Rules for the New Sugar Baby

1. Are you worth it? Hell yes you are, ten times over
2. Hustle big, hustle hard and get out fast
3. Never, ever fall for your sugar daddy

I’ve always believed “I’m not that sort of girl,” but with my father’s debt to a bloodthirsty crime
lord to pay off I have no choice but to dip into the sugar bowl.

Misha, a handsome older billionaire, is willing to pay top price for me. Something about my daddy
doesn’t add up but with a debt to pay I don’t have the luxury of being picky. I’m the luxury in his
life, his fantasy to fulfil, and I’m going to play my part to the fullest.

My name is Ciara, and when daddy calls, I come.

 COME TO DADDY by BRIANNA HALE

Copyright © 2019 Brianna Hale

| All Rights Reserved |

Cover design by Brianna Hale

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except
brief quotations for reviews. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to
be construed as real. Any similarities between persons living or dead are purely coincidental.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
 The best things in life are free.
The second best things are very, very expensive.
COCO CHANEL
 Misha

“You’re a fucking idiot. Why did you come back here?”

There’s so much blood. Running down my chest. On the floor. All over my hands.
“I thought it was the right thing to do.” I wince in pain as I try to sit up. Next to me lies my
father, the knife still buried in his chest and his blue eyes glassy and staring.
Holy fucking hell. He’s dead. There’s a buzzing in my ears and everything at the edges of my
vision goes gray.
Damir grabs a fistful of my hair and strikes me hard across the face. “No passing out. We have
shit to do.”
I blink and shake my head rapidly. “I’m awake. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” he growls, ripping off part of my shirt and holding it over the six-inch gash
on my chest. Fuck, that hurts. I think the wound is longer than it is deep. I saw the knife coming at the
last second, the vicious downward stab that would have ended my life, and jumped back.
“If we don’t stop the bleeding you’re going to need a transfusion, and you can’t get a
transfusion when we’ve got a fucking body to dispose of.” Damir takes his own shirt off and binds it
tight around my chest. “I’ll stitch it up or something later, but for now, stop bleeding.”
I laugh weakly, wondering if the light-headedness I feel is from shock or blood loss. “Yes,
brata.”
Damir stands up, bare-chested, surveying our father with a flat expression in his eyes. I notice
there are new tattoos decorating his flesh. A dragon breathing fire over his heart. A skull on his
shoulder. A thick band around his right bicep. One tattoo for every year he was missing.
“I’m glad he’s dead,” Damir says. “After tonight we’re never going to look back, Mikhail. It’s
just you and me from now on. Forever.”
Him and me. The son who was loved, and the son who was not.
Free at last.
I hold my hand out to him and he helps me up. The world spins a little, but I force myself to
stay on my feet. Like Damir said, we’ve got our father’s body to get rid of.
“You and me. Forever.”
 Misha

Eighteen years later

It’s her parents’ funeral, but she isn’t crying.

The girl in the footage is a petite, pretty blonde of around twenty in a black dress and blazer
and a broad-brimmed hat. She’s standing next to the priest while a stream of people shake her hand. I
search their faces, trying to pick out any lawyers or investment managers among the mourners.
She’s got money somewhere and we’re going to fucking find it, says the email from my
brother, Damir. You know all the money people in this city. Look at their faces. Who’s helping the
little bitch? Once we know who they are we can sort them out.
The mourners dwindle to nothing and the priest goes into the church. I didn’t see anyone we
need to “sort out”. I go to close and delete the video but see that Miss Alders hasn’t followed the
priest inside. She takes a long, pensive look around the churchyard, and I notice her fingers are
fiddling nervously with her bracelet. My mother used to do the same thing shortly before my father
was due to arrive home.
“Are you all right, Mama?”
“What? Oh, I’m fine, Misha. Go and play, and keep out of your father’s way.”
I sit back in my chair. It’s a gray, still day in London and I glance at the Ravnikar Enterprises
skyscraper a few blocks away where Damir works. I’m part of the company but I like my space, so
I’ve rented my own office on the thirty-ninth floor of a different building. The less I have to do with
Damir—with anyone—the happier I am.
In the footage, Miss Alders firms her lips, ready to go into the church. Then she freezes, her
eyes going wide like a startled fawn’s. A man steps into the shot and she presses her back against the
church in fear.
I lean forward to get a better look at the screen. It’s Damir, his broad back and tall figure
almost obliterating my view of this small young woman. What the hell is he doing there? Her gaze
flickers past him, as if she’s yearning to escape.
Intent on the footage, I don’t notice that my PA is peering over my shoulder.
“Hey, look. It’s the dead girl.”
I slam my thumb on the spacebar to pause the video and glare up at Bethany. “What is it?”
 She tosses a file onto my desk and shrugs. “Here’s the report thing you need for that meeting
or whatever.”
My eyes sweep disapprovingly over her unprofessional attire. Today it’s an off-the-shoulder
blouse showing a great deal of creamy cleavage and a tight lace pencil skirt. Her wild black curls are
swept to one side and tumble down her arm.
“Thank you. That will be all,” I say tightly, keen to get back to the footage. Damir is frozen in
the act of looming over Miss Alders and my every nerve is on edge.
But Bethany folds her arms and nods at the screen. “I know Ciara.”
“Oh?”
“We took classes together until I quit last semester.” Bethany gives me a fake sycophantic
smile. “In order to devote more time to you, sir.”
“You’d be better off getting an education,” I mutter, checking the messages on my phone in an
effort to quell the desire to shout at Bethany to get out. What’s Damir playing at? Why is he so hung
up on this girl? Why do I want to reach into the screen and pull him away from her?
Bethany casts her eyes to the heavens. “Education? Please. I’m going to date a series of rich
men, find the most corrupt one to marry, and then when he’s sent to prison for fifteen to twenty-five
years I’ll console myself by spending all his money.” She shrugs a bare shoulder. “The ideal life.”
People aren’t sent to prison around here; we’re far too wealthy for that. But if she wants to
marry a corrupt man then she certainly has her pick at Ravnikar Enterprises, assuming she can turn a
blind eye to the things that go on around here. It gets easier. The trick is to think of the money.
I put down my phone and look at the screen. At Miss Alders’ terrified eyes. A memory comes
to me, of seeing my father standing over my mother in the same manner. Damir looks so much like him
these days.
Anger surges through me. Why did he make me look at her face? He knows I don’t like to get
personally involved. Numbers. Databases. Spreadsheets. The only people I like are theoretical ones
on the other side of a business portfolio.
The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “What’s she like?” I suppose I’m
hoping she’s a nasty, greedy little thing like her father so I don’t feel guilty when I wash my hands of
her in thirty seconds’ time.
Bethany considers this. “Smart. People like her. I think she was top in both the classes we had
together.”
Of course she’s smart and likeable and gets good grades. Of course she is.
I tap my fingers on my desk, trying to think. “Three years ago, I introduced Miss Alders’ father
to Damir and persuaded him that taking on our Diamond Property Developments scheme was an
excellent opportunity for him. He then stole money from us, and when he realized he’d been caught he
fled with his wife rather than face Damir. Their plane went down in the Ukraine two weeks ago.”
I remember how Damir had laughed when we got the news, like it was the best joke he’d
heard in his whole life. Then the laughter had stopped, and cold steel returned to his eyes. “They
shouldn’t have left their daughter behind. She’ll wish she’d died with her parents by the time I’m
finished with her.”
Damir has managed to recover nearly all of the seventeen million pounds that Mr. Alders
embezzled from us via our lawyers, all but four hundred and fifty thousand of it. Maybe Mr. Alders
used it for bribes. Maybe he had a debt to pay off. Maybe he liked high-class hookers. Who knows.
But I’ve been through the accounts and the money’s gone. I want to leave it at that but Damir isn’t
satisfied.
In the frozen video footage Miss Alders’ eyes are sparkling with fear as she looks up at
Damir.
“Misha, I told you to go to bed. It’s all right, your father and I were just talking.”
I point at the screen. “If it wasn’t for me Miss Alders’ parents would both be alive, and Damir
wouldn’t be out for her blood.”
Bethany puts a hand over her heart and stares wide-eyed at my chest. “Oh, sir, is that—what’s
that on you?”
I glance down at my suit, wondering if I spilled salad dressing on myself at lunch.
She peers closer, frowning intently. “Is that—a conscience?”
I level a dry look at her. If it wasn’t near-impossible to find a PA who can put up with my
brother and his dangerous associates, who knows how to keep her mouth shut about the things she
overhears, and can keep a meeting diary in order I’d fire Bethany.
“Thank you, you can go now.”
She ignores me. “I don’t know why her dead parents should matter to you. You didn’t make
Ciara’s dumbass father double-cross Mr. Ravnikar.”
True. But for some reason that doesn’t make me feel any better.
I recall the last line of Damir’s email. I’ll get my half a mill from her if I have to wring it out
of her fucking corpse.
I know my brother better than anyone else in the world. He means everything he says. Miss
Alders will have to find some way to raise half a million pounds, money that won’t make any
difference to our business, but will probably break her. I suspect that’s the point: it’s not the money
Damir wants. It’s revenge on the last living member of the Alders family.
Our servers are secure. There’s no way to trace that this video was sent to me. I can delete it
now and I’ll never be held accountable for what happens to Miss Alders, even if her body turns up
face-down in the Thames.
But the gods must be pissing on my grave today because I point at the screen and say to
Bethany, “Miss Alders’ debt. I can cover it easily but getting the money from my accounts into hers so
she can give it to Damir is a problem. How do I do it?”
Bethany shrugs. “How should I know? I’m not one of your dodgy accountants. Go ask them.”
“The accountants who all report to my brother? What an enlightened idea. I need to give her
half a million pounds, but she can’t know who I am or where the money has come from. I don’t trust
her to not tell Damir who helped her.”
Or break under his questioning.
My PA gives me a baffled look. “Why do you want to give her money?”
“That’s none of your business,” I say coldly. If I do nothing and something happens to Miss
Alders it will be one stone too many laying heavy on my conscience. I just want to get on with my
work but instead I’m suddenly burdened with integrity I didn’t fucking ask for.
She thinks for a moment and then shakes her head. “If you’ve gone soft on her why don’t you
just tell Damir you’ll cover her debt?”
“Do you really think my brother will allow me to use my money, that he likes to tell me is his
money because I work for him, to pay a revenge debt?”
Bethany wrinkles her nose. “Oh yeah. Your brother is an asshole. I forgot.”
An asshole. Assholes glass you in the pub. Key your car. Cut you off on the motorway. My
brother is enriched uranium-level psychopath. “There aren’t many ways that a student stumbles over
half a million pounds.”
“Let her work it off on the pole, then.”
In one of Damir’s own strip clubs, she means. I believe that’s his plan for her, watching her
slave away in one of his seedy strip joints for a decade until he’s ruined her life. They’re popular
clubs and strippers who work there of their own free will probably clean up. But a stripper forced
into it and wearing her vulnerability night after night for all to see? She’d be bullied by the girls and
patrons alike and taken advantage of night after night until she’s a hollow shell of self-disgust.
“Look on the bright side, sir. Once she’s a stripper you can go and get as many lap dances
from her as you like.”
I flick my gaze up at her. “I wish I could replace you.”
“But you can’t, because no one but me can put up with your surly ass. Can I have an advance?
One that doesn’t actually come out of my next pay check?”
Bethany can have anything she wants if she can make Miss Alders go away. And she needs to
go away, fast. I’ve wasted enough time thinking about her. “Come up with a way to solve this problem
and you can have this month’s pay check twice over.”
She considers this for a moment, and then perches on the edge of my desk and says in a
breathy voice, “Why don’t you be her daddy?”
“Her what?” I deadpan.
“Her daddy. You know, her sugar daddy. You give her a fat allowance in exchange for a
couple of dates a week and a blow job when you’re feeling lonely. I don’t imagine anyone’s sucking
your dick by choice. Ciara gives the money to your brother and your newfound conscience lets you
sleep at night. Problem solved.”
My expression is still baleful, but my mind is ticking over. It’s a ridiculous idea, though on the
upside Damir would never suspect it and drip-feeding Miss Alders the funds rather than trying to give
her a lump sum would seem less suspicious to him, as she’d pay him off bit by bit.
But I don’t know Miss Alders, I don’t want to know her, and I have no idea how I would go
about getting her to agree to such a distasteful arrangement.
“One of my friends was in the sugar bowl for a while,” Bethany says, and I stare at her
blankly. “That’s what sugaring is called, being in the sugar bowl. The girls are the sugar babies and
the guys are the sugar daddies. It’s super popular among students, actually. Why slave for hours in a
coffee shop if you can make thousands holding some flabby old guy’s hand while he pays for your
expensive dinner?”
“It’s a legitimate arrangement? Young women will take money just for going out on dates?”
Bethany gives me an incredulous look. “Well, you’d get to sleep with her, too. That’s what it’s
about. You do have sex don’t you, you big weirdo? Or do you, like, pay people wearing stiletto heels
to step on your balls?”
“I don’t know why I’m asking you questions when I could just Google all this.”
“Because I’m better than Google.” She puts her hands together in a prayer position and wags
them at me. “You tell her that you’ll give her so many thousands of pounds a month in exchange for
dates, say two a week, some of which end in sex. You buy her handbags, some Italian shoes, maybe
take her away for a dirty weekend or two and give her extra cash when you’ve had a particularly
satisfying time. She sees you as a rich dude who wants a pretty young girl on his arm, and you get to
pay off her debt.”
Bethany beams at me, proud of herself, but it seems like an awful lot of hassle just to give my
brother half a million pounds that he doesn’t need. I have much, much more than that sitting in offshore
accounts and despite what Damir thinks it’s my fucking money. I just want to give it to him so I can get
on with my life and forget about Miss Alders. He was like this when we were children. Vindictive.
Cruel. When he was six and we were still living in Slovenia, one of our nannies scolded him for
stealing chocolates from her handbag and he got her fired. But it wasn’t just fired. He wasn’t satisfied
until our father screamed at the poor woman in front of all the staff and then kicked her out onto the
street, still weeping. Damir smiled ear to ear, watching the nanny sob as she walked away from the
house. I’d never seen him so happy. That was when I realized that there was something wrong with
my little brother. I didn’t do anything to stop him. That’s how I knew there was something wrong with
me, too.
“Well, sir?” Bethany prompts.
Being Miss Alders’ sugar daddy is a terrible idea and I don’t like it but it’s the only one I’ve
got right now. “How many thousand can I give her each month? Fifty?”
Bethany gapes at me. “Do you want her to think you’re a cannibal or you’re grooming her for
some weird kink? She’ll run a mile. Ten thousand. You give her ten thousand a month, max, and slip
her a few extra thousand in an envelope at the end of each date if you want to bump it up a bit.”
I groan inwardly. Ten thousand. At that rate it will take nearly four years for her to pay off the
debt in full. Four years of tedious dates and pretending to be her sugar daddy. I don’t have the time.
But maybe it wouldn’t take quite so long if I came up with something better in the meantime.
For now, ten thousand pounds a month would appease my brother and keep Miss Alders out of his
strip club while I work on a plan to get her a bigger lump sum sooner.
“It’s a good idea, isn’t it, sir? Go on. Admit it.”
“It’s…got potential,” I concede. “But how do I enter into this sort of arrangement with Miss
Alders? I don’t know her.”
Bethany flips her long hair over her shoulder and gives me a dazzling smile. “But I know her.
I’ll put the idea in her head for you. Classes start tomorrow and Ciara hangs out at a café on campus
before every lecture. We weren’t friends but she’s too nice not to talk to me if I sit down at her table.
Let me go look up the schedule.”
She turns to leave but I catch Bethany’s wrist, pulling her back. “If you breathe a word of this
to anyone you and she are both dead. You know that’s not me threatening you. That’s what Damir will
do. He doesn’t want money, he wants to cause her pain, and he’ll hurt anyone who gets in the way of
what he wants.”
Bethany shrugs out of my grip, and I see a flicker of fear in her eyes before she masks it with
nonchalance. “Please. You think I’d go blabbing about anything I do here? I like my blood inside my
veins.” Her eyes run over me. “What about you?”
I sit back in the leather chair. “What about me?”
“What will Mr. Ravnikar do to you if he finds out about this?”
 Me? I’m too useful to Damir for him to hurt me. I bring in too much money. I like bringing in
all that money. I like the power and influence we have in this city, however we go about getting it. “I
can look after myself. Now go.”
But Bethany hesitates in the doorway, an unfamiliar expression in her eyes. “Be nice to her,
okay? This is going to be weird for her, taking money from a bad-tempered old dude.”
My ego prickles at that. I’m not old, I’m forty-two. I’m fit, I don’t smoke, barely drink and I
work out five times a week. I could sit in the bar of an upscale hotel and have women flock to me, and
not only because they can smell money on me. Maybe I am bad-tempered, but while my brother makes
an art out of being cruel and manipulative, I just simply don’t care about making people like me. I
don’t need people to like me. Being liked is for thirteen-year-old girls and talk-show hosts. I make
money. I am very bloody good at making money. That’s what people need from me and that’s what I
provide. Money.
The more money I give Miss Alders and the less I want to see her, the happier she’ll be.
“Nice to her? This isn’t a relationship, this is a financial transaction entirely for her benefit.”
Bethany snorts. “How would you know what a relationship is?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, sir,” she calls in a sing-song voice as she saunters out. “Sounds like you’ve got
everything covered. I’ll go plant the idea in your sweet little baby’s head and everything else will just
take care of itself.”
 Ciara

I gaze guiltily at the large hazelnut latte sitting on top of my notebooks. It cost three pounds fifty that I
definitely can’t afford. Rent is due in eight days’ time. I need to purchase textbooks for the new
semester and five bills need paying. I need to eat.
I sigh and pick up the latte and take a swallow. It doesn’t matter now. Not when I’m going to
be in debt for the rest of my life.
My very short life.
A cold gust of wind blows through the courtyard. The sunshine is warm, but I feel winter
edging closer like a glacier along a valley. I don’t even know what I’m doing here, coming to class
when I’ll have to drop out and get a full-time job. When I cut ties with my parents two years ago I
thought I knew what it meant to be broke. I’ve lived for a week on ramen noodles. Sold birthday
presents online. Washed my clothes in a hand basin with supermarket shampoo. But that’s student
broke, not real broke. Student broke is a temporary condition that’s easy to deal with because you’re
bettering yourself as you struggle along. As soon as you land your first decent job you know that
things will get better.
Damir Ravnikar’s predatory gray gaze invades my mind. “I own your ass until all that money
is paid back and don’t you fucking forget it.”
“Please, I already told you, I’ve barely spoken to my parents in two years and I didn’t have
anything to do with my father’s business. I’m just a student.”
“Not my problem. They were your blood and they’re dead, so now I’m out for yours.”
“I’ll go to the police. I’ll tell them you’re threatening me. This isn’t legal.”
“Oh, baby. It’s cute you think they can help you.”
Baby. What a condescending creep.
Real hard-up is suddenly being four hundred and fifty thousand pounds in debt to a criminal.
Mr. Ravnikar seems to think I’m hiding a small fortune in my underwear drawer and if he threatens
me long enough I’ll hand it over. I don’t know how to make him understand that there’s no money. No
cash. No bonds. No trust funds. The house is being repossessed. Everything has been swallowed up
by the debt to Mr. Ravnikar. All I have to my name is a three-year-old laptop, some frayed jeans, and
this latte.
I take a long sip. And I’m running out of latte.
 The only reason I’m not a dead girl floating down the river right now is because Ravnikar
thinks I’m lying. Or maybe it’s because he sees another use for me. I remember his hot breath fanning
my face the day of my parents’ funeral. He’s a tall man but he bent down close so he didn’t need to
speak above a whisper. “If your inheritance doesn’t materialize there are other options. Pretty girl
like you, nice tits and ass, you could pay off the debt fast if you work in one of my clubs.” His eyes
roamed over my face and he added, “The patrons don’t even mind if the girls have a few scars.
Makes them work harder, you know?”
My stomach clenched at the thinly-veiled threat. He’ll cut me if I don’t agree to his demands.
“How quickly could I pay the debt off? If I worked for you?”
Mr. Ravnikar smiled a slow, cold smile. It was like seeing a demon smile. “Six nights a week
working the pole, giving private lap dances… You’d be done in ten years.”
Ten years. I’m twenty-two. Working all my twenties and some of my thirties away in a strip
club for Damir Ravnikar? I can’t.
But what other option do I have?
A chair is scraped out and a girl in high-waisted trousers and a cropped tee sits down. She
stares at me with big, green, sympathetic eyes, her pouty mouth twisted in sympathy. “Ciara. You poor
goddamn thing.”
I give Sloane a wan smile. I met her two years ago when I transferred from art history to law.
We’re both extremely competitive with each other for our grades. It motivates us to study, this friendly
competition we have going. Or rather, it did. My heart hurts at the thought of giving up my degree.
“Hey.” I’m about to ask Sloane how she’s been, because I really don’t want to talk about the
funeral, when she leans over and envelops me in a huge hug.
“I’m so, so sorry.”
I pat her arms and push her back. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
She studies me closely. “It’s not fine. Just because you haven’t talked to your parents in years
doesn’t mean their deaths haven’t affected you.”
If one more person tells me not to bottle up my emotions I will scream. I’m sick of the
platitudes, the expressions that say it’s okay to cry. I don’t want to cry, I want half a million pounds.
Sloane takes out her tablet and begins tapping the screen. Her acrylic nails are a glossy nude
shade. “I looked it up: there are five stages of grief to go through and you don’t want to stall at any of
them or you’ll never process it and move on.”
I don’t have time to process it. I’ve got bigger things to worry about. “I’m fine. Maybe I’ve
already been through them all.”
“No way. Have you done anger yet? What about denial?”
 “Can you stop going on about it?” I snap. “I said I was fine.”
Sloane’s eyes widen and silence stretches between us.
Crap. I didn’t intend to take this out on her. What can I say to make her understand without
blurting the whole mess out? “It’s not Mum and Dad dying I’m thinking about right now. It’s a debt.
I’m worried about a debt.”
She glances down at her tablet screen. “I don’t know, babe. That kind of sounds like denial to
me.”
I don’t have a chance to reply because we’re interrupted by another chair scrape. It’s a student
I think I vaguely recognize, a girl with long black curls, painted-on jeans and a scoop-neck top. She
doesn’t ask before she sits down.
“Oh, be our guest,” Sloane says waspishly, flipping the cover over her tablet.
“Hey. I’m Bethany,” the girl announces, gazing around the courtyard with wing-linered eyes.
“I hate the new semester, trying to figure out who’s in my classes so there are people to talk to. Land
Law?” she asks us, naming the class that starts in fifteen minutes’ time, and we nod.
She casts her eyes over me and seems to notice my miserable expression. “What’s eating
you?”
“Um, her parents died two weeks ago,” Sloane says, in a tone intended to make it clear that
she thinks Bethany is being rude and needs to go away.
“That blows,” Bethany replies in an absent-minded monotone, adding sugar to her takeaway
coffee.
Sloane rolls her eyes and turns back to me. “What debt? How much? Do you need money to
tide you over? I have some savings.”
I feel a rush of affection for Sloane and I cover her hand with mine and manage a smile.
“Thank you, but I can’t take money from you. I need a long-term solution.” There’s no way I’m telling
Sloane any details about the debt. I can’t risk her getting involved or Ravnikar might hurt her, too.
I hesitate, because Sloane isn’t going to like this, and I don’t even know this Bethany girl, but I
need to float the idea past someone. “I’m thinking of…stripping.”
Sloane gapes at me. “We don’t strip. We’re law students.”
I want to laugh because she says this as if we’re royalty.
Bethany doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Please. Half the girls in this courtyard have worked the pole
at some point.”
Sloane flushes. “They have not. Ciara, you’re not that sort of girl.”
Newsflash, Sloane: I’m desperate. Anyone’s that sort of girl when they’re desperate. But I
know what she means. I’m too uptight to get naked in a clothing store dressing-room, let alone on a
stage in front of drunk strangers. A shudder goes through me. While dancing. But if there’s no other
way then I’m just going to have to learn how. Vodka might help.
“I’ve had an offer to work in a place. I don’t really want to, but…”
Bethany shakes her head. “Then don’t. There are easier ways of making money without selling
your ass.”
I look at her skeptically. “Easy” ways of making money always come with strings attached.
Like prison sentences. “Oh? How?”
Bethany takes a sip of her coffee. “Sugaring.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about, but Sloane makes a disgusted face. “Without selling
your ass? That is literally selling your ass.”
I lean forward, waving a hand between them. “Wait, wait, wait. What is ‘sugaring’?”
Sloane is about to reply but Bethany talks over her. “It’s getting yourself a sugar daddy, seeing
him for a couple of dates a month and receiving a fat allowance for your time. You can earn thousands
with very little time invested.”
I make a doubtful face. “Men pay for dates?”
“Old men,” Sloane says with a wrinkle of her nose.
“Rich men,” corrects Bethany. “It’s really common, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.
There are a ton of sugar dating sites filled with students cashing in.”
Dates. That doesn’t sound so bad. I’ve been on dates. One man at a time seems easier to
handle than a whole roomful of them expecting me to perform for them. I get out my phone and search
for “sugar daddy”, and then feel my eyebrows creep up my forehead as I see dating site after dating
site, all with some combination of “sugar”, “baby” and “daddy” in their names.
“Is this legal?” I ask Bethany suspiciously.
“Of course.”
Sloane opens her mouth but I talk over her. “Is it good money?”
“Very good.”
A legal way of earning very good money. It sounds too good to be true. There must be a catch.
“Would I have to sleep with these men?”
Bethany hesitates. “Possibly.”
Sloane snorts. “Possibly? What, you think these rich old men give money to broke students out
of the kindness of their hearts? Of course you have to sleep with them. Ciara, no one needs money this
badly. If you won’t let me lend you money, then go to a bank and get a short-term loan.”
A bank. She thinks a bank loan will cover what I owe. I turn to Bethany to ask another
question but Sloane grabs my wrist.
 “Ciara, it’s whoring. It’s straight-up whoring, dressed up with fancy dinners.”
Sloane doesn’t understand. She’s never seen the devil smile before. “So? Maybe I’ll be a
whore. At least I’ll be in charge of my own life.” I’ll take independence over being forced into one of
Mr. Ravnikar’s strip clubs any day.
Sloane reels as if I’ve slapped her and lets go of my arm. “It can’t be legal.”
“Technically, it is,” says Bethany. “The daddies pay for your time and company, not for sex.
You just happen to sleep with them.”
“Daddies,” Sloane replies with a shudder, as if the word squicks her out. “And we’re law
students. Technically isn’t good enough.”
I don’t like “technically legal” any more than Sloane. I didn’t choose to study law so I could
learn how to get around it, I want to be a lawyer so I can help people.
Wanted to be a lawyer.
But if I can find one or two sugar daddies who pay decently maybe I won’t have to drop out.
Hope flares in my chest. I just need a few hundred pounds a month for myself and I’ll give the rest to
Mr. Ravnikar.
Bethany scrawls something in my notebook. “Here’s the web address of the very best sugaring
website. All the richest daddies are on there. I need to go to the library before class so see you
around.”
She picks up her coffee and saunters off. I watch her go, feeling vaguely like I’ve been visited
by a disreputable fairy godmother.
Sloane’s about to start talking again but I don’t want to hear it. I’m not the same Ciara I was
two weeks ago. The old Ciara would never have dreamed of getting into sex work to pay her bills but
that girl died with her parents in the plane crash. The new Ciara does what she has to in order to
survive.
“I have to go,” I say collecting my notebooks and handbag. There’s no point staying for class
today as I won’t be able to concentrate. I’ll catch up if I find I can continue classes later. Before
Sloane can protest I hurry away, heading for the Tube station. A moment later I feel my phone buzz in
my pocket and dig it out.
Please, Ciara. Don’t do anything you’re going to regret.
I tuck my phone back into my jeans without replying to Sloane. Regret is the least of my
problems right now.
 Misha

“It’s done. Can I have my double pay check now?”

