CHAPTER 13. Echoes On The Terrace
686 Words
Nikolai left ten minutes later—neither abrupt nor lingering. He returned to the drawing room with Elena beside him, accepted a final coffee he didn’t drink, and gave Claire a composed farewell before putting on his coat and leaving.
Elena stayed by the mantel, still. Claire noticed immediately. The front door clicked shut. Silence. Adrian broke it with his usual brand of unnecessary commentary.
“Well, that was intense.”
Claire glared at him. “Why do you insist on speaking.”
“It was observably intense,” he shrugged.
“Wine or a weapon?” Claire asked Elena.
“Wine,” she said, earning a faint laugh.
Adrian leaned against the doorway. “You know, Nikolai doesn’t usually stay on terraces.”
“That sounds like a very specific behavioral metric,” Elena said, swirling her glass.
“It is,” he admitted, entirely pleased with himself. “For a man who treats vulnerability like a hostile takeover, he’s making interesting choices.”
Elena looked down. Saying nothing felt safer than admitting she still felt the terrace’s echo under her skin—the cool rain, his quieter, rougher voice, the weight of being seen.
“You don’t have to discuss him,” Claire said, touching her arm lightly.
“I know,” Elena whispered, giving a faint smile.
“He makes you feel less alone than you’re comfortable with,” Claire continued, her gaze unwavering.
Elena looked toward the rain-darkened windows. “That sounds unhealthy.”
“Almost certainly,” Adrian said, smirking.
“Maybe. But it doesn’t make it untrue,” Claire added quietly.
Elena had built her life around control, discretion, and competence. Nikolai Orlov, in just a handful of conversations, had begun naming things she usually kept hidden—even from herself. That should have made her run. But she had wanted to stay on the terrace, even when it became dangerous.
“I should go,” she said quietly.
“Of course,” Claire stood immediately. Adrian offered the car.
“No,” Elena replied too fast. “I’d rather walk.”
Claire’s eyes sharpened. “You sure?”
“I need air,” Elena said, honestly.
Outside, the rain had softened to mist. The city glowed wet and gold beneath the lamps. Elena pulled her coat tighter, walking without thinking too much about direction. Her heels clicked against the pavement, pulse still racing.
I’m not afraid of the parts of you that survived.
God. She shouldn’t have said it. Or maybe she should have—it was true. Truth, however, didn’t always help. Sometimes it stripped away the polite distance keeping people from touching the sharpest parts of each other.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
You should have let Adrian send the car.
She read it twice. No greeting, no explanation. Only the sentence. A strange warmth threaded with annoyance moved through her. She typed back:
And deprive myself of dramatic weather and questionable decisions?
Walking alone after midnight in those shoes qualifies as both, he replied quickly.
Are you always this controlling? she typed.
Only when I have reason.
Annoyance, yes. But under it was something harder to ignore: he wasn’t pretending concern. He simply couldn’t.
That sounds suspiciously like an excuse.
No. It’s honesty you may not want.
Her breath caught. That careful, stripped-down refusal to lie—he would not call a thing smaller than it was.
You’re right. I may not want it, she typed.
I know.
Two words. Enough. Recognition, caution, and unspoken weight settled over her.
A sleek black car pulled up. Her phone buzzed again:
Get in, or I’ll come argue with you in the rain. Neither of us will enjoy the attention.
Elena stared at the message, then the car, then back at the message. Anger, amusement, and something far more dangerous surged. He hadn’t asked—he’d arranged—but given her the choice, leaving her in charge while making his preference clear. That shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.
This was how dangerous things deepened: not with declarations, but with choices small enough to survive. She crossed the street.
- Writer
