One hundred reasons to leave

Chapter 10

After Akimov gave me the injection and left, I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. Not because of the pain anymore, but because of the thoughts that wouldn’t let me rest.

First, he kisses me, then he brushes me off so coldly. Well, whatever. You’d need a bottle of something to figure out what’s going on in his head. Besides, I’ve only known him for three days.

In the morning, I get up early and go to make breakfast, unconsciously hoping we’d spend some time together.

I decide to bake a charlotte cake. While I’m clattering around with the dishes, I catch a glimpse of a man’s silhouette in the doorway out of the corner of my eye.

I spin around sharply and see a young man — the one who was with Roma when he came to Morozov’s house.

The man studies me with interest, tilting his head to one side.

“Hello…” I say quietly. The man smirks and nods. He doesn’t make me feel afraid.

“Hey. Why are you up so early?” he asks. Déjà vu?

“I got enough sleep.” I shrug and keep tidying up after my little cooking session.

“You do know there’s delivery, right?” he says, taking a seat at the table.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just that this way I have something to do.” I’m only half‑telling the truth. The real reason is that I want to cook for Roma.

“How are you feeling?”

I whirl around at his question. I look into his eyes and see genuine concern there.

“I’m okay, it’s getting better.” I turn back to the sink. I don’t really want to talk about my health with a stranger. It’s already unsettling enough that he knows what happened to me.

“Akim won’t be here for three days. Unplanned business trip. I’ll stay with you.”

Something stabs at my chest, and all of a sudden I feel kind of sad. I nod without turning around and start taking the fragrant baked treat out of the oven. The oven mitts are thin, and the hot glass burns my fingers. I try to lift the pan quickly and almost drop it onto the cutting board.

I take off the mitts and put my fingers under the cold stream of water, hissing in pain.

There’s a rustle behind me, and a couple of seconds later the man is standing right beside me.

“You burned yourself?” he asks, taking my hands in his and examining them. I just nod in response. He’s a big guy — tall and broad‑shouldered. He looks a bit like Roma.

“It doesn’t seem too bad; it’ll be fine by evening. Let me slice your pie.” He smirks, letting go of my hands.

“It’s a charlotte, actually,” I reply indignantly, watching as the man effortlessly lifts the hot dish out of the pan and starts cutting it.

“Pie with apples, charlotte — same thing, really.”

“Well, actually, no. The dough is different,” I say, sitting down at the table.

“Oh, come on, they taste almost the same.” He chuckles, setting the table for two. “Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee. Half a cup of boiling water and half with cream.”

“Whoa, isn’t that a bit rich for you, madam?” He grins, working the coffee machine. Talking to him is surprisingly easy and relaxed.

“It’s perfect,” I say with a smile. The man looks at me with warmth in his eyes. Without thinking, I drop my gaze to the floor and stop smiling.

“You have a beautiful smile; don’t hide it,” he says, turning to the beeping coffee machine. “You’re really pretty overall. I get why all these guys are so hung up on you.”

“What guys?” I ask, confused.

“Well, Moroz, for one. By the way, he doesn’t want to let you go.”

His words hit me like an electric shock. I flinch and drop the fork I was holding. His surname always hits me like a jolt — unexpectedly painful and unpleasant.

The man notices my reaction, picks up the fork, and hands me a clean one.

“But Roma sorted everything out. You’re officially divorced now, and according to the documents, you’re Orlova again.”

I breathe out in relief.

“Thank you…” I whisper.

“What for? It’s all thanks to Akim.” He shrugs, takes a piece of charlotte, and pops it into his mouth. “Mmm… really tasty, and it doesn’t even taste much like an apple pie.” He winks and keeps eating.

“Thanks… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I say, shyly looking down at my plate.

“Viktor, but my friends call me Karas.”

I start laughing quietly.

“Why Karas?”

“Because my last name is Katrasev.”

“Then why not Kot?” I say, shrugging.

“Beats me.” He smiles. “What should we do? We could lie by the pool in the backyard. Or play video games. I’d suggest something more active, but you’re not up for it yet.”

I freeze instantly. What kind of active things is he talking about? I look at him in alarm, and it takes him a second to realize what I’m thinking.

“Oh, no! I meant billiards or swimming. Or we could go shopping.” I exhale in relief.

“Alright, then, let’s go to your pool,” I say happily, heading for the door. Some fresh air will definitely do me good.