Bethany sounds as if she’s walking along the street, probably away from the university.
Satisfaction washes over me but I keep my tone clipped as I say into the phone, “You can have it
when I’ve given Miss Alders her first allowance. Now get back to the office.”
Bethany affects a pouty voice. “Oh daddy, I hope you’re going to be more generous with your
little sugar baby.”
I twist my silver fountain pen in my fingers. “That’s the plan. Good job today.”
“Thank you. She’s a sweet one, daddy. Not like me. Porcelain doll-eyes and vulnerability.
Needs a strong man like you to protect her from the big bad—”
I hang up on Bethany and think. Will Miss Alders take the bait? But what choice does she
have? She has nothing and no one to help her. This is what pretty girls do when they fall on hard
times, they leverage the most valuable commodity they have: their faces and bodies.
I bring the recording of the funeral up again. I must have watched the same five seconds
twenty times over. Ciara Alders standing outside the church taking one long, slow, deep breath. She
has nothing in the world but that small moment of peace, and even that is taken away from her when
my brother appears.
I pause the video at the moment when she seems to be looking straight into the camera, though
I know she can’t see it. A strange feeling spreads through my chest as I look at her. She almost looks
peaceful. No mourners to greet. No Damir looming threateningly over her. I want…what? To give her
something. Money, I suppose. That’s what women are after and while I’m interested in them they get
it. Something is hovering at the edges of my consciousness but when I reach out it flits away like a
frightened bird.
I close the video. Enough of this nonsense. There are a hundred other things I need to do rather
than stare at a girl I don’t know.
But as I go about my work I feel a golden gleam of satisfaction. The trap has been set, and
now all I have to do is sit back and wait for Miss Alders to fall into my lap.
Come to daddy.
 Ciara

“You’re not going to university, Ciara. Do you want to educate yourself out of a good marriage?
No, you’re going to finishing school to learn how to be an asset to your future husband. As I did.”
I climb the stairs out of the Tube station, hearing my dead mother’s voice in my head. At the
time I thought she was crazy—finishing school, in this day and age?—but now I wonder where I’d be
if I’d taken her advice. Married to a rich man and cocooned from the world in Chanel, YSL and
Gucci; a man who could pay off Mr. Ravnikar like it was nothing. But no, I had to go to university,
didn’t I. I had to get an education. Better myself. Learn to be independent.
Like an idiot.
First, it was art history, not law. Art history was the most palatable degree I could choose as
far as my mother was concerned and I did love it, even though it perhaps wasn’t as exciting as I
wanted.
Then, at the end of my first year at university, I overheard that fight. What would my life look
like now if I’d never found out what Dad was up to? I’d gone downstairs to get a bottle of water at
one in the morning and heard them.
“Are you insane? You’re embezzling from a crook.” Mother was fisting her hands in her hair,
looking more out of control than I’ve ever seen her in my life.
“Calm down. It’s nothing I haven’t done before. You like this house, don’t you? You want
that jet.”
“Well, I…”
“Then leave everything to me. Trust me.”
For a moment I thought my mother would stand up to Dad and tell him that Alders aren’t
crooks. Then she lowered her hands and pinned him with an angry gaze. “I wish I didn’t know. It’s so
much easier when I don’t know anything.”
As I crept back to my room I couldn’t help but agree with her. It’s a terrible feeling,
discovering that your parents aren’t anything to be proud of. That the standards they so arrogantly
maintained through displays of wealth and etiquette were a sham.
I stood frozen in the middle of my bedroom. Dirty money had paid for this stately mansion
with its triple garage, the Monet painting hanging in the entrance hall, the ballroom lit by a huge
chandelier. My canopied bed and ensuite with a claw-foot tub were stolen goods, and so were the
manicured gardens and the stable full of my mother’s horses. Alders aren’t better than other people. In
fact, we’re worse than most, and I wanted no part of it anymore.
The next day I transferred to law and cut up my credit cards. By the end of the week I had
moved into a share house closer to my university and got a part-time job in a coffee shop. I left all my
designer shoes, clothes and jewelry behind and just took the basics, because I didn’t want anything
from my old life.
Now, as I walk up the steps to my front door I regret not taking something with me, because if
I do land a date with a rich man I’ll have nothing to wear. I laugh to myself as I insert the key into the
lock. Mother, I’m doing what you wanted at last and trying to land a rich man. Are you proud?
There’s no one at home when I let myself in. The house is over a hundred years old and backs
onto a train line so it’s noisy at all hours of the day and night. I have the box room right at the top. The
ceiling slants so low I have to bend double to get into bed and in winter it’s freezing cold. It’s not
much, but it’s mine. I couldn’t even go back home if I wanted to. All my parents’ properties are sold
now, and the money is in the pocket of that creep Ravnikar.
I’ve got so much homework and reading I should be doing, but I reluctantly shelve it in my
mind. I need to look into this sugar baby thing. I won’t do anything illegal to pay off a criminal
because that means I’m no better than he is. If a man gives you money to have dinner and then sleep
with him when you don’t want to—I wince just thinking about it—is that honest money? It’s not that I
think I’m too good to be paid for sex or that this type of work is beneath me. I don’t think sex work
itself is immoral or dirty. But I swore to myself long ago that I wouldn’t rely on my body or my
charms to make my way in life, I’d use my brains. And yet, here I am.
I hole up in my room with a mug of instant hot chocolate and my laptop open and I read
everything I can find online about sugar babies and sugar daddies. First I start with magazine articles,
glossy pieces written by female journalists with thinly veiled contempt for a world they’re only a
tourist in. I find myself rolling my eyes at their vanity, because most of them slip in that, surprise
surprise, they are “hot enough” to be paid for sex—not that any of them would actually do that for a
job. Haha. LOL. Men are so silly. And then they go back to their regular jobs without even
acknowledging the fact that they’re privileged enough to have other options.
I find myself gnashing my teeth and move onto social media. There’s a lot of nonsense to sift
through on Instagram, pictures of Chanel bags and underwear selfies and glasses of champagne
against a backdrop of fur coats and seaside balcony views. I suppose this is the sugar baby aesthetic.
I’m looking for the sugar baby reality.
I find it on Tumblr. There’s a lot of posing and bragging and crappy bathroom selfies with
“DM me if you wanna be my daddy” captions, but I also find a few blogs that have a tell-it-like-it-is
vibe, and I start to read.

Met a POT last night who could be my whale! He sent taxi money to my cash app along with a
“little extra.” Two hundred dollars! On the date he ordered champagne. I checked the price on the
wine list when he went to the bathroom and it costs five hundred a bottle. I could just smell the
money all over him. He’s not a flashy dresser but dresses expensively if you know what I mean. At
the end of the date he handed me the agreed upon three hundred, and didn’t even take out the two
hundred he’d already given me.
Feeling so happy with myself. If men like spending and treating you then they WILL. You
shouldn’t have to beg.

I figure out that POT is short for a Potential SD, or sugar daddy. A whale seems to be a sugar daddy
who will spend large on you. I take notes as I go, as studious about this as I would be a homework
assignment.

Last month my SD refused to raise my allowance and then complained I was wearing the same
dress I’d worn twice before. I told him that if he wants me to look my best for him he needs to
invest in me. I shed a few tears, too. Now I’m getting an extra five hundred a month and he’s taking
me shopping on Saturday. This is how you finesse a man, ladies.

There’s something called a Splenda daddy, a man who doesn’t have as much cash to splash as a sugar
daddy. Some girls say they’re time-wasters and you shouldn’t bother with them. Others love their
Splenda daddies.

Why You Should Have a Splenda Daddy on the Side:

He won’t be able to give you a fat allowance but he won’t be demanding of your time
either
Little cash gifts and presents add up
Keeps things ticking over for you during quiet periods
They’re super grateful for your time and will tell you how hot you are and how lucky
they are to have you

I’ve now got three pages of notes and URLs and questions, but I keep going. There’s way more to
learn than I first thought. I discover something called a salt daddy, which are apparently the bane of a
sugar baby’s life. These are predatory men who manipulate sugar babies into giving them free sex,
and will disappear as soon as they’ve had it.

How to Spot a Salt Daddy

Brings up sex right away and frequently, and expects it immediately
Refuses to pay for the first date and wants you to put out on the first date
Says the restaurant you chose is too expensive, they would prefer just drinks
Asks for nudes for free
Wants to take you for a “test drive” before discussing an allowance
Tells you he doesn’t need to pay for sex (then get off SD sites???)
Tells you he should get a discount because he’s good-looking (UGH)
Doesn’t want the relationship to feel “transactional”
Do NOT!!! give anything up to a man before you get what’s yours! These men are CHEAP. They are
TIME WASTERS. All they want is to screw you for free and THEN DISAPPEAR. They will brag to
their friends about how dumb you are. Do you want to be a punchline in a joke they’ll tell for
years to come?? These men are NOT SDs. Stay safe, babies xxxxx

I frown at the screen. There’s so much talk about withholding sex that I started to wonder whether you
can keep this up indefinitely. “Finessing” a man into giving you money while you lead him on isn’t
exactly honest but at this point I’m willing to consider anything.
Until I find this post:

I am seeing this question a lot: Can I be a platonic sugar baby? Usually this question is
accompanied by, “Old men are gross and I don’t want to touch them.” First of all: grow up.
Second of all: you may find a daddy who wants you only for company and doesn’t want to kiss,
cuddle, screw etc. Good for you if you do. But 99.99% of these men want sex, and once your
allowance is locked in they’ll want it every date.
Stop dreaming. If you’re not prepared to sleep with these men, stay out of the bowl.

I sit back and swirl my hot chocolate. You’re supposed to get these guys to pay for your first date and
yet you do NOT—exclamation mark!!—sleep with them on the first date. You absolutely must sleep
with them, but also you should withhold sex.
What the hell?
I start to question whether I should just go all in and be an escort or even a stripper for Mr.
Ravnikar because surely that would be less complicated. But one thing keeps me coming back to the
idea of sugaring.
It’s just one daddy.
One man at a time, maybe two, not dozens one after the other or ogling you while you dance. I
haven’t had that much experience with men and I don’t know how I’d cope with several dozen
looking at me or having sex with me in just a few weeks. Plus, being a sugar baby is wrapped up in
seemly things like dates and designer presents. I’m not interested in the trappings of an expensive life.
I’ve done that and I know how shallow it is, but when I compare sugaring to escorting or stripping I
have to admit that the sugar makes this bitter pill easier to swallow.
I find a post that helps clarify things for me.

It’s all about confidence. Value yourself, hoe. Don’t fuck for free. Don’t eat for free. Don’t talk for
free. You’re a sugar baby and every minute of your time is a precious luxury that these men should
be paying for.

I’m a luxury.
I like the sound of that. If I’m going to do sex work I’m going to do it my way, in a manner that
makes me comfortable. There’s no point coming out the other side of this debt feeling like I’ve
destroyed myself for Mr. Ravnikar. I have the feeling that’s exactly what he wants, and I refuse to let
him win.
I check my notebook and type the URL of the website that Bethany gave me into the browser.
Up comes a page showing a glamorous couple, the woman around twenty and the man in his mid-
thirties. That seems like a lie right from the get-go. From what I’ve read I’m more likely to encounter
men who are at least two decades older than me.
First I take a look at the other girls on this website, and…well, they’re gorgeous. Flawless
skin, nipped waists, long legs, glossy hair. Most have their faces cropped out of their photos but those
who don’t are stunningly beautiful.
I get up and go to the long mirror affixed to my wall, and I look at myself. My dead mother
materializes at my side in an apricot skirt suit, casting critical eyes over me.
“You need to learn how to dress for your figure. Your legs are too short for your frame.
Shoulders back. Stop picking at your nails. I wish you would do something about your posture.
You’ll never get a husband with hair like that. My plastic surgeon can fix your nose. You should let
me make an appointment for you.”
“Shut up!” I say to my reflection. “Just shut up, you stupid bitch.”
 I remember one of the posts I read on Tumblr. You can’t get into the bowl with low self-
esteem. These men will smell it and they will eat you alive.
“I don’t have low self-esteem,” I whisper fiercely. I just have a judgmental mix-tape of my
dead mother on a continuous loop in my brain.
I look again, and try to be more objective. What do I have to offer a man? I think if I focus
one-hundred percent on my appearance I’ll go mad, so I remind myself that a good date is more than
looking like a supermodel. I can hold an intelligent conversation. I have a nice smile. I can listen to
someone while they’re talking without constantly glancing at my phone. If that’s not enough, well, this
isn’t for me, then. I won’t let a bunch of strange men dictate how I feel about myself, especially not
when I haven’t even met any of them yet.
I want to keep reading posts and thinking about it for the rest of the day, but I’ve always
learned better by doing and I’m on a deadline. I can feel Mr. Ravnikar and his stripper pole looming
closer, so I register on the sugar dating website and start setting up my profile.
Filling out the bio section is hard. I’ve read a lot of conflicting advice about this but the best
seems to be to emphasize what you can offer the men you date and how they can feel like they’re
enriching your life, rather than going on about how you love to be spoiled and treated like a
“prince$$”.
It takes a few goes to come up with something that makes me sound approachable and like I
know what I’m doing, but I end up with,

I’m a London-based law student looking for a gentleman to spend quality time with. I would love
to share a connection and goals for the future with someone special. I’m a friendly, discreet person
and a great listener.

I reread it critically, and wonder if it makes me sound boring. Am I boring? What if I’m expected to
be bubbly and spoiled? I don’t know. I’m not bubbly or spoiled and I don’t think I could fake it. I read
it again, and add “generous” before “gentleman”. May as well make it absolutely clear I’m expecting
to be paid, and well.
That will have to do. Maybe some men will find me a snore-fest but I feel safer launching into
this unknown world with a bio I can live up to, even if some of it is an outright lie. I won’t be sharing
my goals with anyone and I don’t care if we have a connection or not. The only thing I’m interested in
is my sugar daddy’s wallet.
Most girls seem to have a few public photos plus a handful of private ones. I find some photos
of myself and crop my head out of two of them. They’re not great photos because I’m wearing jeans,
not a bodycon dress with a lot of sparkly jewelry, but they will have to do. I also find a nice picture
Sloane took of me last year in a bar. I’m holding a cocktail and smiling and my long hair looks nice,
so I add that as my private pic.
Then I screw up my courage and hit submit.
I sit in front of my laptop, drinking the dregs of my now-cold hot chocolate. If this plan works
then I’m going to have to put up with going on dates with men old enough to be my grandfather. Men
who probably have bad breath and who think they have the right to my ass just because they’re rich.
Who won’t care if I’m comfortable, if I’m happy, if I enjoy spending time with them. Who will expect
me to be in the mood for sex or to blow them on demand.
If this works. Maybe it won’t. I know my profile isn’t the most enticing on the site and I don’t
have the clothes or experience or attitude that those popular “bougie” girls on social media seem to
possess. I remember Mr. Ravnikar’s lethal blue eyes and it’s only the memory of him that prevents me
from slamming my laptop closed and never thinking about this again.
Fifteen minutes pass. No one is going to message me. My profile is definitely the unsexiest
thing that’s ever existed. If by some miracle I even get a date then I’ve got nothing to wear and almost
no makeup. Why would anyone pay money to date me when I haven’t been on a regular date in—
Ping.
I start so violently that I knock my mug against my lip. I have a message. With a shaking finger
I open and read it: Got any nudes?
I hit delete and sink back in my chair again. I might be new to this but I’m not a complete idiot,
and I’m not engaging with guys who only want free pics.
A short while later I’m surprised to find I have a small collection of messages in my inbox.
Some are just variations of “hello” and nothing else. Even more are asking for nudes. Two are along
the lines of, “I’ll give you a huge allowance but I need your bank account details and you have to send
some of the money back to me.” I read about those online. Those guys are scammers and money
launderers and I delete them.
One message seems promising. It’s from a man who says he works in finance, and he sends me
a polite message asking about myself and what I’m looking for. His profile shows that he’s sixty-two,
and I die a little inside. But I try not to think about that and tap out what I hope is a fun, sexy, but
businesslike reply.

Hi! You seem really sweet. I’d love to get together over dinner to see if we click. I have a few
commitments this week but I’m available on Thursday. My past arrangements have reimbursed me
for all my time and I’d like that to continue. Thanks, Ciara
I’m such a liar. I have no commitments and zero past arrangements, but there’s no reason for him to
know that. I have no idea if I sound too blunt or “transactional,” but I’m determined to follow the
“don’t fuck for free, don’t even eat for free” advice. There’s zero point in me doing this if I’m not
going to get paid. I’m better off staying at home un-groped if these guys aren’t giving me what I need
to keep Mr. Ravnikar off my back.
Twenty minutes later he hasn’t replied. Oh, well. Next.
Another POT shows up in my inbox. He says he’s independently wealthy and sure, he could
be, but he’s suspiciously young. Only thirty-three. I open a chat window with him and he explains that
he invested in a friend’s app that took off and he made lots of money. I send him the same message I
sent to Old Finance Dude because I don’t see anything wrong with it.
He comes back instantly with, I don’t want this to feel too transactional.
My eyes narrow. I know I wondered the same thing myself, but seeing this echoed back to me I
can suddenly see right through him. He wants a quick fuck for free. I feel my temper flare and type
angrily, Then get the hell off a sugar dating website????
Mr. Anti-Transactional comes back with, I don’t need to pay for sex, my friend fucked two
girls off here last month for free and one of them was a nine. You’re barely scraping a seven and
you’re a rude bitch. I’ve got your IP address and private photos and I’m going to screenshot your
profile and send everything to your parents, slut.
I buried my parents this week, asswipe, I reply, and add a middle-finger emoji. Then for good
measure I block and report him. I stand up, breathing hard, blood pounding in my ears. It’s not fair that
some faceless fuckboy has demolished my self-control with just a few words and empty threats.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this life.
I go downstairs for a glass of water and a muesli bar. This is a lot harder than I was
anticipating and a lot more draining, too. Just a few hours in and I’m shaking with rage.
When I come back to my computer there’s another message waiting for me, longer than the
others I’ve received.

Dear Ciara,
I’m a busy man so I will keep this brief. I would like to discuss a mutually beneficial
arrangement between us as soon as possible. I have little patience for mind games and I don’t have
time for a lot of texting. I’m sure you have things you’d rather be doing as well.
Please reply promptly and my personal assistant will schedule in a meeting between us.
Regards,
 Mr. Smith

My eyes widen as I read the message. What a peremptory asshole. Am I supposed to fawn over some
dickhead while he talks to me like this? He just assumes I’ll play silly games and pester him with a
lot of text messages? Am I meant to suck his dick on a schedule organized by his assistant?
I don’t have much power over my life right now but I can put up a really strong asshole
barrier. I take immense delight in deleting Mr. Smith’s message, and enjoy the knowledge that I’ll
never have to think about him again.
 Misha

Bethany appears in my office doorway at nine the next morning with a huge smile on her face. “Did it
work? Can I have my sugar bonus yet, daddy?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell Bethany to get out and to stop calling me daddy. She’s being
entirely unprofessional and as I glare up at her I see her eyes widen in surprise.
I’ve failed. I checked the sugar dating website twice last night and again this morning. I can
see that Miss Alders has been online several times and yet she hasn’t replied to my message. I didn’t
waste her time with pointless feelings and questions and I made it clear I was going to reimburse her
generously for her time. What more could a young woman in her position want?
“Is everything ready for the Harrison meeting later?” I growl at my computer monitor.
Bethany comes into my office. “Wait a sec. What happened? Did Ciara not set up a profile?
Are you sure you looked hard enough?”
I’m not talking about this with Bethany. She’ll get into the habit of thinking she can meddle
with my private life and I’m not having that—not that Miss Alders has anything to do with my private
life. “I asked about the Harrison meeting.”
But something about my tone or my manner must give me away. “She didn’t reply to you? Holy
shit. But you’re loaded. What did you do, send her a dick pic? Have you got an ugly one, sir?”
Bethany comes around my desk to look at my screen, and even though it’s only showing a
work email and nothing to do with Miss Alders I grip my monitor defensively. “I hardly think—”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Don’t be stupid. You need my help and this is a business
communication, not a love letter. I write your emails for you all the time, so show me what you sent
her.”
There’s some truth in that. I pull the message up and let her read it.
Bethany scans the screen and then puts her face in her hands. “Oh, you’re such an idiot
sometimes, sir. Move.” She elbows me out of my seat. Reluctantly, I get up and she starts to type. I
read over her shoulder as the message appears on the screen.

Dear Ciara,
I apologize for my abrupt email yesterday. I’m new to this and in my nervousness I think I
came across as rude. Have you ever done this before? I would love to meet you and get to know
you better. You seem like an enchanting young woman and I would like to take you out to dinner, if
I may. Do you know La Flèche D’or?
Yours,
John Smith

She hits send before I can say anything. I gesture angrily at the screen. “How is that better? I’ve not
done this before? She’s going to think I’m a fool.”
Bethany leans back in my chair and crosses her long legs, looking pleased with herself. “She’s
going to think you’re a rich man with excellent taste in restaurants, and that you’re someone who can
admit a little weakness. Practically a unicorn,” she adds dryly.
“Why does it matter which restaurant I choose?”
“Because babies who know what they’re about are evaluating everything you say and do in
terms of money and whether you have it. La Flèche D’or isn’t only wildly expensive, it’s very chic,
too. People who eat there are used to spending money. Other places might look more exclusive, but
La Flèche D’or is more exclusive. It’s also very uptight. You know. Like you, sir.”
I’ll ignore that. “I just think—”
There’s a ping and we both whip around to look at the screen.
“Oh, my god. She’s replied.” Bethany reaches for the mouse and before I can stop her she
clicks on the message.
“Excuse me,” I say, grasping her under the arm and hauling her out of my chair.
Bethany moves out of the way. “Fine, you do it. It’s about time you learned to function as a
normal human being. Ask yourself, ‘If I were a nice artificial intelligence, what would I say?’ Turn off
your asshole interface for a while.”
“Shut up, I’m trying to read.”

Hey, that’s understandable. I’m new to this too and pretty nervous. Tell me about yourself? Here’s
my phone number so it’s easier to chat.

I groan. I don’t want to give her my number. I just want to give her half a million pounds. Why must
women be so difficult?
Bethany helps herself to my phone. “What’s your passcode again?”
“Will you get out!” I roar at her, snatching it back.
Bethany holds her hands up in mock-surrender. “Fine! Be like that. But when you get stuck in
three minutes’ time I’ll be just outside the door,” she says sweetly. “Ready to tell you to go fuck
yourself.”
When she’s gone I open a new text window on my phone and key in Miss Alders’ number.
Then I stare at it for a few minutes, wondering what to say.
I send, This is John.
Hi John. It’s Ciara.
I hate small talk. I just want to move this conversation along to the part where I give her
money.
My phone buzzes with another message. What are you looking to get out of an arrangement
like this?
Oh. Good. All right, then.
But then I remember that I can’t tell her the truth. I have to think like a man who wants a sexual
relationship with a much younger woman in exchange for money. I suppose I’d want sex and a pretty
young woman to show off in bars and restaurants. I remember Miss Alders in that video footage with
her frightened blue eyes and think how much nicer her eyes would look in soft candlelight when she’s
relaxed and having a good time.
I type, I would like to spend time with someone and make them happy.
When I’ve pressed send I immediately regret it. That’s not what a man in my position would
say, but then the three dots that mean she’s replying spring up.
That’s really sweet. You’re sweet, John.
I feel my eyebrows creep up my forehead. No one’s ever called me sweet before. Thanks.
The conversation stalls. Ten minutes pass and we say nothing, so I type, Can we meet? Dinner
would suit me best. I would like to see if we are compatible.
Sure.
My ego prickles. She could sound a little more excited. I’ll get my PA to arrange a suitable
time and date with you. Goodbye, Ciara.
Your PA’s going to arrange it?
Is that a problem?
I don’t know. Makes me feel like some sort of business deal.
You are.
Oh. Yeah, I guess I am.
I can feel her sadness radiating out of the messaging app. For heaven’s sake, she doesn’t ask
for much, does she? Money, an expensive dinner and several hours of my time that could be spent
doing more important things. She wants me to make the damn booking myself as well just so she feels,
what? Special?
 There is a line.
I wait several minutes to see if Miss Alders has any more silly demands of me and then write
an email to Bethany to tell her to book a private dining room at La Flèche D’or for the night after next.
The sooner Miss Alders understands that this is a transaction, not a relationship, the better.
 Ciara

“Well, hello, stranger. Nice of you to call.”

I bite my lip hearing Sloane’s snippy tone. She has every right to feel annoyed with me as I’ve
ignored all her calls and messages for the last two days and I haven’t turned up at class. There’s been
too much to do, too much to think about, and the worry has been non-stop.
Am I insane to do this? I wonder as I shave my legs.
How will I get out of this alive? as I paint my nails.
What will John Smith want from me? as I wax my bikini line.
Now it’s the morning of our date and I don’t have time to indulge in any more fretting.
“Sloane, this is an emergency. Can I borrow some clothes and makeup? I have a date.”
Last night I did a dry run with the nicest dress in my closet and the few bits and pieces of
makeup I own. I thought I looked okay and took it all off again, but as soon as I got into bed and
closed my eyes I pictured the interior of La Fleche D’or as it appears on their website. Crisp white
linen. Crystal glasses and gilt-edged china. Soft golden light from ornate chandeliers. Tiny portions of
food. Cocktail waiters in white tuxedo jackets. My eyes flew open again in panic. I am nowhere near
chic enough for that place.
But Sloane is. Even at eight am classes on a Monday morning she always looks put-together.
On a Thursday night in the club she looks incredible. Tight dresses, smooth hair, makeup on point.
Guys practically fall over themselves as she walks by. Most of it is her natural beauty and the effort
she puts into working out but she also knows how to finesse a look to red carpet levels in a way that I
never have.
There’s a puzzled silence from her end of the line. “A date? When did you meet a man? I
wasn’t expecting—Oh my god, Ciara. You mean a sugar date, don’t you?”
I hold the phone away from my ear. “Sloane, please stop shrieking.”
“Have you lost your mind? This is so dangerous! You could be meeting anyone! You do know
you have to sleep with this stranger? He could be a monster! A murderer! Even if he’s not a psycho
he’ll still be old and you’ll just have to lie there and take it, knowing you’re having sex with him for a
pittance. And it will be a pittance because men are so goddamn cheap!”
My anxiety shoots through the roof as she screeches aloud every single one of my doubts and
fears at the top of her voice. “Sloane, I don’t have time for this. I need you to calm down and help me,
please.”
Sloane exclaims for several more minutes, asking a dozen questions that she doesn’t even give
me the chance to answer. I hold the phone away from my ear and wait for her to get it all out of her
system.
Finally she runs out of steam. “I’m really worried now, Ciara. This isn’t like you. What the
hell is going on?”
I can’t tell her. The thought of Mr. Ravnikar and what he’s going to do to me if I don’t give him
the money has frightened me too much. I won’t risk anyone else getting involved. I sink down onto my
bed, struggling not to cry. “What’s going on is I have a dinner date in four hours’ time at La Flèche
D’or and the maître d’ is going to laugh me out of the building unless I can pull an outfit together.”
Silence stretches between us. I know I’m asking a lot of her by not giving her any answers, but
I don’t have any choice, and I don’t have anyone else to turn to.
“Please, Sloane.”
She sighs. “Fine. I don’t like this at all but I know you must have your reasons. I just hope
you’ll tell me what they are when you feel you can. Of course I’ll help you.”
Relief surges through me and I whisper fiercely, “Thank you. You don’t know how much this
means to me.”
“No, I don’t,” she agrees. “I’m coming over. What do you want me to bring?”
“Everything.”
We hang up, and I fall back on my bed in relief. The cavalry is on its way.
Sloane bustles in forty-five minutes later with an armload of bags and spreads half a dozen
dresses, several pairs of shoes, handbags, accessories and a large makeup case out on my bed. The
clothing is stylish and expensive and perfect for Fleche D’or, and I could cry all over again as I go
through it. The makeup is exquisite, too. There are even pots of body glitter. That’s weird. I’ve never
seen Sloane wear glitter.
“This is your makeup? It’s like a professional kit.”
Sloane shrugs. “I watch too many beauty tutorials late at night when I can’t sleep. They make
me shop.” She eyes me critically. “OK, I’d say you were at beauty base zero: your brows look good,
your nails are neat and your skin is clean. We’ve got just over three hours to get you into your war
paint.”
I open an eyeshadow palette and examine the shades. “War paint?”
“This stuff,” she says, pointing a lethally long silver nail at her makeup, “isn’t makeup. It’s
armor. Out there—” she points the same nail at my window “—is the war, and if you’re committed to
doing this, then we’re going to make you bulletproof.”
 I smile at Sloane, both grateful and surprised. It’s like she understands exactly how I’m
feeling. That I need to be bulletproof tonight.
Sloane holds up dress after dress in front of me and I recognize some of them from our nights
out together. Thankfully, we are more or less the same size, though her bust is bigger than mine. “Try
on the red and the black,” she tells me, and I haul my oversized t-shirt off over my head and try the
dresses on. The red one has a plunging V-neck and the black is backless with long sleeves. They’re
both short and tight and I feel comfortable in neither as they’re so revealing, but the fabric looks
expensive and the cuts are sort of…slutty-classy? Is that a thing?
I’m wondering which accessories will go with the black dress when Sloane says decisively,
“The red.”
I turn to her, mouth open. “Are you kidding? I should definitely wear the black. The red dress
looks like I’m advertising sex and I’m not sleeping with Mr. Smith tonight. The blogs I read were
very clear about me not doing that.”
Sloane shakes her head, her curls rustling. “Of course you won’t sleep with him, but that’s
even more reason to show a bit of skin tonight. Make him pant for what he can’t have.”
I examine the red dress again. It’s just so look at me! and all I feel like doing right now is
hiding. “But I don’t have a bra that will work with this neckline.” It needs some complicated stick-on
thing, and all I have are regular bras.
Sloane fishes a spool of body tape out of her makeup case. “I’ll tape your boobs up. You’re
not going to wear this dress for him twice so it’s better you wear it on a night you’re not going to get
naked. You know, because of the tape. It’s hard to make this stuff sexy when it’s time to do the deed.”
Sloane makes good points. I hate that.
I sit down on a chair with the red dress clutched in my lap as Sloane gets to work on my face
and hair. My stomach clenches uncomfortably around the piece of toast I ate for lunch. Is this how
other babies feel when they’re getting ready? I imagined it would be different. That the act of
applying mascara would make me feel fierce. I don’t eat for free. I don’t put my face on for free.
Except that I am, because I didn’t have the guts to tell Mr. Smith I expect to be paid for our first date. I
thought I could slip it into one of our chats but he’s the least chatty person I’ve ever encountered.
I realize that Sloane has been saying my name and I look up.
“Ciara? If you’re going to do this you need to focus.”
“I am focused. I’m super focused.” I’ve got to stop thinking so much. If I don’t learn how to
switch off I won’t be able to protect myself, and switching off is going to become so important in a
date or two when Mr. Smith will want to have sex. This isn’t about cute dates in fancy restaurants.
He’s going to want to sleep with me and I will have to say yes if I want his money.
 “Ciara!”
“I’m listening! Sorry, what did you say?”
Sloane holds up a red lipstick and an eyeshadow palette. “What do you think?”
I gaze at the squares of shimmering colors without really taking them in. “Uh… What do you
recommend?”
I read advice from other sex workers saying you’ve got to keep your eyes on your goals. That
the sex is the point for the daddies but it’s not the point for a sugar baby, and that you shouldn’t get
hung up on it. I like that advice and I’m trying to follow it, but it’s going to be difficult when I’m
finally staring down Mr. Smith’s dick.
“With that dress a bold red lip would work, paired with nude eyes and fine, black-brown
lashes.”
I barely heard what she said but I agree with her and let her brush color over my eyelids. I’ve
read one or two things about not “catching feelings” for your sugar daddy, and that you should never,
ever fall in love with him as that can be just as devastating as shame and low self-esteem. I suppress
a hysterical giggle. As if that’s going to happen.
“What’s so funny?” Sloane asks, curling my lashes.
“Nothing.”
My phone buzzes a few minutes later but Sloane is applying my lipstick and she tightens her
grip on my chin, not letting me go until she’s painted, blotted, and painted again. When she releases
me I look at the screen. It’s a text message from Mr. Smith.
Do you have a cash app linked to your email address?
I reply that I do, and a moment later my phone buzzes again. It’s an email, a funds transfer
from “John Smith.” There’s a message too:

