The King - S.R. Jones Page 0,32

her upstairs. I won’t be sleeping tonight, and tomorrow Liza will have a trio of men on her making sure she doesn’t try to leave. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s regularly drinking too much, or worse, doing drugs. Seeing under the bright glare of the hallway light, she looks dreadful. Dark circles lurk under her eyes, and her skin looks chalky.

If she’s got my kid addicted to that shit before he or she is born, I’ll fucking throttle the life out of her with my bare hands once she’s given birth.

She sighs and yawns, and I notice the cracks at the corner of her mouth.

Yep, Liza hasn’t been taking care of herself at all. She’s going to start because she’s carrying my baby.

After showing her to her room, I retire to my own space, but I keep the door ajar so I can hear her moving about. Normally I’d take a shower with my favorite rock music blaring out of the speakers in my attached bath, but not tonight. Not that she can get out. I’ve set the alarm, and she doesn’t know the code, but it pays to be careful. I fire a text off to Michael telling him we’ll talk later, but not to let Liza have the alarm code.

Then I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

Blonde hair like the sun, green eyes, warm and full of life, and freckles all dance through my mind, and I let them because this is the last time I will indulge this way.

Cassie and I are done, and starting tomorrow I’ll treat her as nothing more than an employee. One I’m about to make do something highly illegal.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cassie

The next few days pass in a blur of anxiety and anticipation. I’m waiting to find out what this strange role is that Konstantin wants me for. I’m also waiting for him to make a move and do something. As the days pass, though, I’m convinced he isn’t going to.

I’ve seen him around, and he doesn’t even glance my way. I know he’s a bastard, and cold, but I don’t think he’s a games player, so what’s going on?

What if he’s decided that we ought to keep this strictly professional? I’ll find that difficult because the last thing he makes me feel is professional.

He makes me feel alive. One glance his way and butterflies set flight in my stomach. If I hear his voice, my heart skips. I’ve got it bad. So bad. He, however… He seems to have changed his mind.

By the time Friday rolls around, I’m outright depressed. I have no plans for the weekend, and last night Grandma called and told me Grandpa’s treatment is to be stopped. There is an experimental drug they can use, but it’s only available privately, and we don’t have the money. I’ve set up a GoFundMe page, but it’s unlikely I can raise a hundred thousand pounds in time.

Some days it feels as if everything goes wrong.

Just before lunch, I sense someone behind me and turn to see Konstantin standing, looking down at me. “Can I have a word please, Cassie,” he says.

My stomach flip-flops. I nod and push back my chair, following him.

He takes me to a small room on the fifth floor.

It’s not as grand as I imagine he’d want.

“Is this your office?” I ask in surprise.

“It is while I’m here,” he says. “My main office is at my own building, near your old workplace, Rigattos,”

Ah, the coffee shop. Some days I miss it awfully. Today is one of those days. I hark back for a moment to when times were simpler.

“How are things?” Konstantin asks.

I shrug. “Fine … sir.” I add the sir with what I hope is a cheeky smile.

“Konstantin is the appropriate name, Cassie.” He is serious, deadly so.

“But... I don’t understand. You said to call you … you wanted…” I trail off, mortified that I’m practically begging.

“I know what I said, but circumstances have changed.”

“What circumstances? What could have changed?”

“Cassie,” he says with a sharp edge to his voice. “Everything has changed. I’m sorry, okay, but us … this … it can’t happen.”

Oh my god, he’s such a dick. He changes his mind like the breeze. I hate that I feel tears pricking at my eyes, again. It seems this man is tailor-made to cause me to cry.

I swallow down my upset and put on what I hope is a professional expression.

“Of course. As you wish, Mr. Silvanov.”

“Konstantin,” he says wearily.

“Mr. Silvanov,” I