Make Me Scream, Daddy

Chapter 2

Frederick’s grin curdles. He lurches closer, almost sloshing whiskey onto my thrifted heels. “You think you’re better than me?” His voice rises, drawing all the wrong kind of attention. “That clinic of yours is a joke. Heard your last investor dipped. What’s next—selling your own eggs on Craigslist?”

The insult stings. If he saw my recent search history, he’d know it was under consideration.

My chest burns, but I refuse to flinch. “At least I’ve built something myself. All you do is decide how to divvy up your trust fund.”

“You’re a saucy little b***h with an oversized ego.” Frederick’s hand clamps around my wrist, his fingers digging into my flesh like talons. His breath hits my face, hot and sour with halitosis and liquor. “That’s your problem. You think you’re something special, but you need to learn your place. You need to⁠—”

“—apologize.”

Silence.

Not just from me—from both of us. Because Frederick and I are equally confused by who spoke. If it wasn’t him and it wasn’t me, then who…?

We turn in unison to see a man looming large over us.

And just like that, the nightmare gets worse.

Even at first glance, I recognize him immediately.

Stefan Safonov.

I’ve never seen the Russian billionaire in person before, but when he does show his face in public, it makes headlines in both the financial and the gossip sections.

The financial part makes sense. His net worth makes Elon Musk look like Oliver Twist.

I’m starting to understand why the gossip section is so keen on him, though. He looks like he was born in his tuxedo. It practically melts around the hard, broad lines of his body. His smile is a scalpel, dazzling and lethal. Even in a room full of wealth, Stefan Safonov radiates a different kind of power.

When it comes to eye-catching clients, he would be the dream. My white whale.

Too bad I’m stuck in this whiskey-soaked disaster instead.

“You were about to apologize to the lady, weren’t you?” Stefan’s question isn’t really a question.

Frederick’s grip loosens on my wrist. “This isn’t your business, pal.”

Stefan tilts his head like no one has ever spoken back to him before. I wouldn’t doubt if that were the case. “Everything is my business.”

Frederick shifts behind me, treating me like a human shield. “Oh, screw you, Safonov. You don’t own⁠—”

There’s a flash and Frederick’s hand is gone from around my wrist, and he’s whimpering. It takes me a second to realize that’s because his fingers are being crushed in Stefan’s huge hand. I can practically hear the bones grinding together as Stefan squeezes.

“Right now, you are being loud, rude to a lady, and—” He plucks the whiskey from Frederick’s other hand and gives it a derisive sniff. “—drunk on bottom-shelf liquor. I can’t decide which offends me more. I will say this once and once only: Walk away. Or things will get worse for you, very quickly.”

Whatever Frederick wanted to say, it’s gone now. As soon as Stefan lets go of his hand, he retreats, clutching his arm to his chest and muttering curses into his stained lapel as he disappears into the crowd.

I exhale shakily. My heart is pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Or get closer to Stefan. I can’t decide what terrifies me more.

My first instinct is to drop to my knees and thank him for saving me, then maybe ask him to keep up the hero act and slide me a blank check.

But my second instinct—the one I decide to listen to—is to stand my ground. I may not know Stefan, but I know men like him—and men like him feed on fear. If I show him how desperate I am, he’ll eat me alive and leave no crumbs.

So I stand.

I clench.

But I do not smile.

“Thanks, but I had it handled.” I hate the slight tremor in my voice, but I pretend I don’t hear it.

“Is that so?” Stefan’s gaze flicks to my trembling hands. “Frederick is a vengeful son of a b***h, and you were barely fighting back. That’s a dangerous way to live in this world, Dr. Aster.”

My breath hitches on two key words: my name. “You know who I am?”

“I make it my business to know things.” He plucks a champagne flute from a passing tray and hands it to me. The crystal catches the light, throwing rainbows across his angular face. “Especially beautiful women who stalk gala guests with business cards in their purses and murder in their eyes.”

“I think it’s called ‘networking.’”