Ciara,
Here is taxi money for tonight, and little extra for other expenses.
John

Oh, that’s thoughtful of him. I suppose he’s sent me some money to cover a manicure and blow-dry. I
should have told him I expected a few hundred pounds but at least this is something. Next time I will.
I need to be stronger. Much stronger. Though if he’s sending me taxi money and a little extra without
prompting then it should be easy to negotiate more out of him.
Then I see the amount, and my mouth falls open.
A thousand pounds. He’s sent me a thousand pounds. What the hell? It must be a scam
because there’s no reason why he would be sending me that much when we haven’t even met yet. I
scour the email for clues, like a note asking me to send some of the money back or a different email
address to the one his PA cc’d with our reservation details. But no, it’s from the same one. When I log
into my account on my laptop I see that the money is there.
Sloane hovers over my shoulder. “‘John Smith’ huh? That’s so not his real name. What name
are you using?”
No kidding it’s not his real name. I grimace. “I’m using my name. I didn’t realize I was
supposed to use a fake one. It’s fake now, I changed it on the dating site.” It’s too late for John Smith,
though. I’ll just have to hope he’s not a stalker.
Sloane makes me sit so she can finish my makeup and use her hair irons to curl my hair. After
brushing the long curls loose and dousing me in hairspray she motions for me to stand. “Okay. Dress
time.”
The flesh-colored tape goes over each of my breasts and lifts them slightly. “Just so you don’t
bounce around too much. Now the dress.”
She tapes that to my body too, and then tells me to put on a pair of bright red stilettos and a
few pieces of silver jewelry. The red dress has a ton of sex appeal but I look elegant, too. Like a
brightly wrapped but very expensive Christmas present few could afford. Nothing like me at all, in
fact.
Sloane hands me a tiny red clutch and gives me a hug. “Mr. Smith is going to have his mouth
on the floor as soon as he sees you. Don’t be scared. Do what you need to do to get what you want out
of him, and then come home and call me. Okay? And if you need a fake emergency to get you out of
dinner, text me.”
I hug her back, gratitude rushing through me. Sloane didn’t need to do any of this for me, but
she has, and been remarkably understanding, too. Because of her I might actually succeed. “Thank
you,” I whisper, a wobble in my voice. “And I will tell you everything when I can. I promise.”
“I know you will. Now book a taxi and go, you don’t want to be late.”
One of my housemates is in the lounge as I pass through on the way to the front door. I have my
head down, hoping I don’t attract his attention, but his head turns to watch me pass, and he takes in the
plunging neckline of my dress, my loose curls, the expanse of leg I have on show. I resist the urge to
tug my hemline down.
“Ciara? Is that—fucking hell.”
I wave goodbye over my shoulder and hurry out. Fucking isn’t happening tonight, but hell is
about right. The car is waiting outside my door and I slip gratefully into the back seat. I try not to
notice how the driver’s eyes examine me in the rear-view mirror at every red light.
 I’ve never really been on a dinner date before. To the movies, yes, and to bars. Thankfully
I’ve eaten in upscale restaurants, though not for years. I remember going out to dinner with my dad
and one of his friends when I was sixteen and the friend kept staring at my chest and commenting on
what I was eating. Oh look, she’s eating bread. Isn’t she brave? Not watching your figure, sweetie?
Eating dessert? Girls can’t resist dessert. Is Mr. Smith going to be like that too, patronizing me and
paying uncomfortable attention to everything I do? Is he going to care whether I have a good time or
not?
I make myself take deep breaths. There’s no point getting hysterical about this. Whatever
happens tonight it’s only going to last a few hours and then I can run home to my sweatpants and a tub
of ice-cream. I might even treat myself to a Netflix subscription with some of Mr. Smith’s thousand
pounds. He’s been generous, at least.
Strangely generous. Ominously generous. Could-get-demanding-about-sex generous.
Too bad, Mr. Smith. There’s tape all over my boobs and you’re not going to get your hands on
them tonight.
I’m welcomed politely at Fleche D’or and ushered, not into the restaurant, but into a private
dining room with a table set for two. Then I’m left alone in the dim, plush space. The wallpaper is
black and gold and there are pots of white orchids here and there, their delicate scent permeating the
air. I wasn’t expecting a private dining room. I’m going to be completely alone with Mr. Smith
without anyone to call on for help if things go wrong. Maybe I’m making a huge mistake just by sitting
here. I take a sip of iced water, trying to quell the fear that’s pounding through my blood.
The only thing I know about Mr. Smith is his age, forty-two, which seems a little young for a
sugar daddy. I don’t even know what he looks like. I’m wondering if he’s got a terrible personality or
chronic halitosis when the door swings open and my heart leaps into my throat. I scramble to get out
of my seat, because Sloane told me to be standing when we first meet so he gets the full effect of the
dress. “His mouth will fall open when he sees you,” she assured me.
A man stands framed in the doorway, but it’s not his mouth that falls open. It’s mine.
 Ciara

I was prepared for a man who’d lied about his age. I was prepared for bad breath. Gaudy clothes.
Manners that wouldn’t cut it in a back alleyway.
I wasn’t prepared for Mr. Smith to be gorgeous.
He’s a bear of a man beneath his charcoal suit and stands over me by a foot, even in these
heels. The set of his jaw is hard and there’s a touch of surliness about his lips. This is definitely the
man I exchanged terse words with by email and text message. His shoulders are so broad I could
perch neatly on one of them, or he could throw me over his shoulder and carry me like I’m nothing.
Uh. Why did my mind go there?
His eyes are palest blue and grimly calculating. I don’t think anyone’s looked at me like Mr.
Smith is looking at me now, with such icy displeasure. I knew he could be stiff and formal, but I
didn’t anticipate he’d seem quite so unfriendly. I thought he’d be pleased to see me. Doesn’t he like
me?
I freeze, unsure how to greet him. Kiss his cheek? Wave? I panic and stick out my hand. “Um,
pleased to meet you. I’m Ciara.”
As if it offends him, Mr. Smith gazes at my hand for several seconds. Then he reaches out and
gives it one quick, strong clench. I see the sparkle of a diamond on one of his gold cufflinks. Oh, yeah,
I’m supposed to be evaluating his wealth. He seems rich, I think?
Mr. Smith takes a cursory look at the table as he sits down, as if to check everything is in
order, and then takes out his phone. Frowning at the screen he starts typing.
I sink into the chair opposite him and search for something to say. I feel like I should mention
the money he just sent me. “Thank—thank you for money. It was very generous of you.”
“It’s what you’re here for,” he says flatly, not looking up.
Embarrassment burns through me like lava. Maybe mentioning the money makes me seem
grasping, but my mind has gone blank and I can’t think of anything else to say. We sit in silence while
he types. The waiter enters, notices my date on his phone, and wordlessly places menus before us.
Alone again, I watch Mr. Smith through my lashes, trying to figure out what sort of man he is.
Particular, I think, from the way his dark beard is expertly trimmed along his jaw. His profile said he
was forty-two and there’s no grey in his hair or beard, but there are deep frown lines on his brow as
he glares at his phone. I’d say forty-two is about right. The angle of his cheekbones, thick black hair
and olive complexion indicate that he’s Mediterranean or Eastern European.
Is he rich, though? There are fewer clues on a man than a woman that he has money, but
between the restaurant choice, the thousand pounds, the gold and diamond cufflinks and the
impeccably tailored suit fitting his large frame I feel like Mr. Smith probably is wealthy. Beyond
material considerations, he exudes a sense of power and confidence that goes hand in hand with
having a great deal of influence or wealth. I remember men like him among my father’s friends, though
none of them were as good-looking as Mr. Smith.
Finally he tucks his phone inside his suit and turns his attention to the menu. I feel a pressing
urge to get the conversation going.
“Um. How was your day?” Shit. That’s so inane.
“Busy,” he says crisply, perusing the menu.
All the advice I’ve read about first sugar dates is running through my head. Be wide-eyed and
innocent. Be impressed by everything, even if you’re not. Be dumb so he feels like he has to take care
of you. Be cute and grateful so he wants to spend money on you. Be happy so he’s happy. Happy men
spend. Be dumb.
Be dumb, be dumb, be dumb.
“A man like you must be so busy,” I agree breathily.
Mr. Smith’s eyes flick up to mine, pin me with disapproval and then drop back to his menu.
Wow. Ok. I glance at the menu and decide to try the order-for-me-this-is-so-overwhelming
trick. “Everything looks so good I can’t choose,” I enthuse. “What do you recommend?”
Mr. Smith reads for a moment longer and then says, “You should have the sea bass with
samphire.” He puts his menu aside and reaches for the wine list.
“Oh, that sounds amazing.” It doesn’t. I don’t like samphire and I feel like screaming. I don’t
want to pretend that I’m an idiot or that whatever he chooses for me to eat is amazing. I wish I was
anywhere but here. Somehow him being attractive makes this so much more depressing. In another
life if he’d bought me a drink in a bar and toasted me with that serious expression I might have felt a
flutter of excitement. I’ve never gone for older guys but there’s something about the stern angles of his
face, the hard line of his jaw that appeals to me. What the hell, I might have thought to myself. Let
this man be my daddy for the night. I might even let him kiss me.
But I’m not in another life, I’m in this shitty life, and Mr. Smith would have done none of those
things because it’s clear that he doesn’t like me in the slightest. I’ve disappointed him and I don’t
even know how.
“Champagne?” he asks, in the least celebratory tone I’ve ever heard.
“Yes, please,” I reply, without much enthusiasm.
 “How old are you, Ciara?”
The question catches me off guard, and I say defensively, “Twenty-two, like it says on my
profile.” Is this part of the attraction to him, to date a woman much younger than he is? Perhaps if I
flirt with him a little he’ll thaw out. I reach over and stroke my fingers over his knuckles. “Do you
like that? That I’m twenty-two?”
Mr. Smith draws his hand away deliberately and slowly, looking at me like he’s disgusted,
and despair crowds in my throat. As I study his cold, glittering gaze I wonder if Mr. Smith has ever
warmed up to anyone in his life.
“Tell me what you’re hoping to get out of our arrangement,” he asks.
“I’m looking for a generous man to help support me as I strive toward my goals. I’m studying
law and I intend to…” I trail off because Mr. Smith has nodded absently and pulled out his phone
again.
It’s hopeless. He’s not the least bit interested in me and he’s made that abundantly clear. I
stare at my glass of ice water, longing for the courage to throw it in his face and tell him I don’t like
him, either. I don’t even have a tenth of the courage needed to do that, so I just sit there, sunk in my
misery.
The waiter comes back and Mr. Smith orders for us. When the champagne arrives it’s poured,
but Mr. Smith doesn’t make a toast and nor do I. I’m supposed to make a note of which champagne
he’s ordered and look up the price later to see if he’s cheap or not, but I don’t have the energy to care
anymore. What a waste of an evening.
As I fidget with the linen napkin in my lap I remember something I read online by an
experienced baby: Practice is everything. Find a guy you don’t like? Practice on him. Learn from
him.
There’s no way Mr. Smith is going to help me test my flirting techniques, but there are other
things I could learn from him, such as what sort of sugar daddy is interested in a girl like me, and who
should I pitch myself to in the future.
I blink and clear my eyes, feeling braver now that Mr. Smith is no longer a POT. He’s just
someone I don’t like buying me an expensive dinner. I sit up and ask in a stronger voice, “Mr. Smith, I
have some questions for you.”
He waits, expectant and sardonic at the same time, his expression saying, Really? Are you
doing this? Questions?
“What do you do for a living?”
He regards me in hostile silence. “I’m in property development.”
I feel my heart lift. Something we have in common. Maybe he has a more pleasant friend he
could introduce me to. “I’m actually studying property law at university. Which company is it you…”
But I trail off, seeing the incredulous expression on his face.
Be dumb, be dumb, be dumb.
I try to ask the same question but in a non-threatening, girly way. “Wow, you must work super
hard and on so many cool buildings. Um. Does it keep you busy? I guess so if you haven’t met—if you
need to—” I stumble over my words, realizing that pointing out to a man that he needs to pay for
female company is not the way to get him talking. Mr. Smith’s gaze grows even chillier and I subside
into silence. Why did we have to be in a private room? There’s no one to look at to pass the time. Just
Mr. Smith and these dark, enclosing walls.
Our starters arrive and we eat them without speaking. There’s something impossibly small and
shell-fishy for me, and something small and red-raw for him.
“Are you looking for a short-term or long-term relationship—arrangement,” I correct quickly.
Not relationship. This isn’t about love or companionship. This is a business deal. He’s not going to
choose me, obviously but I’m interested to know what a man like him wants.
He picks up his water glass, takes a thoughtful sip, and puts it down again. “I’m not sure yet.”
I know I’m rattling off a long list of questions rather than trying to make conversation but this
awkwardness is killing me. “What types of girls do you normally date?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Ciara.”
A glare down at my plate, blood heating my face. Fine. I won’t speak.
Neither of us say a thing for the rest of the short meal. We both refuse dessert and when he
gives me an expectant look I stand up, grateful it’s time to leave.
But my gratitude evaporates as we walk out through the restaurant. My problems aren’t going
to go away unless I try to make this work. This man has clearly got money, and money is what I need.
One more time. I’ll try one more time to rescue this.
I turn to Mr. Smith when we’re out on the street. Standing this close to him I feel again how
big he is; how his presence and status radiates around him like an aura. I can smell the cool,
expensive scent of his cologne. His hand when it grasped mine earlier was very warm and strong. It
wouldn’t be so bad if he wanted to touch me. I wonder what the muscles of his chest feels like under
that crisp white shirt.
“I had such a good time, daddy.” I smile up at him, reaching for one of the lapels on his suit
jacket. “Did you have a good time, too?”
He seizes my wrist in a hard grip and in a low, seething voice says, “Drop the baby act, Ciara.
I don’t want it.”
I let go of him and step back, yanking myself free of his grasp. I drop everything. I drop the
baby act, I drop my social graces and I drop the last shreds of my pretense that I enjoyed spending
even one second in his revolting company.
“I need a cab,” I flatly. He can pay for that, too.
Mr. Smith take out his phone and presses some buttons. A few minutes later a black Mercedes
with tinted windows pulls up, and he opens the back door for me. I get in without looking at him and
the car slides away from the curb.
“Is my address confidential?” I ask the driver. “I don’t want that man knowing where I live.”
The driver assures me that it is, and I tell him where to take me. A moment later my phone
buzzes.
I would like to have dinner with you again in three days’ time. John.
I gape at the message. He wants to go through that again? He can’t possibly have enjoyed
himself.
My thumbs fly over the digital keyboard as I type. Listen here, “John”, I don’t want to sit in
some weird dark room with you while you look at me like I ran over your dog. You clearly don’t
like me and this isn’t going to work out between us. Have a nice life.
The message sent, I sit back on the leather seat and breathe a sigh of relief. Holy hell, that felt
good.
Two minutes later I get a notification from my cash app.
Oh, no.
I check my email and see that he’s sent me five thousand pounds, and then I get another
message from Mr. Smith.
I asked you to have dinner with me.
I scream in frustration. What the hell is his deal? If he’d tried to feel me up or asked to smell
my knickers or done anything sleazy at least I would know where I stand with him. Mr. Smith doesn’t
seem to be remotely attracted to me, so if he doesn’t like me and doesn’t want to touch me, what does
he want?
Leave me alone, I text back furiously. You’re a psycho. You’re not normal. I’m not going to
have dinner with you and I don’t want your money. How do I send it back?
Twenty minutes later he hasn’t replied and there’s still six thousand pounds sitting in my bank
account.
Fine. I’ll keep it. Goodbye forever.
When I get home I sign up for Netflix and order a pizza with double cheese. That dinner was
the least satisfying thing I’ve ever eaten. Thirty minutes later I’m sprawled on my bed in PJs with the
open pizza box and my laptop. I toast the empty room with a glass of cola as I watch the intro to the
first episode of Friends.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Smith.”
 Misha

When she arrives at the office of a morning, Bethany usually sits at her desk for forty-five minutes
reading fashion blogs, sipping her coffee and ignoring me. This morning, however, she’s into my
office like a shot.
“How was the date?” she asks with a grin.
I frown at my monitor and scroll through unread emails. The development in Croatia is
seventy-five percent complete. Good. That means we’re slightly ahead of schedule.
Bethany comes closer and plants her hands on my desk. “Come on, spill. Don’t get all coy on
me now, daddy.”
The memory of Miss Alders outside the restaurant last night blooms in my mind. How she
smiled up at me, her blonde curls laying heavily over one shoulder. I had such a good time, daddy.
Liar. Miss Alders hated every second she spent with me. I don’t like that word, either. Daddy.
I’m not spoiling or taking care of Miss Alders, I’m only giving her money. Trying to give her money.
“I wish you were this eager to talk to me every morning,” I say, without looking at Bethany.
She waves away my comment and perches on the edge of my desk. “Yes, yes, I’m a terrible
PA. How was Ciara?”
“Surly, ungrateful, nosy and rude.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Bethany’s face fall. “Uh, excuse me, sir, but that’s not the
attitude we’re going for.”
“Quite. She behaved disgracefully.”
Bethany reaches out and yanks my keyboard away so I have to look at her. “No, I mean your
attitude. If she was surly and ungrateful then it’s because you were unfriendly and miserly.”
I glare at my PA. “Miserly? I have spent six thousand pounds on Miss Alders, I arranged a
lovely meal, I saw her into her car that I paid for and you conclude that her poor behavior is my
fault?”
Bethany flicks her eyes pointedly up and down my person. “Yes.”
“Typical,” I seethe. I awoke this morning feeling a smolder of regret over how last night
unfolded, but when I revisit the events of the date I can’t see that I did anything wrong. We had dinner
and I gave her more money. What else could she want from me? I didn’t stare at her breasts. I didn’t
say inappropriate things. I was the perfect gentleman and yet her behavior toward me was deplorable.
 “What was the last thing she said to you?”
“None of your business.” When Bethany doesn’t reply, the smolder of guilt becomes a burn.
“In text or in person?”
“Both.”
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to get Bethany’s opinion on a few things that happened, though I firmly
believe that, on balance, I’m in the right and Miss Alders is in the wrong. “When we left the
restaurant she demanded I get her a car without saying please. Extremely poor manners.” I pause,
inviting Bethany to agree with me but she’s indifferent to this.
“And by text?”
My eyes drop guiltily away from her. “She, ah, sent me well wishes.”
Bethany holds her hand out for my phone. “Show me.”
I put a protective hand over it. “This overfamiliarity with your employer—”
Bethany jumps to her feet, her cheeks turning pink in anger. “Oh, get over yourself, would
you? This isn’t about you. I’m doing this for Ciara, so your deranged brother doesn’t get his hands on
her. I know her, remember? I don’t want to see her get hurt, and if you don’t sort your shit out then
she’s going to get hurt!”
I look up at her in surprise and see real worry etched in her face. She’s genuinely concerned
for Miss Alders, and I’m suddenly ashamed that her rejection has made me forget that I should be,
too. This isn’t about my pride. It’s life and death for Miss Alders. Wordlessly, I unlock my phone and
hand it over.
Bethany reads through the messages, her lips compressed into a rueful line. “It’s not good,
sir.”
I sigh heavily. “No, it’s not.”
She puts the phone back into my hand. “You obviously did something to upset her. What was
it?”
I think for a moment. “I didn’t touch her or ask to touch her if that’s what you’re thinking,” I
reply defensively. “I barely even looked at her.”
I did look at her a little, though. I can clearly recall Miss Alders’ petite body in tight red lace.
The cascade of her curls. The plunging neckline and hint of her breasts. Not large breasts, but a good
handful. Or mouthful.
Bethany groans and covers her face. “I told you to act normal. You didn’t need to get your
hand under her dress but you should have kissed her cheek. Touched her waist. Told her she was
beautiful. That’s what she was expecting.”
Was she? I remember the way she jumped to her feet the moment I entered the room. Her slim,
bare legs and the red stilettos she wore. I thought it was odd at the time but maybe she was…showing
herself to me? I walked behind her out of the restaurant and my eyes strayed to the firm muscles of her
calves. In a distant part of my mind I briefly imagined sinking my teeth into them, then licking across
the backs of her knees on my way up to her sex.
With effort, I shove the image away. Sex with Miss Alders would complicate an already
impossible situation, but if I need to do one or two small things to show that I’m attracted to her then
it wouldn’t be much of a stretch.
“Fine. I’ll tell her she’s beautiful next time and kiss her cheek, if I can get her to talk to me
again.”
A male voice asks from the doorway, “Who’s not talking to you?”
Fuck.
The panic that flares in Bethany’s eye is mirrored in my stomach, but I keep my face straight
as I turn to look at my brother.
Damir’s wintry eyes examine first me, and then Bethany. She walks quickly around to my side
of the desk and starts straightening some files. I have the distinct impression that she wants the solid
mahogany between her and my brother.
He strides slowly into the room, a neutral expression on his face but curiosity lighting his
eyes. “Who’s the lucky girl, Mikhail?”
Did we refer to Miss Alders by name just now? I don’t think so. Christ, I hope not. “What do
you want?” I counter. My brother isn’t the type to make small-talk or drop in just for a chat.
Damir smiles. Or rather he bares his teeth like a shark, as if this is what he’s learned a smile
should look like. Probably it’s something our father taught him. “Surely you’re not having girl
troubles. You always had the women fawning, Misha.” The smile is still there but his gaze grows
even chillier.
“Misha, how handsome you look. I’m so proud of you. Come and give Mama a kiss.”
A tight silence stretches between us. Damir looks at Bethany and then jerks his head at the
door. She hesitates, her head bowed, and she seems reluctant to leave my side. Then as she edges past
Damir, he reaches out to touch her face. She doesn’t flinch but I see her color rise.
“Pridna punčka,” Damir murmurs, running his forefinger along her cheek. Bethany hurries out
and closes the door behind her.
“Leave my PA alone, Damir. I asked you what you wanted.”
He’s still looking at the closed door but finally swings around to face me. I see the moment the
anger takes hold of him. It’s like a switch being flicked and his eyes blaze, and he looms over my
desk, leaning his weight on his knuckles.
 “This has got to fucking stop,” he growls.
I feel as if my guts have been vacuumed out of my abdomen. How did he find out? Has he got
a listening device in my office, or has he had me followed? Maybe I underestimated my brother’s
level of paranoia since Alders’ betrayal and now he suspects everyone he works with of trying to
cheat him, including me.
I make myself sit still and relaxed, bluffing in case he’s bluffing, too.
A moment later he pushes away from my desk and goes to look out the tall glass windows.
“We spend too much time in our offices. That was the reason Alders was able to rip us off, because
he forgot to be afraid. So I’m spending more time visiting our clients, to remind them.”
Relief floods through me. This isn’t about Miss Alders, or not directly at least. Damir’s
banging on about the same thing as usual, that someone cheated him, him, and it’s never going to
happen again. I’m tired of it.
This is new, though, coming to my office to rail about it. I don’t work in the Ravnikar
Enterprises building because I like to keep my distance from Damir. He could have said this to me
over email, but because he’s here that means I’m being reminded, too. That I should be afraid of my
little brother.
“Scared clients aren’t happy clients,” I remind him.
“I don’t care if they’re happy,” he says through his teeth. “I care that they don’t fucking rip us
off.”
I could point out that working with people with loose morals and criminal records means
risking being ripped off, but I think Damir might punch a hole through my door.
He turns to me, narrow-eyed. “I’m getting out and about visiting our business associates and
reminding them who they’re working with, and I expect you to do the same. This will not happen
again.”
The fact that Mr. and Mrs. Alders ended up dead should be enough to keep most of our
associates on the straight and narrow for a while. I don’t have the energy to argue with my brother,
though. “Fine. If that’s what you want, I’ll start making more personal visits to my clients.”
“My clients.”
I give him a tight smile. “Our clients.”
I want to ask if Ciara’s made contact with him to pay off some of her debt but I don’t dare
seem too interested her. I wonder how he’ll treat her when she does come to him with a payment.
Fuck, he’ll probably go out of his way to scare her again. She’s so small and he’s such a cold,
dangerous bastard. Can he see it in my eyes, how much I hate him right now?
Don’t you dare lay a goddamn finger on her.
 Damir frowns, watching me, and I see the puzzlement in his face and struggle to rein in my
emotions. He’s silent for a moment, and then laughs and shakes his head. “Good luck with the girl
troubles, brata.”
He turns and walks out. I watch him disappear around the corner on the way to the elevator,
letting the loathing I feel for him fill my face. The loathing I feel for myself, too, because I’m here,
working for him. Because twenty years ago he won my loyalty, and now I’m trapped.
As soon as he’s gone, Bethany comes back in, brisk and businesslike, and picks up the
conversation where we left off. “Ciara doesn’t want to be reminded at every turn that she’s an escort.
She wants to be treated sweetly, made to feel that you genuinely like her. We need to make things feel
more intimate between you.”
I frown at my PA. I’ve never seen her show the slightest hint of trepidation around the nastiest
of people, but she’s still pale after a short exchange with my brother. “Are you all right? Did Damir
frighten you? You know I won’t let him—”
Bethany talks over me. “From now on she should call you by your first name. Your real first
name. You need to put some sincerity into this.”
I shake my head. It’s too risky to tell her my name is Mikhail as she might have heard of
Mikhail Ravnikar. She’s studying to be a lawyer and lawyers dig into things. Connect dots.
“No? How about a nickname, then? Mr. Ravnikar called you Misha just now.”
“You’re a good boy, Misha. Don’t ever forget that, no matter what he tells you. Do you hear
me? You’re a good boy.”
“I’d rather not.”
Bethany smiles brightly. “But it’s cute. She’ll love it.”
I don’t want Miss Alders to call me Misha. I haven’t been Misha in a long, long time.
“What sort of baby is she?”
I’m drawn out of my reverie by her strange question. “Pardon?”
“What sort of sugar baby? Was she bratty? Flirty? Bougie?” Seeing my baffled expression she
adds, “Bougie, you know. Did she talk about expensive things? Did she ask you the time so she could
see if you were wearing an expensive watch? Was she holding your hand so she could check if your
cufflinks were designer?”
I picture Miss Alders sitting across the table from me, her lips as red as her dress, asking me
about my work. “No, none of those things.”
“She must have had some sort of act she was trying out. Or was she drunk?”
Miss Alders barely wet her lips with the champagne. “At the end of the date she became all
breathy and said, ‘I had such a good time, daddy, did you have a good time, too?’”
 Bethany nods knowingly. “Nice and sweet. We can work with that.”
I hold out my phone to her but she shakes her head. “You need to learn how to talk to women.
It’s time you grew up. You know. Because you’re forty-two.”
I grit my teeth. “All right. Out.”
“But I want to—”
I point at the door. “Out.”
Bethany huffs. “Fine. Have fun, daddy.” She knocks a box of tissues closer with a saucy smile,
and saunters out.
Last night’s disaster was not my fault but I suppose I’ll have to take the blame if I’m going to
keep giving Miss Alders money. After thinking for a moment I type, I’m sorry. I was rude to you last
night. Can we talk?
Her reply comes through a few minutes later. No. I’m not talking to you and I’m not giving
the money back. I’ve already withdrawn it from my bank account this morning.
Good. Hopefully that means she intends to give it to Damir soon. I want to take you out to
dinner again and discuss an allowance. A very generous one.
I see the three dots that mean she’s typing. She’s certainly doing a lot of talking for someone
who professes not to be speaking to me.
An allowance for what? You obviously don’t enjoy spending time with me. We’ve had one
date and I still know nothing about you. I don’t even know your real name.
I hesitate and then type, My name’s Misha.
Instantly, I regret it. I should have told her to call me Michael, Matthew, anything but Misha.
Ten minutes later she still hasn’t replied. If she won’t take my money then my brother is going
to destroy her and I won’t be able to protect her from him. I need to know she’s safe. I need to be
certain she’s safe. I think hard, trying to figure out what she needs from me as a sugar daddy. No,
more than that. As someone she feels close to. If I stick closer to the truth then maybe she’ll sense
some authenticity. I’ve heard women like that.
I’m not very good with people and never have been. That’s why I’m doing this.
She reads the message and this time the three dots appear straight away. I just don’t know
what you want from me. You don’t even seem to like me.
I do like you. I want you to show me how to be a better man.
Maybe you need a life coach, not a sugar baby, “John.”
I asked you to call me Misha.
I remember the sight of her at her parents’ funeral, shrinking away from Damir, and then across
the table from me at dinner last night. The same scared expression on her face both times. I hate that
she’s scared of me. I hate that she’s scared at all.
Send me a picture, I message her.
What sort of picture?
Any sort. I just want to see that you’re all right.
Logically I know she’s safe and in one piece or she wouldn’t be replying, but the need to be
certain is overwhelming. A few minutes later my phone buzzes and I look at what she’s sent me. I’ve
seen women in lingerie before. But I haven’t see Ciara in lingerie. The tie around my neck suddenly
feels too tight.
She’s lying on her bed in a white lace bra, hints of her pink nipples visible through the gauzy
fabric. Her breasts look full and touchable and I feel like I could reach through the screen and squeeze
handfuls of her. I imagine pulling her close in my lap and sucking each of her nipples in turn until they
harden in my mouth.
I reply without thinking. You’re fucking beautiful.
She types, deletes, types, deletes. The three dots disappear. I wait, holding my breath.
Thank you.
Is this what she wants, to feel desired, so that taking money from me makes sense to her? I
should keep this going. For the sake of the plan. Pull the lace down.
A moment later another picture comes through. She’s curled her fingers into the flimsy fabric
and drawn it down, exposing the tight bud of one of her nipples. I stare at the picture for a long time,
wondering what she tastes like. If she moans when her nipples are sucked. If those bright red nails
will scratch through my hair, and if she’ll arch against me and whimper into her mouth as I twist her
nipples in my fingers.
Not that I’m going to do that. I’m just curious. For the sake of the plan.
Have dinner with me.
Will you talk to me, or make me do all the work while you sit there and sulk?
My mouth quirks in amusement. Cheeky. I’ll talk. Have dinner with me. Wear that bra.
Yes, Misha.
Misha. The pet name sounds nice coming from her. Sweetly familiar. I text the venue and the
time to Ciara and sit back, satisfied. That wasn’t so hard.
But I am. I’m iron hard. My cock strains against my trousers, clearly outlined. I slide my hand
firmly down over my erection, trying to get it to subside. I didn’t mean this to get sexual and I have no
intention of sleeping with Miss Alders.
No, Ciara. I should think of her as Ciara all the time from now on so I can say her name
naturally when I see her in person. When I talk to her. Christ. I don’t talk to women. I buy champagne,
I half-listen as they witter on about their nails or their dress and then I buy them a present and screw
them. Everyone’s happy, I move on, end of story. I’m not interested in getting to know the two or three
women I sleep with a year. They’re only interested in my money, anyway. Just like Ciara is.
Yet Ciara feels different, which is strange because this is the most formally transactional
relationship I’ve ever had. I’ve never known a woman talk back to me before, probably because
they’re afraid that if they upset me I won’t buy them things. Yet Ciara, who really needs my money,
stands her ground. I’ve never had dinner with a woman who is so clever, either, and I can tell she is
clever even though she tried to mask it by playing dumb.
My eyes land on the box of tissues, then on my phone. I swipe it open to look through her
pictures again. She looks good like that, laid out on the white sheets. Relaxed. Waiting. Offering me
her breast.
My hard-on is still straining. I look at the tissues again. Christ, it’s been a while. I wonder
what it would be like if we did sleep together. We’ll be spending time together over dinner, drinking
wine. I’m not bad looking, and I’ve been told I kiss rather well.
“You always had the women fawning, Misha.”
Damir’s goading expression flashes before my eyes and I swear under my breath. Asking
Ciara to call me Misha was definitely a mistake. I’m not Misha anymore and I haven’t been for a
long, long time. I shove the box of tissues into a drawer along with my phone and turn to my computer.
I should have told her to call me any other name.
 Ciara

