyes automatically seek them and come up with nothing, though Leonid assures me they’re there.

They’re there, I tell myself, my hands tightly holding onto the Tupperware full of biryani my mother had handed me.

My head tips back against the headrest of the passenger-seat. I sigh, struggling to fight the reminder of how I’d been having a very similar evening only a week ago. The container in my hands had been identical, and just as warm against my palms.

“Meera—hey, baby, look at me.” I hadn’t even realized my hands were shaking until he covers one with his. Large, callused fingers I’ve been getting to know intimately lace through mine, squeezing around them.

“Has it only been a week?” I croak.

His clear gray eyes soften over me, and it makes me feel flimsy. I hate it. I hate what it does to me when he reels my hand up to his mouth, and his lips press haltingly to the inside of my wrist. He says nothing.

My eyes burn, and I try to blink it away, refusing to let my vision blur. I’ve cried more this week than I have in the past thirty years. “I don’t even recognize myself,” I say, my voice too tellingly thick. “I don’t recognize my life or my world or—”

Leonid doesn’t look away. He holds my gaze all the way through, his features set in somberness. “I know. I’m so fucking sorry, sweetheart.”

Shakily, I nod. “You helped today. Thank you.”

My gaze drops but finds itself snapping back to him at the tortured, weary sound he makes in response. “Don’t thank me, Meera, for fuck’s sake. I did this to you. I had my reasons, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t fucked. I didn’t get it before, but I get it now. You’ve got a family of your own.”

I swallow hard. None of it is untrue. So, why the hell do I feel the need to make him feel better about it? Why is my stomach in knots over the upset look on his face? “I’d do anything for them, too,” I say. “I’m not absolving you. But I—I understand, too. Objectively speaking.”

“I wish you didn’t have to.”

I offer him a sad smile. “Yeah, me too. It’s all so heavy. All of this.”

His expression pinches. It confounds me, which part gets to him. But he never gives me the chance. Before I can get a word out, he asks, “You’re right. Let’s change that, shall we?”

I squint at him. “Uh, how?”

“When I say ‘fun’, what comes to mind?”

“Uh—”

“No, don’t think about it. Tell me off the top of your head.”