Chapter 3
2541words
"What's going on, Camila? You look terrible. Are you feeling sick?" My mother's concerned voice breaks through my foggy state. The world seems slow, like I'm moving through thick syrup, a feeling that has lingered since I woke from a restless sleep.
"I'm fine," I insist, trying to shake off her worry.
Her narrowed eyes tell me she's not buying it. "Well, pull yourself together. The buyer will be here any minute."
Her reminder jolts me awake like an espresso shot. I straighten up, running my hands over my hair which is pulled back into a simple bun today—partly for a professional look, partly because I lacked the energy for anything more elaborate this morning.
My hangover twists my stomach into knots. But it's the unsettling memory of what I witnessed last night that churns me the most.
Will it make the news today? Should I have reported it? Deep down, I know getting involved could be dangerous. But the thought of someone's death going unnoticed by their loved ones doesn't sit right with me.
"Camila, please, focus," Mom interrupts my thoughts, thrusting a roll of paper towels into my chest. "Go wipe down the front desk and make sure the mirrors are spotless."
"Do you really think the buyer won't purchase the studio if there's dust?" I chuckle weakly. "If that's all it took, I'd walk around dropping trash everywhere."
"Camila! Bozhe moi!" Mom exclaims, aghast, clutching her chest in her high-neck black dress. "If you're going to cause trouble, go somewhere else."
"Relax, I'll behave," I reassure her. I'm not about to create chaos. I have my own plans. Once I meet the buyer, I'll question his intentions. If I'm not satisfied, I'll put my foot down. Deep down, I believe my mother will listen to reason if presented with the right information.
After all, it's not the buyer's mind I need to change. It's hers.
A firm knock on the studio door interrupts our tense moment. It's a crisp, deliberate sound that makes Mom and I exchange a glance. I toss the paper towels aside and smooth down my red blouse. Mom adjusts her hair in the mirrors before motioning for me to greet our guest. "Let him in, Camila."
But as I step into the front room, I see he has already let himself in. Irritation flares at his audacity. Who walks into a business without waiting for permission?
Then he turns towards me.
And any anger I felt melts away.
He towers over me, his cobalt suit emphasizing his broad shoulders and trim waist. His gaze, a piercing light blue almost silver, locks onto mine, momentarily banishing my hangover. Heat surges through me, leaving me slightly dizzy.
I've never seen someone so striking. Especially not this close. He raises a large hand, his fingers brushing lightly over his chin as he smirks at me. "You're not Katinka," he remarks.
"Oh, uh, no." I clear my throat, extending my hand. "I'm Camila, her daughter."
He takes my hand in a firm grip, warmth and power radiating through my skin, sending a tingling sensation up my arm. Oh no, this is not good. I was prepared to dislike this guy intensely. That's what I had psyched myself up for.
Not... this.
'Mr. Volkov!" Mom weaves between us, taking his hand, giving it a few excited shakes. 'I'm so glad you made it! I hope parking was all right? These streets, sometimes people just leave their cars without any consideration. If there's trouble, tell me. I know a man who will tow?—"
'No, no. It's fine." He surveys the room after he withdraws his hand. 'So, this is your studio. It's smaller than I thought it would be."
My initial attraction dims slightly, replaced by annoyance. 'It's still larger than any other studio within a twenty-mile radius."
'You seem well-prepared with that fact," he remarks. Mr. Volkov pivots on his heel and begins to explore the main dance area without waiting for us to guide him.
Confused, I shoot my mom a questioning look, silently asking, What's going on with him?
She ignores me and hurries after him. With a sigh, I follow, keen to observe his next move. He strolls along the perimeter of the mirrors, pausing to inspect his reflection before crossing the room and stopping.
"Even though it's bigger than other studios," he comments, looking at me through the mirror. "It feels small."
I stiffen under his intense gaze. "It's spacious enough."
"Not for my needs."
"What are your needs?" I inquire cautiously.
Instead of answering, he resumes his examination. When he reaches another wall, he runs his thumb down the mirror, scrutinizing a smudge. My mom hisses in my ear, "I told you to clean those."
I furrow my brow. Clearly, this man isn't concerned about the mirrors.
"I asked what your plans are for this building," I press.