I walk down the street with my gym bag thumping against my hip. My name is Misha. You’re fucking
beautiful. Have dinner with me. Wear that bra.
Who is this man?
It’s not a bad sort of sensation, being told you’re fucking beautiful by a man who looks like
Misha. Will he tell me I’m beautiful tonight so I can see from his eyes if he really means it? Will he
make me regret giving him yet another chance?
Either way, it felt damn good to provoke a reaction from him, something that shows me he’s a
red-blooded human being underneath that cold, robotic exterior.
I cross into the shade of a glass and steel skyscraper. Written atop the revolving door in
gleaming, three-feet-high silver letters is RAVNIKAR ENTERPRISES. I take a long, slow breath, and my gaze
rises up the stories. There must be eighty or ninety of them. If I ever doubted this was about revenge,
not money, for something I didn’t even do, I certainly don’t anymore.
I trained myself when I was growing up to be indifferent to my parents’ money. Money isn’t
virtue. Money isn’t an accomplishment. Money doesn’t make you interesting. And yet here I am,
pursuing money because my life literally depends on it. It’s a mindfuck, going on dates where the
endgame is getting as much money as possible out of a stranger. Knowing that the dates will
inevitably lead to sex with someone who is much older than me who I have nothing in common with.
If not Misha then it will be another man.
I straighten my spine and push through the revolving doors. Let’s get this over with.
“I’m here to see Damir Ravnikar,” I tell the receptionist on the front desk. “My name is Ciara
Alders.”
She runs her eyes down her monitor. “Do you have an appointment?”
I tighten my grip on my gym bag. “No. But he’s expecting me.” Sort of. I didn’t make an
appointment but it’s not like it takes long to hand over a bag of money.
The woman looks doubtfully at my hoodie and leggings and reaches for the phone. “A moment,
please.”
One of my sneakered heels bounces on the floor as I wait. So I’m in my gym clothes. I’m not
going to dress up for a Ravnikar, and besides, the outfit and shoes make me feel safer. I can run if I
need to.
 The receptionist speaks for a moment and then puts the phone down. “You can go down. Floor
B05.”
Down? Surely she means up as that’s where offices are in a skyscrapers. Floor B05…
basement level five. I think of sewers, graves, darkness. Only bad things happen underground. My
heart plummets through my stomach.
“I’ve changed my mind. Can you see that he gets this please?” I dig into my gym bag and hold
out a fat yellow pencil case.
The receptionist gives me a bland, unfriendly smile. “I can’t do that for you. Mr. Ravnikar is
waiting.”
Damn it. And I thought I was so clever about this, too. I turn and walk into the open elevator
on shaking legs. Inside I see there are no buttons and I turn to the receptionist, about to call out that I
don’t know how to select the right floor when the doors slide closed.
My heart rises into my throat as the metal cage sinks into the earth with no way for me to stop
it. This was a mistake.
The doors open on a long, wide corridor painted stark white. In the distance a neon strip light
flickers. I take a hesitant step onto the bare concrete floor. This isn’t the expensively decorated office
space that I was expecting. It’s more like a loading bay. Or a dungeon.
“Hello?” My voice echoes along the corridor. No answer.
I take a few slow steps, shoulders clenched, all my senses attuned for danger. I should have
told someone where I am. I dig out my phone to text Sloane but there’s no reception down here. When
I turn back I see there’s no button to call the elevator, either.
Shit.
I hear the dull sound of something solid hitting something else, and then a muffled grunt.
Staying where I am, I call out, “Mr. Ravnikar? It’s Ciara Alders and I have your money. Some
of your money,” I quickly amend, lest he think I have the whole half a million. I have barely one
percent of what he says I owe him.
More dull striking sounds and a longer, muffled sound of pain. Then the noises stop and I hear
approaching footsteps. A man emerges though an opening into the corridor, a large man with a
muscular body and thick, dark hair. Gleaming gunmetal eyes. A blood-spattered face.
Damir Ravnikar.
I freeze like a rabbit at the sight of him. Though he’s broad through the shoulders his hips are
lean and narrow. He reminds me of a streetfighter, someone who’s lethal and fast on his feet. The
white shirt, black trousers and shiny dress shoes he’s wearing are splattered with more blood.
Did he inherit his money, I wonder distantly, or did he fight tooth and nail for every penny?
Something tells me it was the latter.
Mr. Ravnikar reaches up with his ring finger to wipe at one of the drops of blood on the blade
of his cheekbone. He smiles at me, and it’s the smile of something monstrous wearing human skin.
“Miss Alders. What perfect timing.” He holds out an arm to indicate the room to his left. “Please.”
Every nerve is screaming at me not to approach him. I hold the pencil case out to him with a
shaking hand. “Here. Five thousand, five hundred pounds.” Misha gave me six but I’m keeping five
hundred for myself to pay for rent and food. And maybe textbooks. I haven’t decided whether I want
to go back to school or not. I don’t know if I can concentrate on classes with this mess hanging over
my head.
“Please, come on in,” Mr. Ravnikar says pleasantly, and disappears back into the room. I edge
toward the doorway—and let out a cry.
There’s a man strung up by his wrists in the middle of a large, barren space. His head is
lolling against his shoulder as if he’s passed out. He’s shirtless and blood streaks his chest and drips
from his nose. Mr. Ravnikar holds an open bottle of water in one hand and a wickedly sharp hunting
knife in the other. My flesh shrinks on my bones as I look at the blade. The sharpened edge practically
hums in the air.
“This is Georgios,” Mr. Ravnikar says pleasantly, nodding at the man and then taking a sip of
water. “Georgios did a bad thing.” He pours the rest of the contents of the bottle over the man’s face.
Watery blood splatters onto the concrete and the man comes round with a groan. “Didn’t you,
Georgios?”
Georgios’ blurry gaze runs over me. Then he sees Mr. Ravnikar standing at his side and his
face hardens. He spits in his captor’s face and the spittle is red. “Kiss my ass, you son of a—”
The rest of his words are lost in a gurgling sound as Mr. Ravnikar grips Georgios hair in one
fist and slashes his throat with the knife, fast and deep. The wound is a gruesome smile from ear to
ear. Blood gouts down his front and Mr. Ravnikar’s arm, and as he dies the man’s legs shake as if he’s
been electrocuted.
It’s so shocking and all happens so suddenly that it takes a moment for me to realize what I’ve
just witnessed, and then I double up, dry retching. He killed him. He killed that man right in front of
me. Then, more urgently, I’m going to throw up. The burn rises and up comes the coffee I drank for
breakfast and spatters on the concrete.
With my eyes squeezed shut I see the gaping flesh of his throat and I sob. It turns into a gasp as
a strong hand grasps my hair and yanks me upright. I cry out, anticipating the blade of his knife against
my throat. Mr. Ravnikar holds it close, but not against my throat, so I can see it, the five-inch blade
glistening with fresh blood.
 Mr. Ravnikar’s silvery blue eyes are fever-bright as he gazes down at me. “Five thousand,
five hundred? Is that all? When will you have more money for me?”
I squirm in his grasp and my voice is high and shrill. “Just a few days, I swear.”
“I can help you. I can make this go a lot faster for you. Just say yes.” His face is so close to
my mouth that his breath fans my lips.
“I’m managing,” I hiss up at him. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
His grip on my hair tightens, making my eyes water. “Did you know,” he continues in that
sinister whisper, “that some girls don’t throw up when they see violence? They get turned on. Some of
them get so wet it soaks right through their clothes.”
His eyes travel down over my body and I whimper. I’m so, so screwed. He’s really going to
hurt me now. What do they call it in old-fashioned parlance? A fate worse than death.
Mr. Ravnikar lets me go and pushes me away. “I like those girls better.”
I stumble away and swipe my forearm across my mouth as if he really has kissed me, vomit
and all. What sort of insane person would get turned on by the sight of someone getting their throat
slit?
Mr. Ravnikar’s cold eyes are fixed on my face as he digs his phone out of his pocket and
places a call. “Send the elevator down for Miss Alders.”
I throw the pencil case full of money on the ground at his feet, stagger out of the room and run
for the elevator. The doors whisper open and I fling myself gratefully inside. The elevator rises, and
only then do I start to breathe again.
Curse him, I think as the elevator rises, my whole body shaking. Curse his whole fucking
family. Curse every Ravnikar who ever lived and every Ravnikar who ever will. Damn them all to
hell.
A few minutes later I come back into myself and find that I’m several streets away from
Ravnikar Enterprises, and I’ve walked so fast that I’m breathing hard.
I need to go to the police. I’ve just witnessed a murder and they need to investigate. Arrest
Damir Ravnikar. Put him a way for a long, long time. Yes, that’s it. That will not only mean a criminal
is put behind bars but that I’ll be free at last. I dig out my phone in order to look up the nearest police
station—and then pause.
The manner in which the murder was done, so brazenly in front of me, frightens me. No matter
how hard Mr. Ravnikar scrubbed that room there’ll be evidence of bloodshed, but what if the police
can’t get a search warrant? Worse, what if they won’t? Mr. Ravnikar would know that I talked. Maybe
he murdered a man in front of me to make not one point, but two: first, that he has no qualms about
killing; and second, that he is one hundred percent confident that even with witnesses, he will get
away with it. I don’t want to end up as another body hanging in his basement. I want to get out of this
alive.
Reluctantly, a sick feeling in my stomach, I put my phone away and go home.
Later, much later, after I’ve gone for a long run around the park and then had a blazing hot
shower, I start to feel myself again. Misha. Our date. I have to go even if I feel like shit. I focus on
choosing an outfit for tonight, and remind myself it’s part of ridding myself of Damir Ravnikar.
As I apply my makeup I notice my mood level out, and I get it now. The makeup, the clothes,
they are armor. But they’re more than that. They’re my arsenal, my only weapons in a war I’m waging
against Damir Ravnikar. With this lipstick, with these high heels, I’ll earn my freedom.
For a moment I grip my mascara wand like it’s a tiny sword and imagine plunging it into one
of Mr. Ravnikar’s cold eyes. But I can’t think about him right now. I need to get into a better
headspace for my date, so instead I think about Misha. I remember his messages and I smile. It’s as if
a chink of humanity peeked through his steely armor, and I like that he trusted me with his name.
Misha. It feels soft and sweet on my lips. Maybe he’s just bad with people, as he said, but now we’ve
turned a corner together.
I guess I’m about to find out. Date number two with the only daddy I’ve got.
I’ve been checking my messages on the sugar dating website these last few days but all the
men who’ve contacted me are scammers and time-wasters or seem outrageously cheap compared to
Misha. One man told me that he wouldn’t give me more than three hundred pounds a month but
expected two dates a week. Another wanted to pay one hundred pounds per date whenever it suited
him, and that I would have to sleep with him every time. These men are less than useless to me.
I type the address Misha gave me into my taxi app and head downstairs. I’m not wearing the
bra he told me to wear, but I don’t think he’ll mind as I’m not wearing any bra at all. The apricot silk
slip dress doesn’t work with a bra. It’s one from my own wardrobe and I’ve paired it with a pair of
cream high heels and a clutch I’ve borrowed from Sloane. Between my bare shoulders and bare legs
I’m showing a lot of skin tonight. But hey, it’s hot out.
When I pull up at the address just east of the city I realize we’re not far from Ravnikar
Enterprises, and I suppress a shudder as I get out of the car. There’s a huge silver Bentley parked in
front of my cab. I know nothing about cars but this one’s a beauty. So is the man standing next to it.
Misha.
He straightens as he sees me, his eyes on my face, hands deep in his trouser pockets. I get the
same sense of him that I did the night before last, that he’s utterly gorgeous and totally hostile.
But then his face softens. He doesn’t exactly smile, but the corner of his mouth turns up. He
walks toward me, and when he reaches me, he takes my upper arms gently in his large, warm hands
and leans down to kiss my cheek. He’s slow and deliberate about it, giving me time to smell the
smoky cedar and bay of his cologne. His thumbs caress my skin as his deep voice murmurs, “Ciara.
You look beautiful.”
His words vibrate through me. Wow. I feel nervous suddenly, and a little bit shy, but I make
myself look up at him and smile. “Thank you, Misha.”
Electricity seems to crackle faintly in the air between us. I’ve never felt anything like this
before, and just holding his gaze feels intimate. Like we’re exposed to each other, and vulnerable in a
good way. For the first time in weeks, my mind slows down and I’m aware of the moment.
His hands slide slowly down my arms, and then he releases me. “Shall we go in?”
Vaguely, I nod.
He guides me toward the building and swipes a security pass. Today his suit is black and so is
his shirt and tie, and again they have that ultra-neat tailored look. Small gold rods gleam at his cuffs.
Misha’s an understated dresser, but a particular one. I feel an urge to tug on my skirt and pat down my
hair.
You look fine. You look better than fine. You’re a luxury item. I stride through the door he
opens for me.
And then I stop dead.
We’re in the deserted lobby of a high-rise office building. I feel the hairs on the back of my
neck rise as I watch him press the button for an elevator. It’s too much like the encounter I had at
Ravnikar Enterprises earlier.
“Where are we?” My voice is tight and shrill. It’s just a coincidence. You’re safe.
He gives me a mysterious look and holds out a hand as the elevator pings open. I take a step
forward, telling myself not to be hysterical, but on the threshold I freeze. My leg starts to shake
uncontrollably and my high heel raps out a staccato rhythm on the marble floor.
I can’t do it. I can’t get in the elevator. There’s too much blood before my eyes.
“Ciara?”
I try again but it’s as if my shoes are glued to the ground. “I had a—my day was—” My voice
is high and thin and I clamp my arms across my chest. “I’m not really in the mood for surprises.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the pounding of my heart. He’s going to think I’m crazy.
Just when we were starting to get somewhere.
Misha’s expression clears. “I understand. We’re going up to the eightieth floor for dinner. It’s
not a restaurant. This was the first important building I constructed in London. I wanted to show you
my work because you mentioned you were studying property law.”
I look up at him in surprise, touched and impressed at the same time. This is one of his? It’s
one of the most beautiful high-rise buildings in London and it’s featured on all the postcards.
“But if you’re afraid of heights or you’d like to go somewhere else we can.”
The terror dissipates, and I unclench my hands. I even manage to smile a little. Misha is
showing me something important to him. “No. Not at all. This sounds wonderful, thank you.”
We step into the elevator and his hand briefly touches my lower back as he leans past me to
swipe his pass and select the top floor. I want him to leave his hand there because I like the warmth
and weight of it, but it drops away a moment later. As the elevator rises I sneak looks at him out of the
corner of my eye. He might be rude and grumpy occasionally, but I find to my surprise that I feel safe
with Misha. His large, somber presence is grounding.
“Did someone frighten you today?”
His question startles me and I see he’s frowning at me in concern. “What? Oh, no. It’s the
height thing. I just get nervous if I don’t know…how many floors there are going to be,” I finish
lamely. What a ridiculous explanation. Thankfully he doesn’t press me about it.
When the elevator door opens we step out into the stars. That’s what it feels like, anyway.
There are floor-to-ceiling windows right in front of us and they’re filled with the city lights. I walk
forward and press my hands against the windows, breathing softly so I don’t fog the glass. London is
a beautiful riot of color and brightness. Misha points out Piccadilly Circus, the London Eye,
Buckingham Palace and St Paul’s.
“Which buildings are yours?” I ask, but he merely smiles and says that that would be showing
off. No matter how much I press him he shakes his head. It occurs to me that he’s trying to keep his
identity private, because if I know which developments are his then I’ll be able to look them up on the
internet and find out all about him.
“Tell me about this building, then,” I say.
There’s a table set for dinner nearby and he opens the champagne and pours two glasses,
passing me one. “This was my first major development, completed when I was twenty-seven. I felt
like I’d made the city my home at last. I’m very proud of it.”
I look around the room, encased on two sides by high glass windows and softly lit, and then
out over the glittering city. “You should be. It’s beautiful.”
Twenty-seven and he’d achieved this. I suppose this is what you can do when you’re so
focused on work that you wait until you’re forty-two to work on your social graces. I wonder what
made him wake up one day and decide he wanted more female company, and why he chose to be a
sugar daddy rather than meet a woman through friends or a regular dating site. Maybe to a
businessman, the transactional nature of the relationship is comfortingly familiar. Also he’s holding a
measure of power by being the one to bestow money and dictate when and where we meet. A sugar
baby is never going to be pushy about marriage or babies or his time, and if she is, she’ll be swiftly
dumped.
We sit down to eat and it’s like a picnic, but on a linen tablecloth with silver and porcelain,
and everything is beautifully presented. There’s a shredded crab and avocado stack, cold roast
chicken, smoked salmon and various side dishes for the main course. Suddenly hungry, I can’t get
enough of the potato salad with capers and dill and minced prawns on spears of endive.
“You said you were studying law. How are you finding it?” Misha asks.
I lay my knife and fork down, my eyes on my plate. He would ask the one question that I’m
struggling to answer myself. “It’s complicated right now. My future is uncertain at the moment. I
suppose that’s why I’m here.” Crap, I should be pretending that I’m here for his company, not the
money. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”
Misha shakes his head, unruffled. “There’s no need pretend otherwise. I know why you’re
here, and I hope that I can make you feel a little more secure.”
There’s warmth in his pale blue eyes again, as if he really means what he says. Is he on his
best behavior tonight, or is this just how Misha is when he’s got to know someone a little better?
After several years doing everything for myself it feels strange to have someone looking out for me.
Strange, but nice.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
The corner of his mouth quirks again, and he drops his gaze. “Did you always want to study
law?”
“Yes, but it took me a while to get here. That’s why I’m twenty-two and only in my second
year. At first I studied art history because I wanted to appease my mother. She thought it would be too
threatening for a man if I got too good of an education.”
Misha’s eyebrows creep up his forehead. “I had no idea people thought that way these days.”
“Aren’t you afraid of me, knowing I can think for myself?”
He smiles. “Terrified.”
He’s even better looking that way than when he’s serious. “Do you know what my mother said
when I told her I was studying art history? She said, ‘Oh, darling, you’ll be able to choose your own
draperies one day instead of hiring an interior designer.’”
Misha smiles down at the piece of bread he’s buttering. “I hear that Da Vinci and Caravaggio
have a lot to teach us about choosing our own draperies. What made you finally switch to law?”
I take a sip of my champagne, wondering how much to say. “I decided that I was wasting my
time trying to please my parents and that I should be living for me.”
Misha watches me thoughtfully, as if he senses that there’s a lot more I’m not saying. I’ve
never talked about this with anyone, not even Sloane. Not properly. I was too ashamed to tell her the
truth.
“They were crooks,” I blurt out. “I refused to have anything to do with them or their money
after I found out. And then—then they died.”
“I’m sorry,” he says softly.
I give him a tight smile. “We weren’t close, but it still affects you, you know? I’m probably
still angry with them for being such hypocrites. All my life they told me how deserving we were, how
we had standards to uphold because we were role models in the community. How I had to uphold
those standards, no matter what. But then I found out the truth. I hated them as much as you can hate
people you love.”
I remember how it felt, sitting on my bed and looking around at my huge bed, the carpets, the
expensive furnishings. None of it meant anything. My parents weren’t a cut above, with
responsibilities to class and sophistication. They were crooks. Stupid, greedy crooks.
I flick my gaze up to him, suddenly remembering who I’m talking to. “Sorry. I’m being such a
downer. We were talking about law.”
Misha makes a dismissive gesture, as if to say it doesn’t matter. “What do you like about
studying law?”
I think for a moment. “Well, I enjoy the structure. Using the clear, concise words in the law
books to evaluate the messy human experience. It’s calming, reading the steady phrases, drafting
contracts.” I take a bite of crab. “It’s makes the world easier to comprehend. What do you like about
property development?”
His mouth twitches. “Playing with colored blocks and cement mixers.”
I laugh because in that moment I see in his eyes a little boy’s delight as he plays in the sandpit.
“That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He shakes his head, smiling. “Actually the construction side of things is a very small part of
what I do. Mostly I look at spreadsheets and reports all day.”
“But you enjoy that, too,” I guess.
“Yes. Actually I do. It’s ordered, structured, like you said about law. The only people I have
to deal with are purely abstract entities. I don’t like dealing with people.”
That doesn’t surprise me, but I can also see how much of an effort he’s making tonight, as if
he’s looking for some intimacy. I could go on eating, but something tells me that now is the time to
move things forward. I reach out and gently run my fingers over his knuckles, holding my breath as I
do because the last time I touched him he pulled away. I glance up at him through my lashes. “But
sometimes you like people who are flesh and blood, don’t you?”
 He looks at my fingers touching him, but he doesn’t move. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Sometimes
I do.”
Take my hand, I think as hard as I can. Caress my palm with those strong fingers of yours. I
want him to do it so badly and I realize I’m anticipating the sensation, not the victory of knowing I’m
finally “finessing” him. His hands are beautiful, large and strong like he does spend all day on a
construction site rather than in an office.
But he clears his throat and sits up, and his hand disappears into his lap. “Your allowance.
I’ve got an amount in mind but you must tell me if it’s not enough.”
Oh, right. My allowance. I suppose I should be happy that he’s brought it up but I just feel
disappointed that he’s pulled away. I force my thoughts back to the conflicting advice I’ve read about
allowances. That I should set my own prices; that I should let him pick a number and then try and
drive it higher. Misha’s said he’s got a number in mind so I suppose we should start with that.
“All right. I’ll tell you if I think it should be more. What’s the amount?”
“Fifteen thousand.”
I swallow, hard. Fifteen goddamn thousand. For an insane second I want to tell him it’s too
much, that surely he can’t afford it. But that’s ridiculous. He owns a Bentley. He builds skyscrapers in
London. He can easily afford it.
But why, asks a part of my mind which sounds suspiciously like my mother, does he want to
pay fifteen thousand pounds a month for me?
I push the nasty voice away. Maybe Misha is kinky and is going to demand that I do strange
things to earn that money. Does he have a foot fetish? A BDSM dungeon? Is he a furry? My limited
sexual experiences have been so vanilla, but think I could get on board with almost anything as long
as it doesn’t cause me actual pain. If he wants to suck on my toes for fifteen grand a month he’s
welcome to them. I’m not precious about my feet.
“How often would you like to see me?”
He frowns at the tablecloth. “I don’t know. Enough to know you’re safe.”
“Pardon?”
“Shall we play it by ear? I’ll text you, and you can tell me if you’re too busy.”
I’m not sure if I like the sound of that but he adds, “You can tell me to back off if I’m being too
demanding or that you need more money.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Have I just landed the holy grail of sugar daddies? He’s good-
looking, generous, well-mannered. Sometimes he’s grumpy but I can put up with a bit of grumpiness
for such a generous allowance. Before I get carried away, though, I should be sure about what I’m
getting myself into.
 “Do you have any other… What do you… Is there anything else I should know?”
He gives me a puzzled frown. “Nothing I can think of.”
My face floods with heat and I stare at him hard, willing him to understand. Sex, Misha. What
will you want from me in terms of bedroom stuff? But he continues to sit there in puzzled silence and
my nerve fails me. I’m not a virgin but the only boyfriend I had was in high school and neither of us
were brave enough to talk frankly about sex. I should have practiced this in the mirror today,
considering I’m now a sex worker.
Oh, well. I guess we’ll be playing that by ear, too.
I smile at him, letting the genuine gratitude and affection I feel for him fill my face. “Thank
you, Misha. That’s a very generous allowance. I appreciate it.”
He drops his eyes and adjusts one of his cufflinks. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was a
little flustered.
I’m not drunk but I am a little tipsy as we take the elevator downstairs. Misha doesn’t touch
me but I’m hyperaware of him standing by my side, his eyes front and center. I would say this isn’t a
man who has spent a lot of time in the company of women. Not talking to them, at least. Maybe he’s
always paid for sex by the hour but it’s started to feel lonely.
Outside, the driver gets out of the silver Bentley and opens the rear door, and Misha turns to
me. “I won’t be offended if you refuse, but may I offer you a ride home?”
I hesitate. Misha seems trustworthy but I still want to be cautious. I’m also curious about him,
and if I accept I might be able to sidle up against him in the back seat of the car and I can ask him
quietly what he likes.
I nod, and when we get inside the car I tell the driver an address—not my address, but one a
few streets away. Then I take a look around the interior of the car. The seats are deep and broad and
covered with quilted black leather. There are screens set in the seat backs and dim lighting. The
windows are heavily tinted and a partition slides up between the front and rear seats to give us
privacy. Misha and I are alone, but with a foot and a half of space between us.
He’s silent during the drive and I can’t think of a way to bring up what I want to say. I
imagine, for some ridiculous reason, inviting him up to my room. He would seem like a giant in my
box room, his expensive suit incongruous against the ten-year-old paint on the walls and the faded
cotton curtains.
Twenty minutes later the car pulls up and I see through the darkened windows that we’re at the
address I gave the driver, a quiet residential street with few streetlights. There’s no one around. I turn
to Misha. I feel like I need to address the elephant in the car. Fifteen thousand pounds a month is a lot
of money and it’s going to play on my mind if I don’t know what he wants from me.
 Clenching my bag in my lap I look down at it and say, “How often did you want… Would you
like me to…”
He peers at me, frowning, and I know I won’t be able to put in into words what I need to say.
A crazy impulse overtakes me, and I sink down to my knees onto the floor of the car and slide
between his legs.
 Misha