Stefan laughs cruelly. “You’ve spoken to seven donors tonight. Two laughed. One called you naïve. And four said ‘maybe’ while staring at your tits.” His smirk widens at my glare. “Your ‘networking’ needs some improvement.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I fall back on the same ol’ reliable: bare my teeth and batten the hatches. “And you’re just… what? A billionaire with a savior complex?”

“Savior? Not even close. But I specialize in distressed investments. And I know an opportunity when I see one.” His eyes glint. “Come with me. I’ll get you a drink that doesn’t taste like battery acid.”

Isn’t this what I asked for? What I fell to my knees and literally prayed for?

So why do I hesitate?

I’ve watched my mother navigate hospital politics for decades. I’ve been on the chopping block of her impossible standards since I was old enough to hold my head upright. And just like I saw how she never did anything without a reason, every instinct is warning me right now that Stefan Safonov doesn’t do anything without a price. He makes investments, and investments are meant to do one thing: yield returns.

The question I should be asking is, What is this going to cost me?

But here’s a better question: What choice do I have? My clinic is bleeding out. If not Stefan Safonov, then who?

I lift my chin. “One drink. And if you mention my t**s, I’ll test how flammable that suit is.”

Stefan laughs, rich and surprised, as he leads me toward the balcony. “Careful, little fox. I like fire.”

Boston glitters below like a bed of nails. It’s cold out here, but darker, quieter. Normally, that would be a nice reprieve from the shitshow inside.

Unfortunately for me, I’m not alone.

Stefan strikes a lighter and touches it to the tip of a cigarette dangling between his perfect lips. The flame highlights sharp cheekbones and the pockets of shadow in his hollow cheeks.

“You hate these things,” he observes.

“Cigarettes?” I ask in confusion. “I guess, yeah. I swore them off after a bad ex who chain-smoked like it was his job. To be fair, since he was unemployed, it was in fact his job.”

He chuckles. “Not that.” Then he tips his head towards the double doors to clarify. “The posturing. The lies. The f*****g pretense of it all.”

“Oh. Right.” I side-eye him. “Says the man who probably owns the building they’re posturing in.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” He exhales in my direction, smoke curling between us. Then his gaze flicks to my clutch, where my phone is buzzing again for the third time in two minutes. It’s the only sound out here on this isolated balcony. “She’s persistent, that mother of yours.”

My spine stiffens in alarm. How did he know it was her blowing me up? “Are you stalking me?”

“Stalking implies interest. I’m merely observing.” He taps his cigarette on the railing.

Moonlight refracts off the silver of his signet ring. The Safonov crest. If gossip is to be believed, there are dead men with that emblem embedded in their cheeks.

“Why do you let her carve her expectations into you?” he asks.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I snap. “So don’t act like you do.”

He turns, crowding my space without touching me. The heat of him seeps through my gown. It takes all the willpower I have left to keep myself from leaning into him for shelter.

“Don’t I, though? You graduated top of your class a year early. You’ve published three groundbreaking studies on ovarian rejuvenation. You opened your clinic at twenty-five… against Mommy’s wishes, too, because she wanted you to cut people open instead.”

I swallow hard. “Reading my Wikipedia page isn’t knowing me.”

His lips quirk. It’s not quite a smile. “You’re right—because Wikipedia doesn’t mention how you’re drowning in debt. Too proud to beg and too stubborn to quit. Tell me I’m wrong.”

I want to recoil. Want to scream. Instead, I meet his stare, refusing to flinch under the weight of his way-too-accurate assessment. “And what makes my financial situation your business, Mr. Safonov?”

“Stefan,” he corrects, like I’ve offended him by using his surname. “And like I told our friend Frederick inside: Everything in Boston is my business.”

“What’s your point?” I finally ask, my patience wearing thin. “Why are you here?”

I don’t mean here at the gala—I mean here with me. All the money walking around inside, and he’s wasting his time making cryptic and weirdly accurate observations about some loser doctor on the brink of bankruptcy?

I need to know why.

“I’m not here to save you, if that’s what you’re wondering.” His thumb grazes my jaw. “I just happen to like watching what interesting people do when they’re cornered.”