He mutters to himself while pulling out his phone.
I stride toward him, gripping his elbow. "Hey! Stop ignoring me!"
He tenses at my touch, his reaction as rigid as grabbing the handle of a four-wheeler. Slowly, he turns to glare at me. His expression is impassive, but beneath it simmers a potent, intense energy that threatens to weaken my resolve.
"If you want my attention so badly, ptichka, there are better ways to get it," he retorts, stepping back and shaking off my grasp.
"You're here to make an offer," I assert firmly, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Talking business usually involves talking."
"Camila, please," my mother interjects, rushing up beside me. "I apologize, Mr. Volkov. My daughter can be very direct."
"Call me Asher," he replies, casting his silvery eyes towards me. "And it's quite alright. I'm accustomed to dealing with eager individuals who overstep."
Oh, he did not just say that. I clench my fists, preparing to give him a piece of my mind about where he can stick his offer. But before I can say anything, Mom steps in front of me with a wide smile.
"Shall we move to the office?" she suggests cheerfully. "We can discuss the paperwork there."
Asher flicks his attention from me to her, then back again. 'Only if your charming daughter is okay with that."
His smirk is like a fishhook. It tugs into me with such force that I'm afraid I'll never yank it out. And when it's gone, I can still feel its presence throbbing against my flesh. I fight the instinct to roll my eyes. Ugh, why does he have to be so easy on the eyes?
'That's what I've wanted from the start." Once he sees the numbers, there's no way Asher will want to buy the studio. It's a money pit. He won't want to fix it, not the way I do. This kind of labor involves memories … It involves genuine love.
One look at him, and I know that's an emotion he'd never understand.
It's obvious that we all can't enter the office. Asher would find it hard to wedge himself in the room solo.
'I'll bring the paperwork to you," my mom says, her face flushing. She hurries to gather it up, dropping sheets on the floor, kneeling to retrieve them again. Her anxiety is putting my own nerves on edge.
Asher crosses his arms over his broad chest. The gold cufflinks on his suit jacket glint in the lights. Suddenly, I'm reminded of the gun.
'You look pale," he says. 'Do I frighten you, ptichka?"
'No. And stop calling me that. I have a name."
'Forgive me," he chuckles dryly. 'I forget the names of people I don't need to remember."
Fuming at his brazen comment, I bite my tongue.
'Here we are!" Mom blurts. Handing the stack to Asher, she links her fingers at her waist like she's waiting for a compliment. I hate this whole situation. But above all, I hate the amount of hope Mom's gaze betrays when she looks at Asher. I want to shake her, to yell at her, and to ask if this place means nothing to her.
If Dad's memories mean nothing to her. But I can't. Because for the first time in a long time, I do see something in her eyes—an emotion that she might've forgotten over the years.
Hope.
Muttering to himself, Asher flips through the papers. He scans them one by one, scrutinizing them closely. 'Not surprising," he sighs.
'What?" I ask.
'This place is burning money like a furnace. No wonder you need me."
'We don't need you?—"
'It doesn't matter," he cuts me off. 'I don't need it to be successful as a dance studio. The location is what I'm buying."
'What are you saying?" I ask warily, heart hanging in my throat, terrified of what his answer is going to be.
Handing the papers to my mother, Asher rakes his eyes over me from head to toe. 'I'm turning it into a club."
And just like that, my heart plummets into my heels. 'You can't be serious!"
'I very much am."
'But you said it was too small! A club, here? Impossible."
'I'll tear it all down." He shrugs. 'And once everything is gone, I'll rebuild."
Tear it all down. My chest twinges painfully. There's not enough room in my ribs for how fast my lungs are expanding. My knees suddenly feel rubbery, and my hand twitches to grab something to steady myself, lest I risk collapsing to the floor at how easy and unconcerned he sounds about destroying my childhood.
'I won't sell it." The words slip out of my lips before I can stop myself.
His eyes darken at my insolence, and my mother's mouth drops open.
'Camila!" she exclaims. But I'm beyond the point of trying to be polite to this asshole. Someone has to care about this place!
'I won't let him, or anyone, ruin what we built! What you and Dad worked so hard for!" Shaking my head violently loosens my bun. I square off with Asher. He's far bigger than me, but I refuse to let his size intimidate me. 'We won't sell to you."