“Ciara?” I reach down to help her off the floor. A moment later I feel her fingers tugging at my belt.
Oh.
Oh.
That’s what she was asking about earlier when she blushed and just now when she trailed off.
She wanted to know about sex. I’m such a fucking idiot sometimes. I never said anything and now she
thinks she has to do this.
I grasp her forearms and lean forward. “Ciara. It’s all right. You don’t need to do that.”
Her mouth is very close to mine and she licks her lips. In the soft lights of the car they look
plump and deep pink and my gaze becomes locked on them.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
I’ve thought about touching her ever since she sent me those pictures. I haven’t been able to
get her out of my head, in fact. But they were abstract thoughts about sex that were never going to
come to fruition. That could never come to fruition, because I’m not who she thinks I am.
Now she’s offering to give me exactly what I want and my brain is presenting me with reason
after reason why I should have sex with her. It’s what she expects. Sex is implicit in our
arrangement. It’s what she thinks I’m paying her for. She might get suspicious of my motives if I
don’t take her to bed.
I really, really want to taste her.
“Would you like me to? Be honest,” she whispers.
My hesitation tells her all she needs to know. Her fingers continue unthreading my belt. It
clinks softly and loosens and I feel myself grow hard in anticipation of her touch. My hands caress her
shoulders and her blonde curls glide against my knuckles. So soft. I push my fingers into her hair,
caressing the back of her head, and she feels like heaven.
Ciara’s hand rubs me over my trousers and even that gentle touch makes me groan. She
outlines my length with her forefinger and then traces the swollen head of my cock. I watch her, my
breathing shallow, as she undoes the button and then slowly eases the zipper down. Her hand dives
inside my underwear and pulls my cock out, hot and swollen in her cool fingers. A conceited part of
me can’t help but admire how thick and long I look in her hands.
She licks her lips and I instinctively grasp the nape of her neck. Yes. Suck me. My gaze is
locked on her face as her pink tongue slides across the broad head of my cock. Her hand caresses my
length and she licks me again, wetting me thoroughly before taking me into her mouth. I feel the drag
of her lips and then the lave of her tongue, and I groan and lay back against the leather seat.
“Jezus Christus, how did you learn to do this?”
Ciara draws her tongue along my length with delicious slowness. “I’m a whore, remember?”
Anger rolls through me even as she slides me to the back of her throat. Has she been seeing
other men? Aren’t I giving her enough money? She’s not a whore, not even when I’m paying her for
this. I catch hold of her hair tightly and force her gaze up to mine. “Listen to me. You don’t see any
other men but me.”
She nods quickly, her mouth still full of me.
“I’m your daddy. Are we clear?”
She nods again and I let her go, sinking back to enjoy what she’s doing. “Fucking good,” I
growl, as she continues to work my cock. She’s heaven with that mouth. I look at the blush in her
cheek, the way her lips slowly suck me, her eyes closed. From the way her tongue is caressing me I
would almost think she was enjoying this.
Her hands slide up and over my belly and she makes a little noise in the back of her throat.
Maybe she is. Maybe she likes blowing me.
I reach down between her legs and grasp her silken thigh. She catches my wrist and draws her
mouth away from my cock. “Don’t,” she says in a broken whisper. As if she’s ashamed of something.
But I need to know. Suddenly it’s the most important thing about this. Not the money. Not my
fucking brother. Not me pretending to be something I’m not. Her. She’s the most important thing. And I
need to know if she’s wet.
“Baby. Let me feel.”
Her blue eyes are filled with trepidation. I think she’s going to say no but without breaking eye
contact she slowly spreads her knees for me. I caress the soft skin of her inner thighs and then slide
my hand up to her sex. She’s wearing tiny, flimsy underwear and I stroke her softly. Then I delve
beneath the lace. Christus. She is wet. We stare at each other. I don’t know who’s more shocked that
she’s so turned on, me or her. Or maybe she’s just shocked I found out.
“You’re wet for me, baby?”
Ciara looks at me uncertainly, as if I’m going to be angry with her. “I’m not—I didn’t—”
But I’m not angry. Not one little bit. I caress her sex with my finger, finding the swollen nub at
her apex. Her eyes flicker closed and her lips part. I keep rubbing and she whimpers my name.
“Misha.”
I ease the lace aside with my fingers and slide all along her slit, back and forth, feeling how
slick she is. Loving it. Her hand tightens around the base of my cock, the blow job forgotten while
she’s lost in these sensations.
I grab her wrist and haul her up across my lap, face down. I want to feel more of her. I ruck
her skirt up until her ass in a tiny pair of briefs is bare to me. She’s breathing hard, her nails digging
into my thigh.
“Open your legs,” I tell her.
“Your driver—”
“Fuck my driver. Open your legs.”
Obediently, she wriggles her knees apart. I pull her briefs to one side and get a good look at
her. She’s so plush and pink and wet and my cock surges anew at the thought of burying myself inside
her. I wonder if she’d like that. Does my sweet baby like being filled? I rub my middle finger through
her wetness and she inhales sharply. When I find her clit it’s swollen with arousal and her whole
body melts into my lap as I begin to work it. Her cries are muffled in her arms. I’m unable to tear my
eyes away from the sight of her spread out in my lap, pussy bare to me.
“That’s it, ljubica,” I murmur, moving my fingers in fast circles. I want her to come for me, but
not yet. I search through her folds to her slick entrance and slide one finger into her tight, wet heat.
Her cries rise in pitch as I explore her, feel her squeezing me. I drive myself into her up to the third
knuckle as she cries out. Imagining how she’ll sound when it’s my cock, not my hand, I fuck her with
two fingers and she arches back into them, her hands pressed against the car door. She clutches my
leg, pushing back, pushing away from me, but I slide my arm around and hold her tightly to me.
“No, you don’t. I’m not letting you go until you come all over my fingers.”
She makes a desperate noise and wriggles more, driving my fingers deeper into her. I realize
she’s not trying to get away, she’s trying to take me in her mouth again. I loosen my grip and her hot
mouth closes over my cock and she sucks hard.
“Ciara,” I growl as her lips slide up and down on my length. “Ljubica, you’re fucking
perfect.” I watch the movements of her mouth on me as my fingers thrust in and out of her pink velvet
pussy. She gives a muffled cry and begins to clench around my fingers with her peak, and I lose
control, spurting into her mouth as my climax rocks through me.
When I open my eyes I glance around the car’s interior, breathing hard. That was fast and dirty
and desperate, and absolutely perfect. I’ve never felt anything like it.
Ciara sits up and wipes her fingers across her mouth, her cheeks flushed and her hair tumbling
around her shoulders. I pass her a bottle of water and she takes a drink. I watch her, marveling at how
beautiful she looks, but she can’t meet my eyes.
“Are you all right?” I ask her.
 She screws the cap back on the bottle and twists it in her hands. Then she nods, but I can see
plainly that she’s not okay. Fuck. Did I hurt her?
“Ciara, tell me what’s wrong.”
“I, uh…I wasn’t sure if I’m allowed to…”
“Allowed to what, Ciara?”
Her eyes fall away from me, full of shame and uncertainty. With shaking fingers she adjusts
her underwear and her dress, as if trying to undo all evidence of what just happened. I don’t want to
undo it. I want to relive it already. I reach out to her, wanting to strip that dress off her and find out
what she tastes like, but she puts a hand on my chest and stops me.
I don’t understand what the matter is and for a terrible moment I wonder if I forced her.
“Ciara?”
Her face crumples and she bursts into tears. Big, gulping, body-wracking sobs, her face
buried in her hands. Shit. What did I do? I can’t bear the sight of her crying her heart out and
tentatively I put a hand on her shoulder. When she doesn’t shrink away I slowly pull her into my arms.
Her body sinks against mine and I hold her close as she shakes in my arms.
“Ljubica, shh. What’s wrong?” I wonder if I’m doing this right and how long it will take her
to stop crying. Surely it will just be a moment or two.
But she’s inconsolable, sobbing against my chest. Did I offend her in some way? Did I hurt her
when I touched her? Is she a virgin? The thought didn’t even cross my mind because she’s twenty-two
and she didn’t seem uncertain about what she was doing when she went down on her knees in front of
me.
“It’s been a horrible day and—and this is just so con-con-fusing,” she hiccups. “You’re a
client. I’m not supposed to feel anything when I’m with you.”
“Feel what?”
But she doesn’t want to answer that so I ask a question that I already know the answer to.
“Ciara. Have you done this before? Sugaring?”
She wipes her face, drawing out the need to reply. “No,” she finally whispers.
I take her by the shoulders and make her sit up and look at me. There are mascara smudges
beneath her eyes and the tip of her nose is pink. “That’s all right,” I say gently. “Neither have I. I’d
say we were doing all right for beginners, wouldn’t you?”
Ciara tries to smile but it collapses before it reaches her eyes. “I just don’t know if I’m
allowed to…”
I suppress a growl of frustration. I wish she’d just tell me what she means instead of trailing
off all the time. I’m not a goddamn mind reader. “To what?” I snap, a little louder than I intended.
 “Come.” And she bursts into tears again.
I pull her back against my chest and wrap my arms around her. Poor little thing. I know it’s not
just the release of her orgasm that’s made her so upset. Damir has frightened her and she’s still
dealing with her parents’ deaths. The problem is, there’s no way for me to tell her that I understand.
We had such a good evening, too, I think regretfully as she shudders against me. She seemed happy
enough about accepting my money and I should have just left it at that. I shouldn’t have touched her.
But when I think of her soft, slick pussy beneath my fingers and the tight, sweet grip of her
climax, I can’t regret what we did. I just wish she’d stop crying. I’m holding her. Why is she still
crying? My shirt is damp against my chest and shimmers with smudged makeup. Her small hands are
clenched on the fabric. I can’t think of anything to say to her that’s comforting, because I’m not made
for kindness. I never learned how.
“Ciara, pull yourself together,” I say crisply.
She takes a quick, shuddering breath and pulls away. “I’m sorry. I’m not being very
professional.” Her fingers swipe at her face. “I’m sorry. I’m all right now.”
I feel an ache of loss at her absence in my arms and regret my sharp words. I watch as she
takes a compact from her purse and dusts powder over her nose and across her cheeks.
“I had a shock earlier today,” she says between pats of her powder puff, and her hand is
shaking. “I thought I left my personal problems at home. I’ll try to do better.”
Watching her struggle to control her emotions is worse than her tears. Of course I want her to
come if we have sex. I want her feel like she just did in my arms again as soon as possible. Her
heated flesh, her arching back, her cries of pleasure. She liked it, even though she’s ashamed for
wanting the man who’s paying for her.
“You’re allowed to have an orgasm with me. I like it. I prefer it.”
Ciara cringes and tucks her compact away. “Forget I said anything. It doesn’t matter.”
“I mean it,” I insist, wishing we could go back to a few moments ago when we both felt so
good. I wish I’d said something before I touched her, so she’d know I wanted her to feel good. Why
on earth shouldn’t she?
She nods without meeting my eyes. It’s not the nod of someone agreeing to something
willingly. It’s the nod of someone doing as they’re told, because that’s what they’re paid for. I want to
tell her how much I loved seeing her across my lap. Coming on my fingers. It was beautiful. I want to
tell her so much but the words won’t come.
Fine. If she wants me to order her, I will.
I hook an arm around her waist and pull her against me. Taking her chin between my thumb
and forefinger I force her gaze up to mine. “Say, yes daddy.”
 Her eyes are huge and vulnerable and shimmering with tears. She sucks her lower lip into her
mouth for a moment, hesitating before saying softly, “Yes, daddy.”
“That’s better.”
I don’t know why I do it, if it’s her quivering lower lip or her prettiness or just the desperate
need to taste some part of her, any part of her. But I kiss her. And oh, god, she tastes good. She tastes
of me but there’s so much of her sweetness, too. Her lips are plush velvet and they part with surprise
beneath my own. A moment later her mouth softens and her arms twine around my neck.
Yes. I need this. I pull her closer, her body flush to mine as my tongue slides against hers.
A moment later she pulls away, breathless, her eyes wide. “Isn’t this against the rules?”
“There aren’t any rules. We can be whoever we want to be to each other.”
She stares at me, eyes wide with astonishment. “Misha. Do you mean that? You’ve never said
anything like that to me before.”
I’ve never said anything like that to any woman. I don’t know where the words came from.
She’s so close and feels so good in my arms that I feel my cock thickening again. I need more of her.
I need everything.
“I mean it, baby. Do you believe me?”
Slowly, she nods. “I believe you, Misha.”
It’s easy to slip the flimsy straps from her shoulders and push the dress down to her waist. Her
breasts are bared to me and for a moment all I can do is stare at her in shock because she’s so
beautiful. Slender and elegant with small but full breasts.
“You’re not wearing that bra like I told you to.”
She reaches up and traces a finger around one of her rosy pink nipples, and it tightens. “Do
you mind?”
“No, I fucking don’t,” I mutter into her flesh and take her breast into my mouth. I suck hard,
and she cries out. I feel her fumbling for something and a moment later she presses a foil packet into
my hand. I tear it open with my teeth. My trousers are still open and I’m hard again, and I roll the
condom down over my cock. There’s not a huge amount of room back here, not as much as I’d like,
but I push Ciara down and tug sharply on her thighs until she’s lying on her back at an angle along the
seat. I pull her underwear down and when they tangle with her heels I rip them apart and throw them
aside. I’ll buy her some better ones.
She’s spread out beneath me and I hold myself still, poised above her. Drinking in the sight of
her body beneath mine, laid open and bare to me. Her ribs rise and fall, her breathing light and fast in
anticipation of me. I want to savor this moment forever. The need in her eyes. Her sweet pussy slick
with her arousal. I stroke the blunt head of my cock against her folds and her small hands slide up and
grip my shoulders.
“Misha, please. I need you.”
Her plaintive begging undoes me. I surge forward and her tight flesh resists my thickness at
first, but she’s so wet it’s easy to keep going. As she squeezes my length in her tight heat I groan and
brace my hands by her head, giving her a moment to adjust. I feel her tug at the knot of my tie and it
slithers loose, and then she starts to undo the buttons of my shirt.
Fuck. No, she can’t see my chest.
I take one of her hands in mine and press it against the leather. She reaches down with her free
hand to cup my balls as I thrust into her. The desire to savor her retreats behind a wave of arousal and
I pound her hard into the seat. Her slim legs wrap around my hips, urging me on. My mouth meets hers
in a bruising kiss and her tongue finds mine. Our lovemaking is animalistic and rough, my ardor not
dampened in the slightest by my earlier release. Neither is hers. Ciara’s making mewling sounds in
her throat, her eyes wild and dark and cheeks flushed pink.
“Don’t stop, Misha. Please.”
I’m not going to stop. I want to feel it with my cock, her unmistakable need for me. Strong.
Real. In a distant part of my mind I know this is wrong, having sex with her when my brother forced
her into this situation. When there’s so much she doesn’t know about me, and there’s so much I do
know about her. I can tell myself all I want that I’m helping her, that I’m making her feel good, that she
wants this. But I want it more.
Ciara tightens around me by increments and her face tenses.
“Come for me, ljubica.”
She nods rapidly, her eyes becoming unfocused as she nears her peak. She’s crying out my
name, her bruised lips capturing mine again. Ciara meets my eyes in the moment before her climax
and I know in that instant I want to break every rule with her. Her inner muscles flex along my length
and she tips her head back as she comes, baring her throat to me as she surrenders to the sensations. I
come a moment later, thrusting all the way to hilt inside her, hard and unrelenting, as deep as I can go.
Ciara’s breathing hard as I withdraw, her color high, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look
more beautiful. As I get rid of the condom she sits up and looks around her at the car interior as if
she’s just remembered where we are.
She smiles at me shyly. “I guess we got a bit carried away.”
I don’t remember the last time that happened to me and it was fucking wonderful, getting
carried away with her. I don’t want to see her cry. I want to know she’s safe and happy, and yet she
can never be safe while this debt is hanging over her head.
“I’m going to double your allowance,” I tell her, tucking my shirt back into my trousers and
doing them up. Thirty thousand pounds a month. That should mean she’s safer from Damir. But instead
of happiness or relief on her face she turns away from me.
“Ciara?”
She pulls the straps of her dress up over her shoulders. “All right, Misha. Thank you.”
But she doesn’t sound grateful, she sounds tearful again. Afraid. Why, because I’ve reminded
her of money and that makes her think of Damir?
There have been times when I’ve been angry with my brother but right now I feel like I could
smash his head in. I fasten my belt, hiding my angry expression. When I look up Ciara’s wearing her
bland, professional face and the light has gone out of her eyes. I reach out to her, wanting to comfort
her again, but she puts her hand firmly on my wrist and pushes it down.
“I had a lovely evening,” she says, reciting the words automatically. “I hope you had a good
time, too.”
I don’t want these pleasantries. I want the woman who spoke to me honestly from her heart
about her life. Who kisses me back with heat and hunger. I wish we could forget the roles we’re
supposed to play. I’m taking advantage of her, and the worst part is that now I’ve had a taste of her I
know I won’t be able to stop.
“Goodnight, Misha.”
One of her hands is resting on the door handle and despite the slight blur of mascara beneath
her eyes and her hair rumpled from the hard sex, she looks like a sleek, beautiful sugar baby again,
and a pang of loss goes through me. I want the real Ciara. I want to hear her say my name again like
she feels something real for me.
“Goodnight,” I reply, and she slips out of the car and disappears into the night.

I’m too wound up to sleep, so I go to the office. I work through a backlog of emails, trying not to think
about what just happened, and failing.
“Don’t stop, Misha. Please.”
My mind is a vortex of lust, tenderness and guilt. Ciara Alders was never meant to disrupt my
life to this degree but opening ourselves up to each other just this little bit has made me realize what
I’ve been missing out on all these years.
Now I don’t know what to do. I want to be real with her, but I have to lie to her to keep her
safe.
Around two in the morning I remember Bethany’s part in all this, and send her a text. Ciara’s
allowance locked in. Thank you for your help. Couldn’t have done it without you. Expect a triple
salary this month.
 Her reply comes through a moment later. Thank you, daddy.
Ha ha. Go to sleep.
As I go through spreadsheets and answer emails another part of my mind is ticking over with
possibilities. Ways to tell Ciara the truth without putting her in danger. Can I do it? She has too much
sense to run to Damir and tell him what we’re doing, but will she be able to act naturally around him
when she’s giving him money?
There’s one other, more selfish, consideration. Ciara doesn’t seem to be someone who easily
forgives. She was able to cut her parents out of her life and I’m afraid she’ll do the same to me if she
knows the truth. I don’t want to be cut out of her life, not when I’ve just started getting close to her.
“Mikhail. You look like shit.”
I look up from my keyboard to see Damir standing in the doorway. Two visits in two days. He
really is wound up lately. They sky has lightened while I’ve been sunk in thought and work, and
glancing at the clock on wall I see that it’s a quarter past eight in the morning.
I button my jacket, hiding the smears of Ciara’s makeup on my black shirt. “Good morning to
you, too.”
“All-nighter?” he asks, and doesn’t wait for a reply. “Alders’ daughter came to see me
yesterday. She gave me money.” He practically spits this, as angry as a snake.
So I was right, she was terrified last night because of Damir. I clench my hand around my
empty coffee cup, trying to keep my voice steady. “Good. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“You said she didn’t have any money,” he seethes.
He better not have fucking touched her or I’ll kill him. I swear, I’ll kill my own brother.
“Maybe she made some more.”
“How did she—”
“Damir,” I say sharply. “This is the opposite of a problem. You wanted her to pay off her debt
and she’s doing it. Now get the fuck out of my office, I’m busy.”
A dark look crosses his face. I never speak to him this way and I can see he’s wondering
what’s got into me. If he can still trust me. Unease slithers down my spine as I wonder what he’d do
to Ciara if he finds out I’m the one giving her money. I wonder what he’d do to me. It’s been a long
time since we’ve sparred and while I’m bigger than he is, he was always lightning fast. And he fights
dirty.
A moment later his expression clears. “Still having girl problems? You always did care too
much. Poor little Misha.”
His laughter rings out, cruel and loud, and he walks away.
 Ciara

Whore. Hooker. Ho. Tramp.

Morning light is burnishing my bedroom ceiling and I lay on my back and watch it brighten
from peach to golden. Nothing could have prepared me for how it felt to be in Misha’s arms last night.
My hands all over his body. His all over mine. That carnal yet tender expression in his eyes that
seemed to say, We’re made for each other. The moments we were able to be real with each other
were perfection.
So I have to keep reminding myself what I am. A sex worker. This is purely a fantasy, and it’s
his, not mine. I can’t afford to get caught up in it. I have my own life to lead, because in his I’m just a
prop. I press my fingers to my lips, feeling their tenderness. I’m tender at my core, as well. Misha is
big all over and he was ferocious as we had sex. I wanted him to be ferocious. I needed him to
obliterate everything but him, and for a little while he did. I felt safe. Cared for. Protected. Adored. I
got lost in the fantasy, and then…
“I’m going to double your allowance.”
I came back down to earth with a sickening thud. He’s not my lover, he’s my sugar daddy, and
if he knew even a tiny part of the reason I need him then he’d dump me so fast my head would spin. If
I keep crying all over him and being a downer he will dump me. I’ve got to stop being so weak.
My allowance came through about thirty minutes after I got home last night and I sat at my
laptop and stared at the numbers in my bank account. Thirty thousand pounds. I know I did a very
stupid sugar baby thing by sleeping with him before I got my allowance, but thankfully it turned out all
right. Misha is the real deal.
One strange thing, though. The money came through from five different bank accounts, with no
single transaction higher than eight thousand pounds. I presume that’s to get around our banks
automatically flagging the transactions for investigation. I read about that on sugar baby blogs: big
transactions can look like money laundering, and I’m pretty sure it’s tax evasion. My conscience
twinges at that. I should by rights be paying tax on the money he’s giving me, but this is where things
get messy, legally speaking. I don’t like it, but at the moment, what do I dislike more: possible tax
evasion, or feeling the cold sting of Mr. Ravnikar’s blade at my throat?
No contest.
I go downstairs and make some toast and a cup of tea, and then I come back up and search for
the address of the building that Misha and I had dinner in last night. I try searching the address plus
“Misha” and “Misha Smith”, though I know that’s probably not his real last name. I try “John Smith”
as well, but that unsurprisingly turns up nothing. I search everywhere for the name of the company that
did the property development but don’t find it. I suppose he showed me that building and not any of
his others because he knew his name wasn’t attached to it. Or maybe he was lying about having had
anything to do with it. It doesn’t really matter. His thirty thousand pounds are real enough.
I sensibly write down all my expenses for the next three months and add on a little extra for
my sugar baby budget, because I can’t keep borrowing clothes from Sloane. There’s a lot of money
left and it’s tempting to withdraw it all and take it round to Mr. Ravnikar now. But that would be
stupid. He might become suspicious about where I got this sort of money or demand that I deliver
such a sum every few days.
No, it’s smarter if I drop around a few thousand pounds to him once or twice a week and
pretend it’s all I have. That way my bank will be less likely to be suspicious about the transactions
and Mr. Ravnikar will presume I’m working as a stripper or shoplifting or something.
One thing’s for certain: I’m not getting in another elevator at Ravnikar Enterprises. Even if he
calls me up to the fiftieth floor, I’m taking the stairs.
When I’ve finished my breakfast I reach for my phone and think for a moment. I’m onto a good
thing with Misha and all the crying and emotion I showed last night was probably off-putting for him,
despite the sex that came after. I should try and clear the air between us.
I text him, Thank you for last night, and my allowance. Sorry that I got emotional a few
times. I shouldn’t have put that on you.
His reply comes through a moment later. Don’t be sorry. You were beautiful. Go and buy
yourself something nice and enjoy your day.
I remember how he ripped my G-string apart in his haste to get it off me and I draft a few flirty
responses in my head, finally settling on, I guess I should buy myself some new underwear ;)
I should be sorry about that. I’m not.
I laugh to myself. I want to ask him when I’ll see him again but it’s ridiculous for me to be the
needy one. I put my phone down firmly and congratulate myself on my sensible decisions this
morning.
Ciara the sensible sugar baby. That’s me.
I shower and dress, take the Tube to Oxford Street and wander in and out of the stores. I
haven’t been shopping in ages and I get so bewildered by all the choice that I end up buying nothing
except a matte pink lipstick and a takeaway coffee. I’m about to get back on the Tube when I
remember the underwear I didn’t buy and head back to the nearest department store. I make a bee-line
for the basics, but then the high-end items catch my eye.
I’ve got some cash and someone in my life who would probably appreciate expensive French
lace. Why the hell not? Thirty minutes later I’m the proud owner of two new bra and underwear sets,
one in black lace and one in cream. I get both the briefs and the G-strings that go with them.
When I get home I notice I have a text from Misha. Lunch tomorrow?
Damn, I wish I’d known about this earlier when I was on Oxford Street. My ripped jeans and
faded t-shirts won’t cut it at any restaurant he’ll choose. Sounds lovely, I reply, gnawing on my lip.
He sends me a pin drop and a code to use in my taxi app so the charges go to his account. This
man thinks of everything. As I sort through my wardrobe I anticipate his lips against my cheek and his
large, warm hands as he—
Stop it. Keep this professional.
I anticipate his large, warm hands as he pays with his credit card for our lunch. Better.
I consider texting Sloane but as lovely and helpful as she’s been I can also feel that she’s
about to boil over with questions I can’t answer. I also don’t want to go out again. There are websites
that do same-day online delivery so I go to my laptop.
Two hours later there’s a knock at the front door and I accept a large black box and take it up
to my room. Even the packaging is luxurious and I sort through black ribbon and layers of white tissue
paper to get to my purchases: two silk blouses, a pair of cropped trousers, a pair of artfully faded but
smart skinny jeans, and some wedge espadrilles. Everything fits and looks neat and attractive.
Problem solved. I’d forgotten how easy things are when you have money.
I spend the evening reading the biography of a human rights lawyer and eat a carton of
supermarket soup, and then get into bed. I’ve kept intimate thoughts of Misha at bay all day, but as I
close my eyes I remember the feel of his strong chest beneath my hands, his bold kisses, the firm
thrusts of his cock. I’ve never felt so swept up by a man and the things he does, and I certainly wasn’t
expecting that from Misha.
I moan softly into my pillow at the memory and heat ripples up my body. This is bad. Sleeping
with Misha is just work, it’s not real, and I shouldn’t let him occupy my thoughts or indulge in
fantasies about him. I have to keep a clear head while I’m around him and that means not becoming
muddled by feelings or lust. I won’t touch myself while thinking about him. I won’t.
It takes hours, but exhaustion finally wins out and I fall asleep.
At midday the next day I arrive at the bistro in Mayfair, telling myself that I look calm and
professional and I’m going to be calm and professional. No tears today. I took pains over my
appearance, choosing the cropped trousers and the black silk blouse and putting my hair up into a
sleek ponytail.
 Misha is already at the table and he gets up to meet me, kissing my cheek. He’s frowning
deeply but I’m learning that Misha’s default setting is serious and I can feel from the way he holds my
waist that he’s pleased to see me. I feel my heart turn over, because I’m happy about this.
Professionally happy.
While we eat we chat about current events and I tell him about the human rights biography I’m
reading. To my surprise, he’s read it too.
“I read in bed at night. I can’t sleep otherwise,” he explains to his steak tartare. I cover a
smile with my napkin. He seems so shy today, catching my eye briefly only to look away again. It’s
rather endearing, seeing such a hard, powerful man made bashful by a broke twenty-two-year-old
who usually lazes about in frayed jeans.
When we finish our meals I edge my hand forward and stroke my finger over his knuckles. It
seems to be the lifeline he’s been waiting for as he takes my hand and holds on tightly.
“I’m sorry that it was in the car,” he says quietly, frowning at our linked hands. His thumb
massages my palm and it makes my heart pound hard, as if he was touching more intimate places.
His eyes dart up to mine. “It wasn’t a statement on how much I value you. I got carried away.”
I thought I’d feel embarrassed, talking about sex in public, especially with a client, but I
whisper, “We both got carried away, but I don’t regret it. Oh, except that I’m sorry for your driver.”
Misha’s mouth quirks on one side. “I apologized and gave the man a bonus. He told me he
didn’t see or hear a thing because he got out to smoke a cigarette. Lots of cigarettes.”
I get the giggles, picturing the poor man standing on the quiet London street for forty-five
minutes while Misha and I carry on like a couple of horny teenagers.
Misha smiles broadly, watching me laugh. Then he grows serious again. “Next time I would
like it to be someplace better, where we can take our time.”
“I’d like that too,” I say, threading my fingers more tightly through his. I don’t even have to
think about it before I do it. I hope this means my sugar baby instincts are excellent.
“There’s a Chanel store near here. I want to take you there.”
“Oh?” He doesn’t need to buy me anything else. He’s already been ridiculously generous.
He doesn’t meet my gaze as he says, “I would like to buy you something, in return for a favor.”
My body tenses. So, we’re coming to it at last, what all Misha’s money and thoughtfulness
have been buttering me up for. He must want something totally bizarre or demanding if he’s willing to
pay me thirty grand a month. What could it be? I’m not into it, but I could pee on him if he wanted that.
I would happily go to town on him with a riding crop as long as he didn’t expect to do the same to me.
In fact, I could probably consent to doing most kinky things to him, and doing them without laughing,
but I draw the line at letting him do the same back to me. I’m not letting a man flog me for money.
 How do I say no, though, when I’ve already taken his money? Shit. I’m not as clever as I
thought I was.
I try and keep my voice steady and smile. “But you’re already supporting me generously.
There’s no need for you to give me anything else. Unless what you’re asking for is particularly…
unusual?”
What if it has something to do with those alien dildos that deposit eggs inside of you? I
don’t think I could wield one with a straight face.
“I would like you to go to class tomorrow,” he says. “And the next day. And the day after that.
Complete the semester. Complete the degree. Will you do that for me?”
I stare at Misha. I thought he would ask for something for himself. Is this because of our
conversation last night, when we talked about the things we do and why we enjoy them? I’m touched
that he realized how important it is to me to do well professionally.
The waiter appears with the bill and I reluctantly let go of Misha’s hand so he can pay. I
remember reading social media posts about how sugar daddies like to feel as if they’re mentoring you
as well as enjoying your company, but I thought that would come way down on their list of priorities.
When we’re alone again, I say, “Yes, I can do that. Thank you, Misha, for caring about my
education.” I don’t have to make myself look or sound grateful, either, because I mean what I’m
saying. With all my heart.
He tucks his wallet back into his jacket pocket. “It’s what you wanted before your life got too
hectic for study, I assume. Now that your life is perhaps settling down a little it seems like a good
time for you to go back.”
It does actually, and I did think last night after a day spent doing not much other than shopping
that I was starting to feel unchallenged. “But how do you know I haven’t been going to classes?”
He gives me a faint smile. “I guessed. Am I right?”
“Yes. I went on the first day of class last week but then…life kind of took over.”
“That is understandable. But you should make time now. I would like to know my girl is
getting her education.”
His girl. A warm feeling fizzes through me. I probably shouldn’t enjoy him saying that, but I
do. I really enjoy it. “All right, Misha.”
He fixes me with stern eyes. “If I ask to see you and you have class or you need to study, I
want you to tell me no, all right?”
I melt a little bit more under his fierce gaze. “Yes. All right.”
I see another hint of a smile as stands up and straightens his suit jacket. “Good girl. Now,
Chanel.”
 We walk through Berkeley Square together, lined with white Georgian townhouses, the garden
in the middle of the square drenched in sunshine. I watch couples holding hands or sitting on the grass
eating lunch, and they seem so carefree. Somehow I can’t picture Misha sitting on the ground. He
could take my hand. But he doesn’t.
The store is on New Bond Street, large and triple-fronted, with sleek salespeople and an
aggressively fashionable atmosphere.
“Please help the young lady to whatever she wants,” Misha says to the first person who greets
us. Then he goes and sits on a sofa and takes out his phone, waving away offers of champagne and
sparkling water.
When I’m offered champagne, I say yes. I may as well enjoy myself. I intend to choose a few
heavily branded items that I can sell later, but then I see a pair of patent and suede leather high heels
and I’m easily persuaded to try them on. The salesperson passes me the matching handbag, and then
she’s helping me into a short boucle jacket that looks lovely with the black blouse I’m wearing.
Everything looks lovely, actually.
I glance over to where Misha is reading emails on his phone. Should I ask his permission
before saying yes to any of this? As I watch he takes a call, gazing out the window as he talks, his
mind clearly on other things. I turn back to the mirror. I’d look ridiculous showing up to university
like this but I do need things I can wear around Misha. If he’s going to go about in tailored suits then I
have to look smart, too.
They’re not part of my life, they’re part of his. I’m going home to a box-room with faded
wallpaper.
I turn to the salesperson. “All of them, please.”
She collects my chosen items and I realize I’m not needed anymore, so I go back to Misha and
sit down on the sofa next to him.
“What did you get?” he murmurs, slipping an arm around my waist and hooking me against
him. His proximity sends golden stars shooting through my body.
I nestle against his side and place a hand on his chest, feeling the strong thump of his heart
beneath my fingers. He’s like a designer handbag, luxurious and unattainable for someone like me in
ordinary circumstances.
“Oh, everything,” I say airily.
“Good girl.” Before he gets up to pay he kisses me behind the ear and I smile at him. But it’s
not because of the presents he’s buying me.
Outside, Misha gets a car for me and helps me put my purchases in the trunk. Then I turned to
him, uncertain, wondering what the etiquette is here. I don’t know how he feels about public displays
of affection, or how much gratitude I should show. Is it cheap to say something flirty now, or would he
expect that? In the end I can’t think of anything cute to say, so I just express my gratitude with a smile.
“Thank you for lunch and the shopping.”
“Of course, ljubica.”
Ljubica. That’s what he called me while we were having sex, and again when I was crying. It
sounds Eastern European or Russian, and I guess that Misha must have been born elsewhere because
every so often I hear something foreign in his accent. “What does that mean, “lyoo-bit-za”?”
He frowns and looks away. “Nothing. Just a Slovenian pet name. It’s not important.”
“Please tell me.”
He clears his throat. “It means ‘sweetheart.’”
I put my hand on his chest, stroking the silk of his tie, not sure what to say but wanting to show
him that I like it, that I hope he will still call me by that endearment. It’s so pretty, ljubica, and it
seems to come easily to his lips. “That’s lovely,” I whisper.
Misha slides his hands around my waist and pulls me against him. I love how possessive his
hands feel, here in the street and in Chanel. I tilt my face up to his, waiting to see what he’ll do next. I
like it when he takes charge.
His eyes flick to my lips and he kisses me, firm and demanding. The kiss brings a rush of heat
to my face and my lips part in surprise and desire. I can feel every spot where my body is touching
his. Misha kisses like he means it.
His tongue caresses mine briefly, a promise of more later, when we have more time. When
we’re alone and have a bed and hours before us to explore each other thoroughly.
He breaks the kiss and his face is close to mine. “I have to go to Croatia for business this
Thursday, to check progress on a development. I’ll be away for a few days.”
I feel a flash of disappointment. I suppose he’s telling me so I know he won’t be asking to see
me.
“I would like you to come with me. That is, if you don’t have class or too much study to catch
up on.”
I immediately brighten. Croatia. Thursday. Amid the surprise of his question and the
distraction of his arms around me, I try to remember when my classes are.
“That works with my schedule. I have class until midday and Friday off.” I actually have class
until eleven but getting ready to meet up with Misha takes a stupid amount of time and I need a buffer.
“If I can bring some reading with me and study during the day when you have meetings…?”
Misha nods. “A very good idea. I’ll have my PA contact you with the arrangements.”
I haven’t had a holiday in two years and Croatia at this time of year will be beautiful.
Sunshine. Azure sea. Wherever Misha will be staying is sure to be gorgeous. When I was researching
being a sugar baby, going on business trips with your daddy seemed to be part of the deal. I find I
quite like the idea, too.
His arms around me tighten and he closes his eyes briefly, his face very near mine. I look at
the strong line of his nose, his furrowed brow, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
Maybe he’s not thinking at all. Maybe he’s just feeling, and showing me that he’s grateful that
I’m coming with him. Maybe this is the only way he knows how, by holding me or giving me money.
He takes one breath, two, and then he releases me. He keeps one hand on my lower back as he
helps me into the car, and as the car pulls away I wave out the window at my sugar daddy, and there’s
a smile on his face. I think his difficulty on our first date was probably more than just being a sugar-
beginner. He might not have been close to a woman in some time. Or maybe he’s just never been
close to one.
He’s trying, though. And the fact that he’s trying, for me, makes my heart ache sweetly.
 Ciara

