Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
It’s the way they’re dressed in perfectly tailored suits, dark and expensive. They exude a kind of power and old money that seems out of place outside of a period piece.
A few of them are smoking cigars, their movements slow, unbothered.
“Nicole?” Mia snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Helloooo? Where’d you just go?”
“I…” I shake my head, trying to brush off the sudden unease creeping over me. “Sorry, I just…” My voice dies in my throat.
When I glance back at the group, I swear I see Sergei. The man definitely has the same sharp jaw, the same ice-blue eyes. He looks younger, though. Not by much, but enough to make me second-guess myself.
His stance, too, is calculated, powerful, unreadable.
My stomach tightens when he looks straight at me through the glass. And it’s not just a glance. It’s direct and unwavering, even from across the street and through a crowd of pedestrians and cars.
I swear I stop breathing. The city noise recedes, and the café’s chatter turns to static. Because this man is staring at me like he knows me. Like he’s been expecting me. Like I’m not just some random woman sitting at a café, sipping iced coffee and ignoring her best friend’s rants.
A shiver runs down my spine. There’s danger in the way he studies me—assessing, calculating, deciding his next move. A taxi passes, blocking my view for a split second. And when it disappears, so does he.
My stomach drops. I scan the sidewalk, my pulse pounding. The group of men is also gone without a trace. I don’t catch any movement down the street.
Mia’s voice pulls me back. “Nicole?”
I turn to her, swallowing the unease threatening to choke me.
She frowns, setting her coffee down. “Are you okay? You just went all weird on me.”
“Yeah. I’m fine,” I say with a forced smile.
She narrows her eyes. “No, you’re not. You look like you just saw a ghost.”
I take a slow breath. “It’s nothing. I just thought I saw someone I knew.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Did you?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
And that’s the truth. Because the man could have been Sergei. Or someone connected to him. Or no one at all, just a man with a similar build and haircut. I force a laugh, shaking off the tension in my shoulders.
“I think I’m just sleep-deprived.”
Mia snorts. “Okay, now that I believe. You’re always running on, like, three hours of sleep and caffeine fumes.”
I exhale, grateful she doesn’t push. She makes me laugh, even though my chest still feels tight. I sip my coffee, forcing myself to focus on the moment and chase away the icy prickle that I just witnessed something I wasn’t meant to.
5
NICOLE
Five Weeks Later
The hospital cafeteria is full today. Every table is packed with doctors, staff, and family members waiting for news about loved ones. I watch them with the same quiet detachment I always feel. Sometimes I wonder how hard it must be to be a family member or friend, unsure what the next five minutes could bring.
Mia and I claim our usual table by the windows. Sometimes it’s the only glimpse of the outside world we get all day.
I sit across from Mia, picking at my turkey wrap, when my stomach suddenly lurches. It’s violent, a wave of nausea crashing into me so hard that I almost gag right there at the table. I slap a hand over my mouth, eyes going wide.
Mia barely has time to react before I bolt, weaving between unsuspecting coworkers on my race to the restroom.
Her chair scrapes across the floor as she follows. “Nicole? What the hell?”
I don’t stop—I can’t. I won’t make it unless I move fast.
The staff restroom is mercifully empty when I crash inside, shoving the stall door open and dropping to my knees just in time. I don’t even get a second to brace myself before my stomach twists, tightens, revolts. I gag once, then vomit. The acidic burn of it makes my eyes water, my body trembling as I grip the toilet bowl. I hate this. I hate throwing up.
A second later, Mia is at my side. She crouches and gathers my hair into a firm ponytail with one of the ties she always keeps on her wrist.
“Shit, Nic.” Her voice is concerned but steady. “Okay, okay. Deep breaths.”
I groan, resting my forehead against the cool porcelain.
“Tell me you didn’t get food poisoning,” she says, rubbing slow circles over my back.
I shake my head weakly. “It’s not food poisoning,” I manage.
“You sure? Because if you did, I’m marching back to the cafeteria and kicking someone’s ass.”
Despite myself, I laugh, or at least try to. It comes out as more of a pained whimper.
Mia’s expression softens. “Okay, talk to me. What the hell is going on?”
I exhale shakily. “It’s just bad nausea. It’s been happening for a couple of days.”