He's judging me with fresh curiosity. I can't help but imagine him as a shark circling me in the open ocean. Mom's hand touches my elbow lightly.
'We will be selling," she says flatly, doing her best to keep her voice even.
'Mom! No!"
'Asher … Mr. Volkov. If your offer is serious, the contract can be signed right now."
Deflating at her unwavering statement, I inch backward, away from both of them.
Asher's face beams with delight as a grin curls on the handsome face that I've come to detest in such a short time. 'It's regrettable that your daughter has such misgivings about my plans."
'Because you're destroying my childhood!" I shout.
My mother cringes. But Asher just lets his grin transform into a sneer. 'I'm turning something broken into something new. Rebirthed, repurposed, whatever you want to call it."
I curl my lip in disgust. 'I call it greed."
'Do you think I'm taking advantage of the two of you?" he asks, lifting a hand to stroke over his dark hair.
That's when I notice it.
The small beads twinkle under the lights, reminiscent of the countless ballet dancers who have pirouetted in this very spot over the years. There's no mistaking it. I know exactly what I'm seeing.
They're prayer beads.
The same ones I saw last night!
Suddenly, blood rushes in my ears, drowning out Asher's words as he continues speaking. 'It's unfortunate that you have such a low opinion of me. Let me change that. We'll be spending a lot of time together as we finalize the contract."
He's the one! He's the man who killed that person! My breath catches, and I forget to exhale. Asher squints at me, and an irrational fear grips me—that he's somehow reading my thoughts.
As his hand drops to his side, I follow the movement down to his wrist. He watches me closely. Damn it… Does he recognize me from last night? I ran away as fast as I could…
He didn't see my face… did he?
'Mr. Volkov is right, Camila," Mom intervenes. 'Let's keep things civil. This will benefit all of us, even if it doesn't seem that way now. It's a chance for a fresh start. Please, malyshka."
'Listen to your mother, ptichka," he adds with a smirk. 'Don't let your personal desires get in the way of giving your mother the opportunity she deserves."
'It doesn't matter what I want," I murmur. 'Mom has already agreed to the deal."
'I understand," he acknowledges, 'but I prefer everyone to leave a deal happy. Misgivings complicate matters. And I prefer that every deal concludes with both parties as friends. And in my experience, the path to friendship begins with a drink."
Is he… asking me out? This guy has some nerve! Yet, his words intrigue me. He wants to convince me the deal is beneficial. That means there's still a chance I can persuade him otherwise.
But can I trust this? I'm almost certain he's the man I saw kill someone last night. I glance at my mother, silently pleading with her through my eyes.
She has no clue who he really is… or how dangerous he might be.
I'm being paranoid. He couldn't have known I was there last night. He would've said something by now.
At the very least, having a drink might bring me closer to uncovering the truth about him. And if I can manage to convince him to back out of the deal, even better.
So, I give a curt nod. 'Fine. Drinks under the guise of business. That's all."
'I didn't realize there was anything more than business here," he teases. 'Or do you think I want something else from you, ptichka?"
His smile only enhances his attractiveness, and a new wave of heat pools in my belly and creeps down my thighs. It's unfair for someone this despicable to be so good-looking. It feels like a cruel joke; it must be.
'Where do you propose we meet?"
Asher gently rakes his teeth against his lower lip, almost as if he's hinting at how he'd use those teeth on me. But whatever arousal he's growing in my core evaporates when he speaks.
'Topher's Lounge." His smile shifts, and the playful glint in his eyes is replaced with something else. 'But we should go before it gets too dark. Terrible things are known to happen around there after midnight near the docks, especially to people who go poking around where they shouldn't."
He extends his hand to me. Realizing that I have no other choice, I take it. And at the shocking warmth of his grip, a surge of electricity dances its way along my arm and straight into my heart. His smile locks me into place, but there's no warmth in his eyes.
Instead, there's only something predatory and dangerous. His pupils widen slightly as our hands remain locked, and I see myself reflected in their infinite dark depths—like a gazelle on the savannah trapped in the gaze of a starving lion.
And that's when I know I'm screwed.