At home I carry my shopping into the house. My housemate is in the living room and he eyes my attire
and the Chanel branding on the bags, but doesn’t say anything. I know what he’s thinking. That I’m
living it up on my non-existent inheritance. The idea that I would do that makes my skin crawl, but
there’s nothing I can do about it because I can’t tell him the truth.
After taking off my makeup I change into my sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt and make a
plan of attack for my schoolwork, feeling so happy about delving back into my studies. I’ve missed
twelve hours of lectures and tutorials. I consult the online class guides and see that by next Monday I
should have read nine chapters of various textbooks and seven journal articles. Doubtlessly there’ll
be papers due soon with more reading and research required, but for now I just have to play catch-up.
I spend the afternoon reading the journal articles through the university library portal and
making notes. Several of my professors have put their lectures up online and I watch those, too,
grateful for the recordings.
I’m deep in thought about an article when my phone buzzes and I see I have an email from
Misha’s assistant about the trip. She tells me that a car will meet me at my address (or at what Misha
thinks is my address) at one p.m. on Thursday and return me home at midday on Sunday. We’ll be
staying in Dubrovnik, and she’s booked two rooms at the Grand Imperial Hotel. I smile at that. Two
rooms. Misha, always the gentleman.
I acknowledge the email and add, Is there anything your boss likes? I’d love to buy him a
present in thanks for all his kindness to me.
Her reply comes through a few minutes later. Whatever you’re doing already, just keep it up.
I feel like buying you a present because he’s been 1000000% percent less cranky lately. If I didn’t
know he was seeing you I’d think one of the lizard people was wearing his skin.
I grin, trying to imagine the person who wrote this email. I think I like her.
I make myself a cheese and marmite sandwich for my dinner and eat it at my laptop while
scrolling through the fashion website I ordered clothes from yesterday, planning my outfits for the trip.
I still have a few dresses and heels from Sloane for the evenings, but I buy a silver mini dress as
well, so I have something of my own; plus two skirts, one short and one long; a bikini; a couple of
short-sleeved tops; and a pair of flats. It will be hot in Croatia, and Misha might want to do some
sight-seeing on the weekend.
 I still want to get him something as well and so I click through to the menswear section and
scroll through the items. I got this idea from the other babies on social media, who said that giving
small gifts can mean a lot to sugar daddies. It makes things seem like less of a one-way street, even if
you’re using his money to buy the gift. And I just like the idea. Misha’s been so kind to me and so
thoughtful about my studies.
I choose a tie that reminds me of the color his eyes and add it to my order, and arrange for
everything to be delivered tomorrow afternoon when I get home from class.
On my way to university in the morning I go to Ravnikar Enterprises. It’s not exactly on my
route but I feel like it’s a good idea to give Mr. Ravnikar money now before I leave the country for
four days. My hands feel clammy and my stomach is tight with nerves as I approach the building, but I
find the courage somehow to just keep going and not think about blood and blades too much.
The same receptionist from the other day is at the front desk and I stride up to her. This time
I’m not giving anyone the chance to send me underground to meet a knife-wielding maniac. I throw the
envelope on the counter.
“This is for Mr. Ravnikar. Please give it to him. I’ll know if he doesn’t get it—all of it.”
I turn away and march out before the woman can reply, but not before I see the flare of offense
in her eyes at the idea that she would take anything that didn’t belong to her. She can take all the
offense she likes. I trust no one at this shitty corporation.
Forty-five minutes later and about ten tons of anxiety lighter, I arrive at university and see
Sloane sitting forlornly by herself at our usual table at the café. I want to roll my eyes. She has other
friends. Why must she be so dramatic.
I walk over to her. “Hey, loser.”
When Sloane sees me her eyes light up like a Christmas tree. Then she reins in her delight.
“Oh, hi.” She sniffs and examines her nails. “Come back, have you?”
I wait, grinning, and a second later she jumps up and throws her arms around me. “Oh, thank
god, I’ve missed you so much. Class is no fun when I’m not trying to beat you at everything. I thought
your SD would take up all your time now.”
“Actually, it was his idea that I come back to class. He thinks it’s important that I get my
education.”
Sloane leans back and raises her eyebrows. “Does he really? Well, shit, maybe there’s some
good in him after all.”
“He’s a grump, but he can be thoughtful, too. Coffee?”
“I’ll get it. The usual?” She reaches for her purse but I put out a hand and stop her.
“No, let me. It’s the least I can do to thank you for all the help you’ve given me.” And all the
questions you haven’t asked. I go to the till and order a tall hazelnut latte for me and a soy
cappuccino for her. When I come back bearing two paper cups Sloane seems to have decided that it’s
time to make up for all her reticence. There are questions written all over her pretty face.
“So. What’s he like?”
I sit down and take a deep, relieved breath. The coffee, Sloane, my bag full of notebooks. All
of this is wonderfully familiar. I can’t quite believe I’m back here, and it’s all thanks to Misha. I smile
into my coffee, feeling a warm surge of gratitude for him. “At first I thought he was a dick, but he’s
turned out to be surprisingly nice, actually.”
Sloane stirs sugar into her coffee. “Is he crude and hypersexual? Does he have bad breath and
bore you for hours on end as he talks about himself? Does he have a saggy old man butt?”
I laugh and shake my head. “He’s forty-two, not sixty-two. Sometimes he can be moody but I
think it’s just because he’s a workaholic and not a people person. And he’s ridiculously tailored and
neat. A runway model could feel frumpy standing next to him.”
“Is he into weird sex things?”
“Thankfully, no. Or if he is, he’s hiding it really well.” I feel more confident about this now. If
he was going to ask me to do something outrageous or painful he would have done it before taking me
to Chanel and giving me thirty thousand pounds. There are probably still things he’ll ask for in bed,
but I feel sure that Misha’s not hiding any real secrets from me.
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “But how can you know that unless you’ve already gone to bed
with him?”
I feel my face burn. Shit. I walked into that one.
Sloane grabs my wrist so suddenly that I almost drop my coffee. “You’ve had sex with him!
Ciara, it’s been, like, a week.”
I peel her off me, my cheeks flushed red. “Stop screeching, please. Yes, things have become
physical between us already, and it’s much sooner than I had planned, but he was perfectly, you know,
ordinary.”
Lies. There was nothing ordinary about sex with Misha. It was the most incredible experience
I’ve ever had with a man and I’m keenly anticipating the next time he gets his hands on me.
I would like it to be someplace better, where we can take our time. Misha, taking his time
with me. Rubbing my clit in that expert way, maybe even licking me. Holy hell. My face grows hot
again and it’s nothing to do with feeling embarrassed.
“We didn’t mean for it to happen but after our second date he kissed me and…” I trail off with
a shrug.
Her eyes grow round. “You liked it?”
 There’s no point denying it, because I’m smiling like an idiot. I can’t explain it but we just
seem to fit together, physically. I’ve never had that with a man before. “Yeah. I liked it.”
Sloane is silent for a moment and I can see that she’s not sure what to say. Normally, finding
that you’re compatible with a man is something to be happy about but the circumstances are so
messed up. She knows it and I know it.
“How much of an allowance is he giving you?”
My eyes drop to my coffee cup. I really don’t want to talk about my allowance. It’s an obscene
amount of money for what I’m expected to do and Sloane will go through the roof if I tell her how
much it is, and then spend the rest of the day picking apart the reasons why a man who barely knows
me might be giving me so much money. I’ve gone over the same thing so many times that I think I’ll go
mad if I have to think about it anymore.
“It’s enough,” I hedge, and I’m saved from answering further by the others in our class getting
up and heading for the lecture hall. I don’t know why Misha’s being so generous but I also don’t want
to question it too much.
As we head to our class, I ask Sloane, “Will you let me borrow your notes for the tutorials
I’ve missed?”
“It’ll cost you,” she says, but with a smile so I know she’s joking. “Even though you’ve
missed a week I bet you’ll still beat me in our first essays, Miss Smarty Pants.”
“Thank you, babe. Seriously.”
After class I drop by the campus bookshop and buy all my textbooks, plus a set of new
notebooks, pens, highlighters and sticky notes. It’s a splurge but I can afford it now, thanks to Misha. I
imagine sitting in my own room at the Grand Imperial Hotel in Dubrovnik, the balcony door open and
the sea air wafting in as I read Blackstone’s Statutes on Property Law, and then spending the
evenings with Misha. A week ago I could barely imagine surviving, let alone such a pleasant prospect
for the weekend ahead.
I’m home in time to receive my online clothing delivery. Everything fits, thankfully, but trying
on the bikini reveals to me that I need to do some serious body maintenance, and I run down to the
pharmacy on the corner and buy razors, fake tan, hair removal cream, body scrub, body butter and
nude nail polish. After exfoliating from head to toe, I get rid of just about all my body hair with the
razors and cream, slather on the body butter and fake tan and do a mani-pedi to finish up. It takes over
three hours to do everything while listening to my favorite legal podcasts. It’s after nine p.m. when I
finally get to my books, and I study for two hours before going to bed.
In the morning I wake up early to pack, set out my outfit for the plane this afternoon and rush
off to class. I’ve got a tutorial first thing and the tutor gives me a sharp look as I slink into one of the
seats, because I’ve missed two of her classes. Thankfully the topic up for discussion is one I read
over last night, so I’m able to contribute to the discussion and improve my standing with her.
Sloane wants to go to the library afterwards but I explain to her that I’ll see her on Monday
and that I have to rush off. I can see she wants to ask questions but I don’t have time, and I make a
mental note to text her while I’m away and explain where I am.
I get home, curl my hair and do my makeup, and I’m standing outside my fake address with my
carry-on luggage at one p.m., dressed in my new jeans, a white silk blouse and the Chanel heels and
jacket. A few minutes later Misha’s Bentley pulls up. I was expecting a taxi so it’s a nice surprise to
see him get out of the car dressed in a dark suit. He’s holding his phone to his ear and he kisses my
cheek hello before going back to his call.
When I’m settled into the car I wonder if this is the same driver as the other day, and I blush.
Thankfully the partition is up between the front and rear seats so I don’t have to make eye contact with
whoever it is.
We drive northeast out of the city, which seems strange to me as neither Heathrow nor City
Airports are in this direction, but I can’t ask Misha where we’re going as he’s still on the phone,
talking about a contract that’s being disputed by the sounds of it. I can feel him growing tenser by the
moment and one of his forefingers is tapping his thigh as he speaks in sharp tones. There’s nothing I
can do about that, so I take Sloane’s notes out of my new handbag and start copying them out.
Thirty minutes later Misha ends the call with an angry stab of his finger and turns to me.
“Sorry about that. An ex-client is disputing a contract. They don’t have any grounds to do so and don’t
understand I’m trying to protect them from—” He breaks off and I see his jaw flex with irritation.
“From what?”
“Nothing. How are you? You look lovely.” He reaches out and strokes his thumb gently across
my cheek. When I smile at him some of the tension seems to leave his expression.
Ten minutes later we pull into a private airport. There’s a sleek white jet being refueled on the
tarmac and the driver takes us right up to the aircraft and gets our cases out of the trunk. Well. Isn’t
this fancy?
The inside of the jet is all plush cream leather and clean, expensive lines. We take adjoining
seats and a flight attendant approaches us with a selection of drinks. I sense that Misha is going to
work the entire flight and I plan on doing the same, so I take a sparkling water.
I keep copying out Sloane’s notes for a little while before becoming distracted by the interior
of the jet, the view out the window and, a few minutes later, the takeoff and climb through the clouds.
Sure enough, as soon as we’ve leveled off Misha takes out his laptop and begins working. He seems
to have the sort of enviable focus that allows him to shut out everything and everyone around him. I go
back to my notes, but I’m inconsistent about it, my eyes wandering over to the window every few
minutes.
The flight attendant brings us a lunch of roast pork and gnocchi in a mustard cream sauce.
Misha mostly ignores his but the only thing I’ve consumed all day is the hazelnut latte I had instead of
breakfast, so I tuck in. The food is delicious. I consider having a glass of Sancerre as well, but as
Misha isn’t drinking I shake my head when it’s offered.
After, there’s chocolate mousse cake and coffee, which goes much better with the chapter I’m
reading on European legal history than a glass of wine would.
Two hours later Misha sits back from his laptop and signals for a cup of coffee, and looks
over at what I’m doing. “Studying?”
I look up with a smile. “Like crazy. Catching up on all the things I missed last week.” I tell
him about borrowing notes from a friend and buying all my textbooks.
He nods his approval. “Good. I have meetings late this afternoon and all day tomorrow if
you’d like to use that time to study. Saturday we can do whatever you like. Sightseeing, go to the
beach. Or just do nothing.” Misha drops his eyes away from mine and clears his throat.
Nothing would be nice. I imagine a long morning in bed with him, naked, the fresh sea air
blowing in around us. I think I could enjoy that sort of nothing with Misha.
Once we land a car meets us on the tarmac and whisks us away toward Dubrovnik. There’s a
huge blue sky overhead and I can’t take my eyes off it. Living in London, being penned in by the
narrow, gray streets, I forget sometimes how big the sky really is.
The Grand Imperial Hotel looks out across the bright blue waters of the Adriatic Sea but
despite the heat of the day the lobby is cool, and decorated with colored tiles and long chiffon
curtains.
Misha checks us in and hands me the keycard for my room. “I have to go out again. We can
have dinner in the hotel tonight if you like. Meet me in the restaurant at eight?”
I nod and bid him goodbye, and he’s off out of the hotel without another word. I may have a
tough job on my hands getting him to switch off later, but I suppose that’s why he wants me here. To
get his mind onto things other than work.
In my room I finish reading the chapter on legal history and two on commercial contracts and
then get ready to meet Misha. A Thursday night dinner in the hotel while he’s distracted by work
doesn’t seem like the occasion for the silver dress. I choose the long skirt with a cream colored tee
instead, and pair them with the wedge heels. I go a bit easier on the makeup, too, partly because I feel
like it’s not called for, and partly because spending half an hour blending my eyeshadow is about my
least favorite thing to do.
 I’m ready by seven-thirty so I take a walk around the ground floor of the hotel and get a feel
for Dubrovnik. The air is so fresh and clean, and the sun is still hot even at this time of the evening.
People are drinking cocktails on the veranda and there’s a garden with a long, paved walk, lined by
flowering bushes. I stroll along the path and find a swimming pool at the rear of the hotel. It’s
peaceful here. I didn’t know how much I was craving a little peace.
Misha’s at the table when I go into the restaurant and he gets up to greet me, polite as always,
but he seems distracted as we order.
“How was your afternoon?” I ask him.
He’s not looking at me as he replies, “Good. Fine. Things are coming along.”
With what? I want to ask, but don’t want to seem nosy. His mind is elsewhere for most of the
meal and we’re finished eating by nine-fifteen. We head up to our rooms and he kisses my cheek and
briefly touches my waist, and then he’s gone.
I don’t quite know what to make of that. Does he not want to seem too pushy about sex, or is
he simply not in the mood? Or—I feel a twist of trepidation as I let myself into my room—is he going
off me? Maybe he regrets giving me such a large allowance. He doubled it right after we had sex,
after all, and I don’t know how clearly he was thinking at the time. Self-doubt and anxiety trickle
through me. I hate second-guessing everything.
I didn’t drink with dinner but I take a half bottle of white wine from the minibar fridge and
drink a glass while watching Netflix on my laptop, and then fall asleep around eleven.
I wake to blazing sun pouring through my windows, and don’t know where I am for a moment.
Then I remember: Croatia. The bed is huge and comfortable and it’s tempting to fall back asleep, but I
remember all the reading I should do today in order to be ready for next week. I pad over to the
coffee maker and switch it on, and then check my phone. There’s a message from Misha that came
through just before six a.m. He’s an early riser.
I’ll be out all day. Meet me in the lobby bar at seven tonight?
The message relieves some of my anxiety, and I reply, Yes, see you then. Have a good day.
You, too. Order room service. Study hard.
I smile to myself at that last part. It’s sweet of him to be concerned about my studies. I
suppose he’s one of those sugar daddies who feels like he wants to be making a difference in their
baby’s life in order to alleviate the guilt of sleeping with a much younger woman. Just how guilty
does he feel about that? I think back to the night in the back of his car when he tried to stop me from
going down on him, saying I didn’t need to do that. And then he gave in and let me do that, with very
little persuasion.
I take a sip of my freshly brewed coffee. Probably not that guilty.
 I start my studying with another chapter on legal history. Around eight-thirty I reach for the
room service menu and order Eggs Royale, orange juice and a pot of filter coffee. It arrives on a
silver trolley twenty minutes later and I eat sitting at the desk while making notes. At one p.m. I
change into my workout gear and go for a run on the treadmill in the gym upstairs, and then eat a salad
down in the courtyard.
I watch the couples around me, wondering about their relationships. About all the myriad
hopes, needs, insecurities and desires that are hovering beneath the surface everywhere I look. A
couple with an age gap capture my eye. He’s older and looks rich and self-assured, and she’s smiling
a lot. A sugar relationship? Is that what other people see when they look at me and Misha together,
someone rich and someone else faking their emotions to get in on the action?
I’m not faking my emotions, though. I don’t have to tell myself to smile around Misha or
pretend to be someone else, not since after our first date. And that makes me wonder, is it worse to
pretend to feel more than you do to get what you want, or to be paid in cold hard cash by someone
who lives in your heart?
The man looks away and for a moment the girl’s face goes blank and she pats down her hair,
checks her jewelry, smooths her dress. Do I look all right? Is he having a good time? Am I earning
my money? Then her date turns back to her and her face blossoms with a pageant smile. She knows
her appeal is only temporary but she’s going to stretch it out for as long as she can before he casts her
off. She knows how this works. She’s smart. Her heart is all her own.
I charge the salad to the room Misha is paying for and then go back upstairs.
By four in the afternoon I’m done studying and the room is getting hot. I change into my
swimsuit and pool wrap and head downstairs. There are a few loungers available in the sun and I
stretch out on one and absent-mindedly rub sun cream into my body, looking around at the palm trees
and the water. The color reminds me of the icy depths of Mr. Ravnikar’s eyes, and I find myself
shivering despite the hot sunshine.
I bury my nose in a novel I’ve been trying to get through, and twenty minutes later my phone
buzzes.
Nice red bikini.
Misha. I sit up and look around, surprised, but I can’t see him anywhere. Where are you? I
type and send.
I had to come back to the hotel briefly and now I’m gone again. See you in a few hours. You
look good enough to eat.
Heat rises from my toes and through my pelvis. I have a sudden vision of Misha between my
legs, licking me. He kisses me so thoroughly it’s easy to imagine his tongue on my clit, homing in just
where it feels best, teasing me, pleasuring me. My toes curl in anticipation.
At a quarter to six I hurry back to my room to get ready. I want to wear the silver dress tonight
and I go all out doing a smoky eye and put some shimmer on my brow bone and cheekbones, and slip
into some silver high heels along with the dress. I’m downstairs just in time, scrunching extra volume
into my blonde waves as I go.
Misha’s waiting for me and I step into his arms, feeling my heart swell as he kisses my cheek
and briefly caresses my ribs with his large hands. The other baby I saw earlier today would probably
be thinking right now, Lean in so he catches the scent of your perfume, let your breasts press again
his chest for a moment, smile like he’s all you’ve been waiting for your whole life.
I don’t have to think about any of that. It just comes naturally.
Misha leads me out of the hotel and I find myself wishing he’d reach for my hand. We’ve had
sex and we’re ostensibly on a dirty weekend away, and yet there’s two feet of space between us.
Maybe he’s not that sort of man, or maybe hand-holding isn’t something he’d do with a sugar baby.
“Happy Friday,” I say to him, hoping to lighten his mood. He gives me a quick smile before
sinking into solemnity once more.
It’s me, he’s bored with me.
No, stop being stupid. He’s had a tedious day of meetings or some deal has gone wrong. I
know how moody he can be. It’s not me.
“Good meetings?” I ask brightly.
“I can’t talk about them,” he says flatly, looking out to sea.
Ouch.
We’re walking along the seafront toward the center of town. Gulls are swooping and there are
still plenty of people in the sea or lying on towels.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be here,” Misha says a moment later.
My stomach drops about two feet. Here with me? This was his idea. Am I going to be put on
the next plane back to London, a failed baby who barely lasted a week? But as he casts his eye around
at the view I realize he means Dubrovnik.
“The circumstances are…unpleasant.” He stops and looks at me and finally I see his eyes
soften. “You’re the one good thing about this.”
“I’m sorry it’s unpleasant. What can I do to take your mind off things?”
His eyes run over my face and he smiles. “You help just by being here.”
Amid the sunset walkers, the people taking selfies, the heave and sigh of the ocean, he kisses
me, and he tastes like salt tang and cool mint. His large hands hold me close, one around my waist
and the other sliding up to cup the nape of my neck. As I lose myself in his kiss I find I don’t care that
he’s secretive and sometimes struggles to forget about work. He can have his life and I can have mine,
and this can be our special world between worlds. One of sweetness and sensation where nothing
else matters.
Just him and me.
He holds out his arm and I link my arm through his, as if we’re Elizabeth Bennett and Mr.
Darcy. My breast presses against his bicep, which is probably not something Elizabeth Bennett would
do, but it feels good.
The restaurant is at the top of the sea wall overlooking the ocean and we spend a pleasant few
hours over dinner talking about the city. Misha has been here before and knows the history of the city.
A few times, I let my foot caress his calf as he’s talking, and he loses his train of thought each time I
do.
When we get back to the hotel I link my arm through his as we get into the elevator. Even
though he’s been touching me he doesn’t seem like he’s going to take the initiative here. So I do.
“Which one’s your room?” I ask, smiling up at him.
He clears his throat, not meeting my eyes. “You don’t need to, you can just go back to…”
I twine my arms around his neck. I’m not doing my duty, I’m doing this because I’ve been
distracted by the sight of his large hands all evening, and I want them on me. “Misha. It felt so good to
come on your cock the other night. I want to do that again.”
He leans past me and hits a floor number. Pressed so close to him, I can feel the way his cock
is thickening against my thigh. As the elevator rises he walks me back against the cool metal wall and
kisses me with aching slowness. I moan deep in my throat. How can this man feel so good, look so
good, taste so good?
In his room he seems to hesitate again, but I know exactly what to do. I get on my hands and
knees on the bed and prowl around in a circle like a cat. I stop with my behind toward him, knowing
he can see my G-string because my skirt is so short, and turn and look over my shoulder questioningly.
In my best purr, I say, “Please?”
He folds his arms, one eyebrow raised, desire glimmering in his eyes. “Please what?”
“Please lick me.”
But he shakes his head. “And miss the sight of you doing that? Oh, no, ljubica. I’m sure you’ve
got more to show me.”
So he wants a performance. I remember how much I detested the idea of performing for men at
Mr. Ravnikar’s club. Performing for Misha, though, would be a pleasure. I reach around behind
myself and run a finger down the seam of my sex, watching him follow the path of my finger. I slip it
just beneath the fabric, teasing myself slowly, and then pull the fabric aside, exposing myself to him.
He still doesn’t move but he’s watching me with laser focus. I see the thick rod of his erection in his
trousers and it makes my pulse pound hard deep in my core, knowing I’m going to soon feel the slow,
delicious stretch of his cock. I run my finger through my wetness, circling my clit and then moving up
to dip into myself.
Misha steps forward and runs a finger over mine. “Fuck yourself for me.”
I push my fingers deeper, feeling my slipperiness and the resistance of my tight flesh,
imagining his strong thrusts. “It’s not enough,” I whimper. “Please, Misha.”
He says in the same uncompromising tone, “Keep going. I want to see you come.”
Under his hawk-like attention I continue to thrust into myself and then rub my clit. I’ve never
done anything like this for anyone before but it’s so very good to do it for Misha. I move my knees
wider and arch my back, giving him a better view. He surrounds me with his presence. I can feel my
orgasm approaching and my eyes close, anticipating how the bliss will overtake me.
Suddenly he slaps my ass, hard, takes hold of my hips and pulls me toward him, and then
pushes me down onto the bed. My behind is angled upward and I half-pant, half-laugh into the
bedclothes. “I thought you said you wanted to see me come.”
“And I will.” He leans down and licks me through the gauzy fabric of my underwear and I
squirm against his mouth, trying to get more of him. I was so close and it will only take a little more
to push my over the edge. He spanks my ass again and growls, “Hold still.”
His tongue returns to its exploration of me and I melt into the bed. He pulls my underwear to
the side and I finally feel the slide of his tongue against my pussy. I want to sob his name because he
feels as good as I anticipated. He strokes me firm and slow, I clench my hands on the blankets and
whimper.
“You want to come so badly, don’t you, baby?” he murmurs, the vibrations of his voice
cascading through me.
“Yes, Misha. Please.”
He spreads me wider with his fingers and blows gently on my clit. “Pretty girl. I’ve been
thinking about this since you left my car. Nice and slow.” One of his fingers teases my entrance and
then sinks inside me. “Is that enough, ljubica?”
It won’t be enough until he’s buried his cock inside me. I need him to fuck me as furiously as
the last time, the firm, deep strokes driving away everything but him. “More,” I whimper.
Misha slowly impales me with two fingers and strokes hard over my g-spot. His voice is
warm and indulgent. “How about that, baby? Is that enough?”
 Misha

“More, please,” she cries, leaning back onto my fingers.

It’s like a drug hearing her beg for me. She’s performing beautifully, getting on her knees and
showing herself to me, but it’s a performance she’s giving willingly. I can feel it from how wet she is,
how her swollen flesh feels, hot and tight around my fingers. How she responds to me. Just for me.
And I’m going to drink my fill of the sight and feel of her.
I find the spot deep inside her that makes her cry out and massage it so hard her back flexes—
but then I ease off again. I’m not in a hurry tonight. I have a large, comfortable bed, all the time in the
world, and Ciara, exactly where I want her.
I flip her over onto her back so I can look at her face while I tug her underwear down her legs.
She looks up at me with sultry eyes, her long blonde hair spilling across the bed, the silver of her
dress shimmering in the soft light.
She’s so fucking beautiful. I really don’t deserve her. I shouldn’t even be doing this, but I can’t
seem to help myself, not when she begs so sweetly with her touch and kisses to take her to bed. I’m
only flesh and blood. I throw her underwear aside and slide my hands up her silken thighs, parting
them as I go.
What’s going to happen, I wonder, stroking my fingers over her pussy, in just over a year from
now when her debt is paid off? I could keep her as my baby. Or, I could tell her the truth about who I
really am. Would that be so bad, if she knew she gave herself to Damir Ravnikar’s brother, and he
fucked her as often as he could?
Because looking at her spread before me I know I’m damn well going to.
“Misha?”
She’s looking up at me, perplexed, and I realize I’m standing over her, just looking at her.
“You make me forget about all the awful things in my life. I can’t talk about any of them, but just know
that you make a difference.”
Ciara scoots forward on the bed and wraps her ankles around my hips, urging me closer. I
sink down beside her on the bed.
She whispers, “Whenever I’m with you I feel like nothing bad can happen, and nothing can
touch me.”
I close my eyes briefly and slide the blade of my nose against hers. That’s far more beautiful
than what I said. I wish I could offer her beauty, but where I come from there’s only blood and regret.
“That’s exactly how I wanted to make you feel the moment I laid eyes on you,” I say huskily.
She frowns, puzzled. “At La Fleche D’or? Really? I thought you didn’t really like me at first.”
Shit. I didn’t mean then. I meant in the footage at her parents’ funeral. “I liked you right from
the start. I wanted to help you but I didn’t know how.” That’s the whole truth. I trace my forefinger
along her cheek. “Everything feels so easy with you. How do you do that?”
A smile curves her lips. “You do that, too.”
“Me? No, I don’t, I’m surly and difficult. My PA always tells me so.”
She laughs and begins undoing my tie and the buttons of my shirt. “You’re really very sweet,
Misha. You just sometimes hide it well.”
Convulsively, I put my hand over hers and flatten it against my chest. Fuck. I keep forgetting.
I’m not self-conscious about it normally, but I feel strange about Ciara seeing it.
“Misha? What’s wrong?”
“I have a scar.” It’s a thick, ugly mark on the left side of my chest. Sometimes it itches, but
mostly it just feels numb to the touch. It reminds me of dead things and bad times.
She shakes her head, puzzled, smiling gently. “It’s all right. I already know you’re beautiful.”
Slowly, I release my hand and let her unbutton my shirt. When she pushes it back off my
shoulders, she traces the ragged scar tissue for a moment, and then runs her fingers down my chest.
“See? Beautiful,” she whispers.
I’m not, but it’s very kind of her to say such a thing. Her hands go on touching me, caressing
my ribs and belly, and scratching gently through the hair on my chest. She takes her time over touching
me and I enjoy the sensation. I can’t remember the last time I let a woman just do that, because it felt
good.
I fumble for the zipper of her dress and slide it down. We undress each other slowly,
caressing each other, kissing flesh as it’s bared. I can’t get enough of the way she feels, soft and
smooth against my mouth. Ciara takes my hand and presses my fingers against her sex. Fuck, she’s
even wetter than before, and her eyes grow hazy the moment I touch her clit.
Ciara’s hand snakes down between us and she begins to pump her hand slowly up and down
my cock. For a moment I have to close my eyes and go with it. “Are you trying to make me lose my
patience,” I manage between gritted teeth.
Her voice is a tempting whisper. “You can go slowly the next time. I want you now. We’ve got
all night.”
I’m so close to giving into her and just spreading her legs and thrusting into her, over and
over, but I rein myself in. I pull her hand off my dick and slide down between her legs. Just for that
I’m going to make this torture for her.
Licking her is a slow pleasure and I want to make it last because she feels so sweet against
my tongue. The sounds she makes as I suck her clit are heaven. Maybe I’m one of those fools who
can’t tell when a woman is flattering him to get what she wants, but I’ve known those women all my
adult life and there’s something different about Ciara. I slide two fingers deep into her pussy and she
cries out roughly. Something very different.
I want to savor every moment with her. Things between us will be over all too soon, forever,
and I know I’ll never have anything like this again as long as I live. I let up the movements of my
tongue, sensing she’s close, and she digs her nails into my shoulders.
I withdraw my fingers, too. She clenches harder on my muscles, trying to be vicious, but I just
laugh softly and lap at her teasingly. If I make her feel good, I can take away some of the pain and fear
she’s felt these past weeks, though I’m not sure she counts this as pleasurable as I stop before she can
come yet again.
“Having fun?” she asks through narrowed eyes, her chest heaving.
“I am, rather.”
I sit up on the bed on my knees, arching over her, enjoying how she looks spread out beneath
me, naked and incredibly turned on. My cock juts out over her and I savor the sight. Remembering
how she feels, squeezed tight around me. Anticipating the grip of her velvet flesh on my cock.
Committing every moment with Ciara to memory.
She whimpers in relief as I reach into the bedside table and begin to roll a condom down over
my length. “Needy, baby?”
She nods. “Yes, daddy.”
I smile at the nickname, remembering how much I hated it when Bethany teased me with it
before I’d met Ciara. I like it from Ciara, though. I hold out my hand and she places hers in mine, as
sweet as sugar.
“Come here, ljubica. Come to daddy.”
She sits up and straddles my thighs and I watch as she positions the tip of my cock at her core.
But I clamp my hand around myself and don’t let her take me into her yet. With my other hand I draw
circles on her clit with my thumb, slowly, slowly, watching her face. Her breathing picks up and her
hands gripping my shoulders begin to knead my flesh.
“Will you let me come this time?”
“If you’re good.”
“I’m always so good,” she says, brushing her lips against mine.
“Yes, you are.”
 I want to see it, the exact moment she reaches her peak. Her face tenses and her eyebrows
draw together. One more circle, two. And then her head tips back and her body flexes as she cries
out. I let go of my cock and she sinks down onto me as she comes. Fuck. The sensations ripple along
my length and I feel her clench tight with her climax, over and over.
Ciara works herself up and down on my length and her cries become rough and increase in
pitch. Her desire’s intense and it’s almost too much for me, watching her like this, feeling her tight
flesh gripping my cock. She pants my name against my mouth.
I lift her body in my arms and lay her back in the bed beneath me, drinking in my fill of the
sight of her as I pound her hard, her body soft and smooth in my hands. She gazes up at me with need
and abandon in her eyes, closing them for longer and longer periods as she nears her peak. I want to
draw it out and make this sweetness last forever but she rubs her fingers along my bristly jaw and her
eyes are plaintive.
“Come with me, Misha, please.”
As she crests beneath me I come as well, the wave of sensation crashing through my body,
hard and unrelenting, and I know then that I want this again and again.
I get rid of the condom and pull her into my arms, our legs tangled together and the orgasm
flush still bright in her cheeks. She looks so fucking beautiful, and so happy. I let the happiness fill
myself too, pretending for a little while that it’s just the two of us we have to worry about, and no one
else.
“Misha?” she says softly, and I draw her face up to mine, hearing the question in her voice.
“Did you think it would feel this way between us?”
I stare at her, not knowing how to answer. There are so many things I feel for Ciara but I
didn’t expect to feel any of them.
Panic flickers in her eyes. “I mean—I don’t want to speak for you. But I just feel like this is
more special than couples who are in our position usually experience. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I never imagined anything could feel this way.”
It seems her mind is still on our arrangement as she asks, tentatively, “Do you ever wonder
what I’m doing with your money?”
I think about it often. I hate that she’s forced into Damir’s cruel orbit but I can’t think of a way
to protect her from that. The money has to pass from her to him. “I’m sure you’re putting it to good
use.”
“Have you ever wanted to ask me about it?”
I hesitate, trying to disentangle the things I know about the Alders because of Damir from the
things she’s told me. “I assume that when your parents passed away they left you less than well
provided for. But that’s none of my business.”
I remember what Ciara said earlier about her parents. I hated them as much as you can hate
people you love. I know exactly what she means. How I hate my dear, beloved brother. I hate that I’ve
been sent here on Damir’s paranoid orders. I hate that I can’t say no to him, because I’m tied to him
through the loyalty he earned from me eighteen years ago. But that’s not even half of the hate that’s
simmering in my chest, and I can feel my hatred approaching the boil. For the first time since we
became partners in Ravnikar Enterprises, I start to wonder what my life would look like if I was rid
of my brother, once and for all.
“Misha? You look so serious. What are you thinking about?”
When I look at Ciara, a sense of calm washes over me. She’s here, she’s mine, and she’s safe.
“I was thinking that I haven’t felt this before. The peace that comes from knowing you have made a
woman happy.”
She smiles up at me, a tender, wondering smile. Her arms wrap ever tighter around me as if
she’s seeking the protection and comfort of my body. As if I’m someone she can trust.
A voice from the past echoes down the years. You’re a good boy, Misha.
I clench Ciara more tightly in my arms and she rests her cheek against my chest. No, I’m
fucking not.

The sick room is dim and overwarm. Mama lays back against the pillows, cheeks hollow, dark
circles under her eyes. She’s grown so frail so fast.
Mama reaches out a thin, shaking hand. “There he is. Come closer. Let me look at my boy.”
But as I step forward Damir pushes in front of me and takes her hand. She smiles at him, a
smile of such tenderness it makes my heart turn over with longing. Why won’t she ever look at me
like that? Am I bad?
“You’re a good boy and you’re going to do great things. I love you, Damir.”
“Mama?” I ask, moving around Damir so she can see me. So I can be in the circle of her
love, too.
Mama glances at me and all the pleasure melts from her face. “What are you doing here? I
don’t want you. No one wants you.”
“Misha?”
I gasp and open my eyes. Where am I? The room is unfamiliar and someone’s in bed with me.
As the sickroom evaporates I see Ciara and reality rushes back. It was just a dream. It never
happened.
 The voice that replies is snide and cold. Yes, it did.
Not like that. I was just a boy. I didn’t know any better.
Oh, yeah? And now?
I slide my hand down to the cleft in Ciara’s sex and find she’s slick and warm. Heat pulses
through me as she gasps into my neck, and I bury my face in her soft curls and breathe in deeply. The
past doesn’t matter now. Ciara wriggles in my arms but I clench her more tightly.
“Stay here,” I mumble into her hair, and she giggles.
She squirms down along my body and a moment later I feel her mouth close around my
stiffened cock.
“Jezus Kristus, ljubica.”
Her tongue laves me slowly and I let my head fall back onto the pillows as she sucks me with
long, languorous movements. She looks so perfect with her pretty lips wrapped around my cock. I
pile her long hair on top of her head and hold it there, watching her. God, she’s good at that. Not only
because her technique is good, but because she’s so loving with her mouth. I feel like she’s enjoying
this as much as me. Almost as much as me.
I feel my balls start to tighten but I don’t want to come yet. I reach down and pull her up to me
until her thighs are straddling my face and I can lick her pussy. She braces her hands against the wall
and as my tongue meets her clit she cries out, her knees tensing around my shoulders.
“Are you sure you can breathe down there?” she asks between gasps.
It doesn’t matter. I’d happily die this way. I knead the flesh of her behind with my hands as I
lick her with long strokes. This is a better way to start the morning. But it’s still not enough. I grab a
condom, carry her over to the sofa, bend her over the armrest and take her by the hips. I went slow
last night. Now I want her fast and very deep, and when I’ve rolled the condom down over myself my
cock seeks her entrance quickly and impales her.
“Misha,” she gasps, and reaches back and pushes on my hips: Too much. I capture her wrist in
my hand, holding her arched like that, her ass pressed against me. She can’t stop me going as hard as I
like now. But I don’t. I want to show her that I can feel exactly how much she needs. Slowly, by
increments as I fuck her, she eases up around me and soon she’s taking my whole length without
tensing. Her cries have heightened with pleasure rather than pain. I nudge her feet wider with mine
and take her other wrist as I fuck her hard and fast. She’s so beautiful in the morning light, the lines of
her body arching and flexing in pleasure.
“Misha, oh god, I’m going to—” But her words are lost in a strangled cry.
I pound her hard through the contractions of her muscles, enjoying this ferocity, and I come a
moment later, wild and abandoned, the last of my nightmare dissolving.
 When I let her go she sinks down over the sofa, panting and making little mm noises that have
me smiling. I pull off the condom with a snap, tie it off and throw it toward the wastepaper bin.
I coax her up, and with her back flush against my chest, I hold her tightly.
“More sleep. It’s too early,” I mumble into the nape of her neck, and I half walk, half carry her
over to the bed. We lie down, and my eyes are so heavy that I can feel myself sinking into
unconsciousness almost immediately. Too many sleepless nights lately.
As I’m drifting off I feel Ciara ease herself out of my arms. My last thought before I sink into
unconsciousness is that I miss her body against mine.
When I wake again I sit up and look around for Ciara. She’s got the closet open and is sorting
through my clothes. My gaze is drawn to the fabric of her mini-skirt drawn tight across her ass. God,
she’s a sexy girl. I wonder if I can get her back in bed again.
“What are you up to?” I mutter, rubbing my hands over my face. I feel so groggy and
disheveled while she’s neat and showered and her blonde hair is in a bun.
She smiles over her shoulder at me. “Morning, sleepyhead. Where are your loafers and your
linen shirt?”
I scratch the hair on my chest and frown. My mind is taking a while to catch up with this
conversation. “My what?”
She laughs, bending down to paw through my suitcase, but there’s nothing in there but a suit
bag. “You know, your holiday clothes. It’s Saturday and the sun is shining. You can’t go sightseeing in
a business shirt and dress shoes.”
Sightseeing? I only packed for meetings, as I always do. “Oh, well. No sightseeing then.
Better come here.” I want to drag her back to bed and mess up all her neatness.
But she laughs and shakes her head. “There are stores downstairs in the lobby. I’m going to go
and buy you some weekend clothes.” With her phone she takes photographs of the labels in my shirt,
trousers and shoes for the sizes, and then blows me a kiss on the way out.
“Charge it to the room,” I call after her.
“Yes, Misha!” she says, her voice slipping away down the hall, and I can’t help smiling to
myself. She sounds so sweet and cheerful. Out of habit, I want to go straight to my laptop and start
answering emails, but no. It’s Saturday, and I’m going to enjoy sightseeing with Ciara. She’s smiling
and I want it to stay that way.
I get into the shower and soap myself under the hot water, becoming lost in the memory of her
body spread beneath mine last night. The sight of her over the arm of the couch this morning. Talking
to me over dinner last night. This, I suppose, is why men take sugar babies. I understand now the
pleasures of a beautiful young woman who is always beautifully turned out, listens to you over dinner
and flatters you with their attention. Whom you get to take to bed and devour. Either Ciara is a natural
at this or…
It’s tempting to believe she really does like me. That she feels as much for me as I do for her,
and that I’m as likeable as the thirty thousand pounds a month I’m giving her. If anyone else was
asking me their opinion I would tell them they’re a fucking idiot, of course they want to believe that a
beautiful young woman thinks they’re handsome and fascinating, but there’s no way in hell she’s not
pretending.
Ciara’s not a professional sugar baby, though. She’s muddling her way through this, like I am.
I know that any of my business associates would be howling with laughter if I told them I thought she
really does like me, but what the fuck do they know? They haven’t felt her come, or enjoyed the way
she nestles close to me in her sleep.
She comes back twenty minutes later with several carry bags and presents me with a pair of
stone-colored trousers, a cream linen shirt and a pair of brown leather loafers. There’s a towel
wrapped around my hips and I take them from her, pretending to be skeptical. “I don’t know. Maybe I
should wear a black suit.”
Her fingers trail down my bare chest, chasing water droplets. “Please, Misha. For me?”
I gaze into her blue eyes. I can choose to believe that every word, every look she gives me is
sincere. If it’s a fantasy then I’ll live in a fantasy world for the next year, and it will be the most
wonderful year of my life.
“Anything for you,” I say, and plant a kiss on her lips.
I get dressed and everything fits and feels comfortable. I’m rolling the sleeves of the shirt up
past my elbows when I look up and notice Ciara staring at me, a strange expression in her eyes and a
lopsided grin on her face.
“What is it, ljubica?”
“You’re smiling to yourself. I’ve never seen you do that. You look so happy.” She runs her
nails down the black hairs on my forearms and takes my hands. “I like making you happy.”
My heart squeezes strangely in my chest. I am happy, now I think of it. I don’t remember the
last time someone cared about making me happy.
Downstairs, we step out into the clear, cool morning air, and Ciara slips her hand into mine.
She looks up at me, hesitant, as if she’s not sure how I’ll react to this. It feels strange, holding a
woman’s hand, but I like it. No, I love it. I grasp her hand tightly and smile down at her, liking her
exactly where she is. Loving her close to me.
Though she doesn’t know it, we walk in the opposite direction to the hotel development I’m
here to oversee and head into the old part of town, walking the maze of old streets, the buildings
topped with bright terracotta roofs. I can feel months of London gloom being blasted from my bones.
We eat in a sun-drenched square at lunchtime, walk some more, and then stop at dusk to drink white
wine and eat fish in the harbor.
Under a starry sky, we stroll hand-in-hand back to the hotel, the sea path lit by sporadic pools
of lamplight, passing plenty of other tourists and locals along the way. It is a night to be enjoyed, the
moon full and high in the sky.
In the elevator I press the floor for my room and Ciara smiles and kisses me. She could go
back to hers if she wants to, if she needs space, but there’s not even a millimeter between us as we
rise through the floors.
Dusty and relaxed, Ciara heads for the shower in my room, stripping herself naked as she
goes. In the doorway she turns and looks at me over her shoulder. “Coming?”
In the shower we kiss under the cascading water, and Ciara takes my length in her hand,
caressing me up and down, bringing me close to coming and then stopping again. Getting her revenge
for what I did to her the previous night. I don’t care. I can take a lot of teasing. When she reaches for
the taps to get out of the shower I turn her round and pull her back against me. I part her pussy with my
fingers and get at her clit. Playing her own game with her. Edging her viciously, my eyes closed,
feeling each orgasm rising up in her and stopping before it can expand through her. When she grasps
my hand and pushes my fingers into her slippery core I turn the water off.
“Goddamn it,” she whispers, as I throw a towel to her, grinning.
“You started it.”
We dry each other and make our arousal-drunken way back to the bed, and I kiss her body
with mouth that’s hungry for more than just the taste of her.
I’m hungry to know. “Tell me what you like.”
Her smile is delighted and embarrassed at the same time. “I like…you. I like having sex with
you.”
Mischief glimmers in her eyes, as if she’s waiting for me to draw her out. “Now, now,” I say,
kissing down her belly. “You can do better than that.”
“I haven’t had enough sex to really know—I mean,” she corrects herself quickly, “I like lots of
things.”
I run my tongue along the blade of her hipbone. “I already know you’re new to this,
remember?”
She laughs and puts her hands over her face. “Oh, yeah.”
“Well, then,” I murmur, moving down further and seeking out her clit with my tongue. “Do you
like that?”
 “Yes,” she says, a hitch in her voice as her neck arches in pleasure. “You know I like that.”
She settles her thighs wider for me, and I lap her tenderly, looking up every now and then at
the sensations flickering over her face. “What positions do you like?”
“Um. The ones we’ve done. When you had me bent over the couch this morning. That was,
um, hot.”
I laugh softly. “Shy girl.” I keep licking, enjoying teasing out these words from her.
“I am,” she agrees, tightening her legs around my shoulders. “I’m so shy, Misha.”
“I thought you were,” I purr, stroking my fingers through her folds and then sliding one into her
pussy. She gives a little moan of pleasure as I keep licking in slow circles.
Eyes tightly closed, she whispers, “I like that. I like feeling you, thick and hot in my hands.
How you surround me. The way you smell. The way you kiss me. The sight of your cock plunging into
me, over and over.”
Oh, fuck yes. I love that sight, too, so much so that it’s tempting to sit up and drive myself into
her now. But I’m curious to hear what else she’s got to say to me.
“I like watching you as I feel my peak approaching, knowing you can see it in my face. Saying
your name right before I do. Feeling those extra hard thrusts as you come.”
“And now?” I ask. “What would you like to try now?”
She thinks for a moment, and then whispers in the semi-dark, “I’d like to try being on top. Like
yesterday, but longer.”
Oh, yes. Perfect. I ease away from her and roll onto my back, holding out my hands for her.
Half nervous, half eager, she slips her knee over me and straddles my hips, my cock tucked against the
curve of her ass. Her breasts press against my chest as she leans forward to kiss me, delicate and
tender. God, this is heaven. I smooth my hands over her hips and lower back, fingers splayed across
her warm flesh. Her forefinger plays over my jaw, and she smiles at me.
“Hi,” she whispers, her breath warm on my lips, taking a moment to look into my eyes.
“Hi, ljubka.” Cute one. It suits her. Our lovemaking is oddly cute, too. I watch her tentative
movements as she finds a condom and rips it open with her brightly colored fingernails. When she
shimmies back to straddle my legs my cock drags against her thighs. Okay, not so cute anymore,
especially not as she rolls the latex down my length and then poises over me, her hand wrapped
around the base of my dick.
I reach up and trace a forefinger over her cheekbone, and then her lips. They part, and she
takes my finger into her mouth, sucking it slowly.
My eyes narrow with heat. Oh, sweet girl. Very nice.
She keeps sucking, and slowly slides her pussy down the length of my cock. I don’t know how
to deal with all the sensations rolling through me and I just watch her, breathing hard. My beautiful
sunshine girl, bare to me, taking the lead. Her hair tumbles around her shoulders as she moves her
body up and down on me. The pleasure makes her lips part in a gasp and she lets go of my hand, and
she arches back as she continues the motions of her hips. I can see her winding up to her peak, her
breath coming harder and her cheeks flushing as her nails scratch down my chest. She comes, her neck
elongating like a swan as she cries out, her body one long, elegant line as she pulses around me.
Once she comes through it she looks down at me with a sex-drunk smile. Good. But we can do
better than that.
I grasp her hips and begin thrusting upwards into her. She tips forward and her hands land on
my chest, her eyes opening wide in surprise. I let her take control of her last orgasm, but I’m in charge
of this one.
I keep up a swift, firm rhythm, watching her face closely. Her brows tilt up with pleasure in
the inner corners and her tongue runs over her lips. Her body yielding to mine, held by my hands and
pounded by my cock. Her hair’s damp from the shower and reach up and take a fierce handful of it,
close to her scalp. Pulling just enough so she knows I’ve got her just where I want her and I’m not
going to let her go.
“That’s my ljubica, you’re going to come for me again, aren’t you?” I whisper harshly.
Ciara nods rapidly, her eyes closed as her hands fist on my chest, each of her nails digging
into me, goading me onwards. I can feel my own crest rising and I hold it back as long as I can,
watching her. She cries out roughly and tightens her core around me, and I burst inside her, rocking
her with my hips as the orgasm rolls through me.
I pull her down against my chest so I can breathe in the scent of her hair. She lies gasping atop
me, my cock still lodged inside her.
Slowly, woozily, she slides off me and I get rid of the condom. We lie curled around each
other in a tangle of limbs, our breathing slowing. Ciara traces lazy patterns on my chest. Not my scar,
but my chest, as if it doesn’t even bear the ugly white knot of tissue. I thought by now she would have
asked me more about it but it’s like it’s not there for her.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” She jumps up and hurries over to her suitcase. When she comes back I
see that she’s holding a small box, and she flops down beside me with a huge smile. “This is for you.”
She presses the box into my hands and I see that it’s giftwrapped and done up with a ribbon.
I’m reminded of birthdays when I was a child, a pile of little jewel-bright packages, just for me. I
undo the ribbon and paper, and find an embossed box with a blue tie inside.
“The blue is the same as your eyes,” she whispers, as I run the silky fabric through my fingers.
“It’s not much, but I wanted to get you something that I knew you would use. To say thank you, for
everything you’re doing for me.”
I caress her cheek, smiling at her. “Thank you, ljubica. You didn’t need to do that.”
She shrugs one shoulder, her cheeks turning a little pink. “I know. But I wanted to.”
I drape the tie across the bedside table and Ciara puts her head down on my thigh and wraps
an arm around my belly. The long, hot day’s walking seems to have tired her out and she closes her
eyes. I stay sitting up, not in the least sleepy, and watch the sway of lights from the boats moored
outside the hotel.
A few minutes later Ciara falls asleep, and I stroke her long curls through my fingers, the
motions repetitive and soothing. The warm sea breathes in and out on the shore beyond our open
bedroom windows. Crickets chirp in the flowerbeds. Ciara is a warm weight against me. I gently curl
a tress of her hair behind her ear.
The minutes and hours tick by as I sit in quiet peace, watching Ciara sleep and enjoying our
seclusion from the world together. Picturing what this might be like if it never ended.
Feeling my heart unfurling with tenderness for her, as if awakening after a long, hard winter.
 Ciara

The flight home is as quiet as the flight to Dubrovnik, but it’s a different sort of quiet. I snuggle deep
into the cream leather seat and my hand is in Misha’s as I gaze out the window at the snowy mountains
far below. He’s drinking coffee and reading the news on his tablet and rubs my palm absent-mindedly
with his thumb every so often. His laptop hasn’t been switched on since Friday and he’s barely
glanced at emails on his phone. He even looks relaxed, wearing one of his crisp white shirts with the
stone trousers and loafers I bought him. His black curls are tousled and his neat beard is longer than
usual, but I like it that way. I like him this way.
On Saturday we walked all over Dubrovnik with no map to guide us. We looked at the sights
and wandered wherever we felt like it. I loved being with him in the sunshine and holding his hand.
His strong, warm grip was grounding, and if we were separated for a moment his hand immediately
sought mine again.
And then there was the sex. Heat flushes through my body just thinking about how good it is
with Misha. I thought sex with a sugar daddy would be impersonal or, worse, gross and unpleasant.
No eye contact, sloppy kissing, zero arousal, silently begging for it to be over. I beg when I’m with
Misha, but it’s to beg for more.
Several times over the weekend I was tempted to tell him everything. About Mr. Ravnikar.
About the fear, the blood, my parents. I feel so safe with Misha and I want to confide in him, but I
think he would feel compelled to act for me. If I told him about Mr. Ravnikar and the danger I’m in I’d
feel like I was manipulating him into giving me more money. Besides, I couldn’t control how he acted
for me. He might go to the police, or he might try and murder Mr. Ravnikar on my behalf. Maybe he’d
be able to hold his own against a man like Mr. Ravnikar. I remember the ragged scar on his chest. It’s
not a surgical scar. Either he was in an accident, or someone tried to kill him, and he survived.
After we land the Bentley is there to collect us, and I feel my warm, holiday glow ebbing
away as I look out on the motorway speeding by. Back to reality. Back to study and class and figuring
out when I should take my next payment to Mr. Ravnikar.
At “my” house Misha gets out of the car to kiss me goodbye. The sun is shining even in
London and I’m glad to see that his face is still burnished with happiness. “Ljubica. Thank you for a
beautiful weekend.”
He slips an envelope into my handbag and I try to feel pleased as I say goodbye. I plaster a
smile on my face and wave as the car pulls away, thinking of all the things I don’t dare say. I’ll miss
you. When will I see you again?
I drag my wheel-along suitcase to my actual house. Upstairs, I look around my room, missing
the comfort of Misha’s presence already and, if I’m honest, the five-star hotel room and luxury jet. It’s
easy to believe in his gilded world that nothing bad can happen, but when our time is over I’m thrust
back into the cold, discarded and unprotected, until he decides he wants my company again.
I can’t keep letting myself wonder about love and feelings. I’m a prop in his life, not a person,
the same scared, broke girl in a designer dress. And I have to protect my heart.
I change out of the Chanel clothes and put them carefully away, dress in sweats, and make
myself an instant hot chocolate. I stare into the mug, trying to think objectively, not emotionally. Misha
could ghost from my life at any moment. I’m just someone who takes his mind off his work for a
while, and who knows, maybe he’s tired of me already and that’s why he didn’t tell me he’d see me
soon when he said goodbye.
I remember seeing one or two posts about the dangers of catching feelings for your sugar
daddy and I disregarded them at the time because I thought they would never apply to me. I turn on my
laptop and go back to Tumblr and try to find more information, but with no luck. There’s a popular
blog that doubles as an agony aunt column and I send in an anonymous question: What should you do
if you think you’re catching feelings for your sugar daddy?
I sip my hot chocolate, and wait. I assumed that sugar work was all about booty, not brains,
but it’s hard, mentally draining work, and dangerously emotional.
The reply to my question is posted twenty minutes’ later. Dump him.

First thing in the morning I take the envelope of money Misha gave me round to Ravnikar Enterprises
and hold it out to the receptionist. My bonus was five thousand pounds and Mr. Ravnikar is getting
every note of it.
The receptionist recognizes me. “Mr. Ravnikar would like you to go up to—”
I slap the envelope on the counter and turn away, but she calls after me, “Miss Alders. I’ve
been instructed to incinerate anything you give me.”
I come to a halt, my fists clenching. Asshole. “Up?” I ask. “Which floor?”
“The forty-fourth.”
Oh, Jesus. I guess it’s leg day. I go back to her and pick up the envelope. “Would you please
point me toward the stairwell?”
The receptionist’s eyebrows creep up her forehead and she points across the lobby. “Over
there. But the elevator is working—”
 “No, thank you.”
I cross the lobby and open a non-descript door. The flights go up and up. I take it slow and
steady, but even so by the seventh floor I’m breathing hard. On the eleventh I’m only a quarter of the
way but I have to stop for a few minutes. On the seventeenth floor I find an office worker sitting on a
step, looking at her phone.
“Morning,” I pant, climbing past her, ignoring her stare.
By the forty-fourth floor I’m a hot mess but I don’t care. I march up to the secretary at her desk
and ask to see Mr. Ravnikar, and she points me toward the open door of his office. I can see he’s not
in there, but I go in. How long is he going to make me wait with nothing to do but look at the stupid
modern art on his walls—
The door slams behind me and I whirl around, my heart in my throat. Mr. Ravnikar is there,
looming over me in a black suit that makes his eyes look very dark.
I back away quickly. “Were you hiding behind the door? Who does that?”
“You have something for me?” I pass the envelope over and he weighs it in his hand, but
doesn’t open it. The only exit is right behind him. Adrenaline courses through my body.
“Where are you getting this kind of money?” he asks.
I take a shaky breath. “That’s my business. It shouldn’t matter to you as long as I’m paying off
my debt.”
There a vindictive flash in his eyes. “Fine. I want the same amount every week, to the penny,
to the day, or you won’t enjoy what I’ll do to you. I think you know what I’m capable of by now.”
He wants me to struggle and worry and have sleepless nights because of him, to break the law
or do things I detest. It will probably delight him if I get arrested or killed trying to pay off his debt.
My face falls as if I’m shocked and upset, but inside I want to laugh. Five thousand pounds a week is
easy.
“All—all right,” I quaver, as if I’m terrified by his instructions. “If that’s what you want.”
He watches me narrowly and I wonder if he can see through my pretense. “I’ll cut your debt in
half right now if you tell me where you’re getting this money.”
My mouth goes dry. I would owe him two hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds instead of
four hundred and fifty, less what I’ve already given him. That seems like a far more manageable sum.
Then I remember the soft look in Misha’s eyes as he holds me close. The feel of his hand
enclosing mine. I can’t unleash a man like Mr. Ravnikar on him.
I pull out my phone. “I’d rather pay back every penny my father stole from you. Now get out of
my way before I call the police and tell them you’re keeping me here against my will.”
Slowly, his body taut with anger, Mr. Ravnikar moves aside, but only just enough to let me
pass. My body grazes his as I lunge for the door handle. Every nerve screams that I’ve brushed up
against an apex predator and I feel his eyes boring into the back of my neck all the way down the
corridor.
At university, I have four hours of classes and they pass uneventfully. Afterwards Sloane and I
study in the library for two hours, and I finally start to feel normal again. Now that the terror has
passed, it feels good to have stood up to Mr. Ravnikar. I won’t be bullied or bribed, and when he
realizes I won’t play his games he’ll get bored of me and just let me pay my debt.
I hope so, anyway.
We’re packing up our books when my phone buzzes, and I see it’s a text from Misha. I take a
deep breath, trying to quell the happiness that’s suddenly burst through me at seeing his name flash up
on my phone. I can’t dump Misha. I can’t, and I won’t.
I know it’s late notice but are you free for supper? I have a tedious board meeting followed
by an even more tedious dinner. It would make me happy to have you to look forward to.
I feel my heart turn over and reply straight away. Yes, of course. Where shall I meet you?
He sends me a location pin for a cocktail lounge in town and a time to meet him. I say
goodbye to Sloane and head out of the library towards the Tube stop, my head full of thoughts about
Misha. What pulls me out of my reverie a few minutes later is the strange dark blot hovering at the
corner of my vision every time I turn my head to cross a street or look in a shopfront. After the sixth
time it happens, I start to feel uneasy, and I turn around and stare into the crowd of commuters filing
past me.
Is someone following me?
I can’t see anyone suspicious and no one is staring at me or hiding behind a newspaper. I think
I must just be being paranoid.
At home I shower and put my hair into hot rollers, which cool while I go over the notes I
made today in the library. At nine p.m. I’ve got my makeup on and hair done, I’m wearing a dress and
the Chanel heels and I run out the door to the waiting car.
Misha is already in a booth at the cocktail lounge and he stands up to greet me. I slink into his
arms for a kiss and after his lips brush mine he murmurs in my ear, “Ljubica. I’ve been looking
forward to seeing you all afternoon.”
I press my body against his broad chest for a moment. God. Same. I step back and my fingers
run down his tie, and I smile. “You’re wearing the one I gave you.”
“I am. It’s my favorite now. Are you hungry?”
We sit down close together and he keeps an arm around my hips. There’s a new intimacy
between us since Dubrovnik and it makes my heart sing. “Famished. But did you eat already?”
 He gives me a squeeze as the waiter appears, and then lets go so he can order for us. “Barely.
I was waiting for you.”
Cocktails arrive, and then lobster macaroni and cheese and soft-shell tacos. I try to enjoy the
food and Misha’s company but I get that strange being-watched feeling again.
“Something wrong, ljubica?” he asks finally, noticing I’m distracted.
People are sitting up at the bar, holding cocktails and glasses of wine. “Not really. I just
wondered if…oh, it’s nothing.”
I expect Misha to go back to what he was talking about but he turns to look as well, his frown
hard as he scans the room. It’s sweet of him to take my worries seriously rather than brush them off,
but I’m sure it was nothing. Seeing Mr. Ravnikar today has made me paranoid.
When we finish our food and drinks Misha suggests we head home. I like sitting here with
him, though, and that cocktail has helped me relax. “Just one more drink?”
He levels a stern look at me. “I believe you have class tomorrow?”
Rats. I do have class tomorrow. Misha walks us out to the front while holding my hand, and I
remember how I thought this would feel awkward when I first met him. How I thought I would have to
force affection for him. Happiness that’s got nothing to do with the alcohol fills me as I imagine all
the days and weeks spread before us. We’ve got plenty of time together and I want nothing more than
just to be his for every day of it. It’s not too much to ask, is it, just to be his? I don’t mean I want to be
loved. Not really. Not out loud. I would never say it.
But if he did fall in love with me…
I make a mental note to look up the Slovenian for I love you when I get home. Just out of
curiosity, so I can taste those foreign syllables in my mouth and swallow down their sweetness.
The Bentley is waiting by the curb. “Let me give you a ride home,” Misha offers. Then he
stops short and turns back, digging a cloakroom ticket out of his pocket. “Wait, I forgot my jacket.”
He goes back inside and I stand on the street, enjoying the warm evening. I’ll give Misha my
real address when he gets back and just hope he doesn’t mind that I lied to him. I think he’ll
understand that I needed to protect myself. I want to show him that I trust him now.
As the driver gets out on the far side of the car to open the door for me, a nondescript black
car pulls up behind us. I idly watch the passenger-side front and back doors open, and two very large
men get out, their hard eyes on me.
They come straight for me.
Lost in thought, I don’t really understand what’s happening. One of them reaches inside his
jacket, and finally it sinks in.
Danger.
 I turn to run, not back into the bar toward people and safety, but along the street. I can feel
myself making the wrong decision but it’s too late, and then I trip over my high-heels and go flying. I
can see large gloved hands out of the corner of my eye and it’s falling, ironically, that saves me from
being snatched. I sprawl on the concrete, landing heavily on one hand and grazing my knees savagely.
Pain shoots up my left arm.
Mr. Ravnikar. I know this is happening because of him. He took exception to the way I
disrespected him today and now he’s sent these men to hurt me to get revenge. Terror expands through
me as I try to scramble up. Why did I think I’d be able to get the better of him?
“Ciara.”
There’s a shout. Scuffling feet. A man says in a confused voice, “Mr. Rav—” and then there’s
a sickening dull thud, a groan, and a body slumps to the ground. I turn and see Misha grappling with
one of my assailants while the other lies unconscious on the ground.
I expected to see Misha bleeding on the ground, but they haven’t touched him. He grabs the
second man by the throat and slams him face-first into the door of the Bentley. There’s a cracking
sound and blood spurts over the blue paint. The man slides loosely to the ground, eyes closed.
All around us people are staring. Someone’s calling the police. I’m barely aware of it. I’m
only aware of Misha. He stares at me, breathing hard, blood on his knuckles and a flat, destructive
expression in his eyes.
I don’t recognize him at all.
Then his features shift and I see the Misha I know. He hurries over to help me up with gentle
hands. “You’re safe now, ljubica. It’s all right. Get in the car.” With his arm around my waist he helps
me into the Bentley. He gets in behind me and slams the door.
“Shouldn’t we wait for the police?” I ask, looking out the window at the men unconscious on
the ground. The edges of my vision seem blurry and time seems to be passing in short jumps.
“Drive,” he practically snarls at the driver. “Head for the motorway.”
We wend our way through tight London streets while Misha checks me over, feeling my ankles
for broken bones and my scalp for lumps and blood. He tuts in sympathy when he sees my scraped
knees and the heels of my hands. “Where else are you hurt?”
“My wrist,” I say, holding it out to him and he takes it gently between his fingers. I can’t tell if
it’s broken or not. Misha manipulates it carefully and feels the bones. I wince, but I let him do it.
“Did you feel a snap when you fell?”
“No, it just hurts a lot.”
“I think it’s sprained, not broken, but we’ll get you x-rayed as soon as we can.”
I search his face for that ruthless, frightening person I glimpsed while he was beating up Mr.
Ravnikar’s men, but he’s gone. I wonder if I imagined him. “Is that where we’re going, to the
emergency room?”
But he doesn’t answer, and I think I see a flicker of that brutality again, as if he’s imagining
going back to the men who hurt me and fucking them up all over again. I start to shake uncontrollably,
imagining the terrible things that could be happening to me right now if Misha hadn’t been there.
The patrons don’t even mind if the girls have a few scars. Makes them work harder.
Why did I think I had any power when I know how he wants to destroy me utterly? It was
never about the money. I might have escaped tonight, but this is far from over.
I’m never going to be free.
Misha notices I’m shaking and puts his jacket around me, warm from his body heat. Then he
leans over and opens a compartment in the passenger door next to him, rummages around for a
moment and then pulls out a small box.
“It’s not a first-aid kit, but it’s a start,” he explains. I hear the snap of a blister packet and then
he’s offering me his hand and a bottle of water. “Take these. All of them. They’re painkillers.”
There are four white pills on Misha’s palm and I obediently pick them up and swallow them
down, two at a time. We keep driving and I wait for the pain in my wrist to diminish but all I can think
is, What am I going to do now? There’s nowhere I’ll be safe. Mr. Ravnikar is never going to forgive
this. Misha’s in danger now, too. I have to tell him so he’s ready. He’s going to be so angry with me.
Slowly, eventually, almost against its will, my mind slows down and I realize Misha is talking
quietly to me, his lips warm against my temple. “You’re safe. Nothing can hurt you now. I’m going to
see to it that nothing happens to you, I promise you, ljubica.”
I sink against him, grateful for his warmth and comfort. He hasn’t even demanded to know
who the men are who attacked me. All he cares about is that I’m safe. All the anxiety seems to be
seeping out of me as I lean into his embrace.
“How do you feel?” he asks softly.
Everything still hurts but I don’t really care anymore. I can’t even find the energy to tell him
so. He pulls me up so I’m nestled in his lap, my cheek against his chest. I’m warm and heavy in his
embrace, and strangely tired all of a sudden.
Misha’s voice near my ear is a soft murmur. “Just close your eyes for a moment. I’ll keep you
safe.”
If I’ve had a shock shouldn’t I be wide awake? My eyes close and the relief is intense. I’m so
very sleepy. No need to think. Just rest. Misha is here and everything is going to be all right. It will
always be all right, because I have him.
Before I can slip into unconsciousness I reach up with fumbling fingers and stroke along his
strong jaw.
“Misha?” I mumble, my eyes still closed. His heart is beating, strong and deep, against my
cheek.
“Yes, ljubica?”
“I’m falling in love with you.” And then everything goes black.
 Misha

“Ljubim te, Ciara,” I say softly into her hair. I look down at her, sleeping in my arms, as peaceful and
beautiful as an enchanted princess. I’ve never said those words, in English or Slovenian, but they feel
so right, whispered in the darkness as we speed through the night.
I love her, and she loves me.
I didn’t want to drug her. The pills are for my insomnia and I gave her a double dose so I’d be
sure to knock her out. This kind is almost impossible to overdose on but she’ll feel groggy when she
wakes up. It’s going to be frightening for her but every second matters if we’re to live through the
night. I don’t have time to explain so it’s better she’s asleep for this.
“Take us to the airport,” I tell the driver quietly, and then drag my eyes away from Ciara’s
peaceful face to message the pilot and tell him to get the plane ready.
No flight attendant, I text. Just a co-pilot. Someone lean and not too tall.
The pilot doesn’t question my strange request. Yes, Mr. Ravnikar. On our way.
Then I call Bethany, because she’ll be in danger from Damir, too. Once he knows Ciara and I
have disappeared he’ll go straight to her to find out if she knows anything, and if he gets hold of her it
won’t be pretty.
Bethany’s phone goes straight to voicemail. For fuck’s sake. I spend half my time prizing her
off her phone and now she won’t answer? It’s eleven-fifteen at night but that’s not particularly late for
her, and I’ve never known her to have her phone switched off. I try twice more and then send her a
text message and an email, impressing on her how urgent it is that she gets to the airport, now.
Then I sit back and wait. There’s no one else to call. Ciara has no siblings. No parents. No
one to come after her and try and take her from me. This is about protecting her from Damir but I can’t
help the possessive impulse that goes through me when I look down at her sleeping face. All mine, on
my terms.
When we get to the airport I carry Ciara aboard the jet, the night air stirring her long hair. The
engines are whining but her eyelids barely flicker as I settle her into the leather seat and buckle her in.
Because there’s no flight attendant I locate the first-aid kit myself and find an instant ice pack for her
wrist and antiseptic and bandages for her scrapes. She murmurs a little as I clean her wounds, the
sharpness of the antiseptic penetrating her barbiturate fog.
When she’s bandaged up I cover her with a blanket and settle her wrist on the ice pack in her
lap. I try not to imagine her at Damir’s mercy, but terrible, blood-soaked images invade my head.
Angrily, I check my phone. Still nothing from Bethany. I’ve called her on many occasions in
the middle of the night if I’m flying in and need something urgently for the morning. She grumbles
about it and tells me I’m an asshole, but she always picks up and does what I ask. Of all the days for
her to decide to turn her phone off. Unless…
Unless Damir has got to her already. In which case there’s nothing I can do for her. I stare
bleakly out of the cabin window, watching the plane refuel.
The night he killed our father I discovered what Damir was capable of. All he asked in return
for saving my life was unswerving loyalty, and I’ve given it to him all these years. Now I’ve taken
away his toy, but worse, I’ve gone behind his back and worked against him. He’ll never forgive my
betrayal.
I look down at Ciara, remembering how close he came to hurting her. I’ll never forgive him,
either.
The pilot appears in the cockpit doorway, glancing over Ciara’s sleeping form and then at me.
“We’ll be ready to take off in ten minutes, Mr. Ravnikar.”
It’s so tempting to leave as soon as possible, but Bethany is just as defenseless as Ciara. I
need to give her every chance possible to see my messages and get herself here.
“Not yet,” I tell him, and he nods.
I sit down next to Ciara and watch her as she sleeps. There’s so much for me to do and so
much I’ll have to explain to her, but I want this small moment of peace. Gently, I push a strand of her
hair back from her face. Would she have been better off if I’d never contacted her? In trying to protect
her from Damir, have I only put her in more danger? Ten years in a strip club would have been
grueling but at least she would have been free in the end. Tonight, I may have just handed us both a
death sentence. Damir’s men will tell him I was with Ciara and he will connect the dots with
lightning speed. Why I’ve been looking at him like I hate him. Why she’s had all this money to give
him apparently out of nowhere. I can imagine his angry raving. My own fucking brother and that
whore of a girl, conspiring against me. Humiliating me!
I glance at my watch. Half-past midnight, and still no reply from Bethany. The sleeping pills I
gave Ciara will start to wear off in an hour or two and I need her to remain unconscious until we’re
airborne. We have to leave. I send a final email and voicemail to Bethany, telling her to leave the
country as soon as she gets my message. Then I go to my laptop and transfer her five hundred thousand
pounds from various accounts. That should be enough to keep her afloat until she finds that rich
husband she’s told me she wants. I imagine her in St. Tropez or a Swiss ski resort, allowing a wealthy
old man to buy her a glass of champagne while she surreptitiously checks whether his watch is inlaid
with diamonds.
She’ll be fine, I tell myself. But as I nod to the pilot and he secures the door, guilt needles my
flesh. If it was just me in danger I’d go and get her myself, but I’ve sacrificed her for Ciara’s sake.
Bethany’s a good person. She deserved better.
We taxi down the runway and then the engines roar. Ciara stirs for a moment and I think she’s
going to wake, but as London drops away beneath us her eyes remain closed. I take one long, last look
at the city that’s been my home for the last thirty years. The place where Damir and I carved out our
empire. The city in which we tried to leave our pasts behind.
Once we’ve levelled off, I connect to the satellite internet on my laptop and get to work.
There’s a lot to do if I’m going to ruin my brother, utterly and completely. This is not revenge, this is
to safeguard him from coming after us, but as I work I find I take vicious pleasure in my actions. For
the terror he’s caused Ciara. For the pain she suffered tonight. I see again his men looming over her as
she toppled to the ground. The gaping car door they intended to shove her through. I was seconds
away from losing her, and I don’t feel a shred of remorse as I take everything that makes Damir
powerful apart, piece by fucking piece.
I bet you thought I didn’t have this in me, brata, I think as I download, transfer and erase. I
wish I could see your face when you find out what I’ve done.
An hour later I hear Ciara take a sharp breath and I turn to see her eyelashes flutter open. Her
face is pale and confused as she tries to focus her eyes.
“Don’t try to move,” I tell her. “You’re safe. Everything’s fine.”
“Where are we?” she croaks, sitting up with effort and pushing the blanket off her legs. Then
she notices the safety belt around her hips. She frowns and peers around the cabin. “Is this your jet?
Were we going on a trip? I can’t remember…”
I’ve been dreading this moment. No matter how I explain this to her she’s going to go through
confusion, shock, and then finally, betrayal. I hesitate, wondering how to proceed. I hope I don’t have
to outright tell her that I’m not letting her go back to her own life, but I will if she pushes me. I would
rather that she sees this as the only course of action I could have taken, and she comes willingly.
Ciara’s eyes are large and worried. “Misha? I don’t remember anything after getting into your
car. What’s going on?”
I keep my voice low and soothing. “We’re taking a trip because you were in danger, but
everything’s all right now.” It’s best to keep things simple while she’s still groggy.
I reach for her hand but she unbuckles her safety belt and peers out the window next to her.
Then she gets up to look out the window on the opposite side of the plane. It’s pitch black out there.
With her hand cradled against her chest and the bandages on her knees she looks so vulnerable, and I
want to grab her and push her back into her seat so she doesn’t hurt herself, but I make myself sit still.
This time when she speaks I can hear the first shades of alarm in her voice. “Misha? What’s
going on?”
Keeping my face and voice neutral I say, “I needed to get you out of London because you’re in
danger from Damir Ravnikar. Those were his men who tried to abduct you in the street and they were
never going to stop until they did their master’s bidding. I was worried for your life, ljubica. I had no
choice.”
Silently, I beg for her to understand. To trust me. I’ve proved myself to be trustworthy, haven’t
I? I’ve held her, protected her, opened my heart to her. The last thing I want to do is cause her any
harm. I hope she knows that.
But at the sound of Damir’s name it’s as if a live current has gone through her. “How do you
know about him?” she asks, eyes wide like a frightened rabbit.
I hold out my hand to her, wanting her to sit down, but she ignores me. There’s so much to
explain that I don’t know where to start.
The last of Ciara’s tranquilizer haze seems to be passing off and her hand goes to her mouth in
shock. “Wait. I remember something. One of those men said ‘Mr. Rav’ right before you hit him. Was
he saying—who is—Misha.” She steps forward and clenches her hands on the lapels of my jacket,
then winces at the pain it causes her wrist. “Why was he saying ‘Mr. Ravnikar’ to you?”
Her blue eyes are confused and distressed and she’s all but begging me not to say it. It was
wonderful to have her love, even for these short hours.
“Because my name is Mikhail Ravnikar. Damir Ravnikar is my brother.”
 Ciara

I hear the words as if from down a long, dark tunnel, and they make no sense. Misha is just a rich man
I met on an online dating site. He’s got nothing to do with the cruel, vindictive Damir Ravnikar. Misha
Smith is my loving and tender sugar daddy and he doesn’t have a brutal bone in his body.
Except he does. He’s kept it well hidden, but you saw it yourself tonight, that Misha’s as
violent and dangerous as his brother.
I let go of his jacket and back away from him.
“Ljubica, I—”
“Don’t touch me!” I shriek. This can’t be happening. I’m trapped in a jet 35,000 feet above
god knows where with Damir Ravnikar’s brother. How the hell did this happen? Why did this
happen? Is this part of Mr. Ravnikar’s revenge? I have nothing and no one to help me. All I have is the
dignity of two square feet of space in Mikhail Ravnikar’s private jet, and I know even this is going to
be taken from me at any moment.
“How come I’m not dead yet?” I challenge him, my voice shaking. “What are you waiting for?
Or do you want to play with me, too? You should have just cut my face and made me work in one of
your clubs. That would have been kinder. This sort of revenge you and your brother have been acting
out on me, it’s sick. You’re sick.”
Misha stands up and walks toward me at the same pace I’m retreating from him, his whole
body clenched, fists tight at his side. A surge of panic goes through me, but I keep talking. I’ll say my
goddamn piece before he forces me into silence, once and for all.
“What was it, some weird game of good-cop, bad-cop? When Damir couldn’t frighten money
out of me did you decide to punish me another way instead? How is this fair? I never did anything to
you.”
My back hits a wall. There’s no place else I can go. Misha’s on me now, towering over me, a
wall of broad chest and dark suit, the painfully familiar scent of his cologne in my nostrils. He’s so
close I have to turn my head to one side. It’s too much like all the times we kissed. “Get away from
me, Mikhail.”
“I told you,” he grinds out in a seething voice, not moving an inch, “to call me Misha.”
I take a deep breath, and then another. “I’m not calling my murderer by a pet name. How did
you get me onto this plane? Did you drug me?” I remember those four pills I swallowed so trustingly
and I want to weep. How could I have been so stupid?
His gaze scours my face but he still says nothing. I thought I was so clever. I thought I was
winning these past few weeks, but before he kills me I will at least understand how they got the better
of me.
“Did you and Damir stage that fight outside the bar tonight? It was very convincing. Bravo.” I
have to stay angry otherwise I’ll give in to terror but it’s hard when I know he’s taking me far away
from my home. We could have been flying for hours already. What’s that advice they give if you’re
being abducted? Don’t let them take you to a second location.
I’m so screwed.
Misha grasps my chin with a thumb and forefinger and turns my face toward him, making me
look at him. “I have nothing to do with my brother or the things he’s done to you.”
“Don’t lie to me! You two tracked me down on a sugar dating website. You demanded over
and over that I see you, date you, take money from you, and I had no choice because I had Damir in
my other ear threatening to hurt me. How did you even find me on…”
I slap my hand to my forehead as if I’ve suddenly got a migraine, but it’s not a headache
making me wince. “Bethany. At uni. She’s the one who put the idea in my head. She works for you,
doesn’t she? Is that why you wanted me to keep going to class, so she could spy on me?”
Strong emotion flickers over Misha’s face, but I can’t place it. “She did work for me.”
I remember the emails I got from his assistant that made me laugh. That made me like her. Is
there anyone I can trust?
Sloane. I can trust Sloane. Thank god. She’ll go to the police when I don’t turn up at class or
answer my phone tomorrow. But then hope dies again, because Sloane doesn’t know anything about
who I’ve been seeing because I didn’t tell her. I moan softly and sink on rubbery legs to the floor. I’ve
walked, well-dressed and smiling, to my death.
Misha helps me onto a sofa and then kneels down before me, speaking urgently. “Ciara, I need
you to listen to me. I need you to trust me, because if you don’t trust me then we’re both going to end
up dead.”
There’s no way I’m ever going to trust anything out of his mouth ever again. I study his face,
the features that I’ve come to know so well. “Why didn’t I see it before?” I whisper. “You even look
like him. You’ve got the same brow, the same cheekbones.” His short black beard makes him appear
friendlier, less angular than Damir, and their eyes are a different shape, but if I’d looked carefully I
would have realized they were related. Misha’s gazing at me with the same icy determination I’ve
seen on Damir’s face. This is a man that will move the earth to get what he wants, and screw anyone
who gets in his way.
 “You can stop pretending now,” I say bleakly. “I know everything. When I wouldn’t strip for
Damir you made me prostitute myself to you instead. You just had to get your pound of flesh.”
I feel my face crumple, but I will not cry. He’s already had too many of my tears and I will not
show him that his cruelty is making me bleed inside.
“Did you both laugh at me behind my back? After we…” After we made love and I marveled
to him that I never thought it would feel like this between us. So pure. So precious. I need my
bulletproof sugar baby armor, that powerful feeling that comes from knowing that I’m the one with the
power. The coveted luxury. I hold the dice and tell them where to fall. But when I reach for my
defenses I find they’re not there. I was never a real sugar baby. Misha’s taken that from me, too.
He’s talking, and even though I don’t want to hear it I can’t block his words out. “I did all this
for you, not for him. I needed to protect you from him and this was the only way I knew how.”
I give a gasping half-laugh, half-sob. “You screwed me to protect me?”
“Ljubica—”
I spring to my feet and push past him, and he follows me. “Don’t call me that! Don’t pretend
that you ever had any real feeling for me, I can’t bear it.”
I can feel myself edging closer to hysterics and it’s so tempting to give in. To scream. To cry.
To lash out at anything within my reach, including him. Misha takes hold of my good wrist and pulls
me around to face him.
“Stop it,” he snaps. “Calm down and listen to me. I feel for you, deeply, and I’m sorry this is
happening. If there was any other way I would have taken it, but I had no choice. I know you feel the
same way about me as I do about you. Remember what you said to me in the car just a few hours
ago?”
The memory comes back like a speeding train and plows into me. I’m falling in love with
you.
I shake my head rapidly. “I was acting. It’s my job to make you think I feel more for you than I
do. I was only interested in your money.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re not made that way, Ciara.”
“I was pretending so you would give me money,” I insist. “It’s what girls like me do to men
like you. The oldest trick in the book. You’re so gullible, Mikhail Ravnikar.”
He slides a hand into my hair and grips it in his fist, forcing my gaze up to his. His words are
hot against my mouth. “You love me. You told me so. I live in your heart as surely as you live in mine.
Forever.”
“It was the drugs speaking,” I manage in a whisper. He wraps his other arm around me and
pulls me against his body. This is that other Misha, the one who beat two men unconscious in the
street, and there’s something hypnotic about his blazing blue eyes.
His lips graze mine as he whispers, “Did you ever touch me when you didn’t want to, ljubica?
Did you ever come and it wasn’t the truth?”
My eyes are threatening to close, my mouth is ready to accept his kiss. “I told you not to call
me that,” I whisper.
“Listen to your heart. What is it telling you? Is it telling you that you love me as much as I love
you?”
It feels like there’s a knife in my heart and he’s given it a vicious twist. Let him do whatever
he wants. He’s too strong, too clever to beat at his own game. I might even enjoy giving in to him.
And Damir? Do I want to let him win, too?
I wrench myself out of Misha’s embrace and snap my fingers in front of his face. “My head
can overrule my heart like that.”
He doesn’t blink but his face becomes a cold, hard mask once more. “Yes. I know it can, but it
doesn’t matter. You’ve got no choice but to do exactly what I tell you to do.”
I stare at Misha, wondering how he managed to hide this part of himself from me for so long. I
think back to when I first met him, the relentless manner in which he pursued me, the way he made me
give into him using words and badgering, money and affection, and I realize that this Misha was there
all along. I just refused to see him. I think he might be capable of anything, and what power do I have?
I’ve got a sprained wrist. Bandaged knees. A stupid dress and high heels that I put on to please him.
Misha’s got all power, and all the time in the world to do whatever he wants with me.
“I only slept with you because I thought my life depended on it.”
“Liar. I never asked you for sex. You were the one who went down on your knees before me in
my car. You were the one who insisted on coming to my room in Croatia.”
I pull back my right arm and slap him hard across the face, and his head snaps to one side.
Pain explodes in my palm but it’s a good, powerful pain. It reminds me of who I am. “I had to do
those things. You brother threatened to kill me.”
A muscle in Misha’s jaw flexes and when he turns back to me and his eyes smolder with fury.
“Sit down, Ciara.”
“No. I won’t do anything you say ever again. Do you know how much of a mindfuck this has
been, you fucking asshole? I have been killing myself to look good for you and make you happy so that
you keep paying me so I don’t die, and you’ve been touching me and kissing me like you actually care
about me. And now this?” I gesture around at the aircraft, at him. “You kidnap me, and then try to feed
me a whole new pack of lies? Are you insane? Of course I don’t believe anything you say.”
He points at the ground between us and says, “This is about keeping you safe, the best way I
know how. We both have to make sacrifices now to stay alive.”
“We have to make sacrifices? What have you had to sacrifice in all of this? You didn’t have to
pretend to be dumb and happy and a constant delight and waste hours putting on makeup and choosing
cute outfits, all for your benefit. You didn’t have to lie awake at night worrying about what your
feelings mean, and see blood and death and blades whenever you close your eyes.”
“Ciara—”
My voice becomes so loud and shrill I’m sure lifeforms can hear me in outer space. “Fuck
you, Mikhail!”
The words ring in the air for a moment but are drowned out by the muted roar of the jet.
Misha says quietly, “Damir sent those men after you and he would have kidnapped you
tonight, so now we’re going someplace he will never be able to hurt you. We’re both going to start
again, together.”
He holds out his hand to me, palm up, an intensity in his expression like he’s trying to
convince me of what he’s saying through sheer force of will.
My chest is heaving but I try to rein in my emotions. I need to frame this in terms that he might
be able to get his Neanderthal brain around.
“I don’t believe anything you’re saying and I never will. Even if you’re telling the truth about
Damir Ravnikar—which I don’t believe for a second—you have been lying about who you are this
entire time. You had sex with me multiple times under false pretenses and I’ll never forgive you for
that. Ever.”
 Misha

“Even the most unenlightened man should be able to understand that women don’t like to be lied to
and then taken to bed, Misha.” She says my name with venom and hatred. “And that’s the last time I’ll
ever call you that.”
Her blonde curls are tumbling over her shoulders and there are two bright spots burning in her
cheeks. She’s never looked more beautiful and I want to take her now, here on this sofa, letting her
work all her fury out with her nails on my back as I pound into her. I could reach out to her now and
take hold of her and feel her struggling in my arms, her body no match for mine. I could do anything I
wanted to Ciara and no one would stop me. Certainly not her with her injuries, in her skimpy dress
and no weapon at hand other than the pair of high heels on her feet.
It’s what Damir would do. It’s what my father would do. The Ravnikar way.
She must see the desire in my eyes as her lips part with shock and she takes half a step back,
her face draining of color.
The furious impulse passes a moment later. I’m not Damir or my father. I move away from her
and glance at my watch, and in my peripheral vision I see her sag in relief.
She really thought I was going to hurt her.
“We’ll be arriving at our destination in six hours,” I say crisply. “There are things we need to
discuss.”
She wraps her arms around herself, shaking her head. “I don’t want to talk about anything. I
just want to go home.”
“You were nearly abducted tonight. It’s not safe for you to be in London.”
“I was abducted tonight.”
Frustration crests in me like a wave. We can’t keep going around in circles. I need to start
from the beginning and lay out everything for her so she understands who I am, who Damir is, and
exactly why she’s in such terrible danger. I sit down on the sofa and pat the cushion next to me,
inviting her to join me. She doesn’t.
Fine, she can stand while I talk. I reach for my laptop and sort through my emails until I find
the one that I want.
“The first time I saw you,” I say quietly, looking up at her, “was at your parents funeral. I
wasn’t there,” I add, as her eyes widen in surprise, “but Damir filmed you and he emailed me the
footage the next day, wanting to know if there were any accountants or lawyers you were
surreptitiously meeting with. He was certain you were hiding money from him.”
I pass her my computer and she takes it. I watch her face carefully as she reads Damir’s email
and watches the footage. Her face goes blank in surprise.
When the shock at seeing herself passes, Ciara hands back my laptop and huffs angrily, “There
is no money. I’ve told him a dozen times that I was left with nothing after my parents died. Why do
you think I’ve been doing all this?” She plucks at the hem of her dress and scrunches her hair.
“I know, Ciara,” I say, hard and heavy, and then pause. The next part is hard to explain: the
impulse that made me set this whole scheme into motion. I take a small tangent and tell her something
she doesn’t know about me. “I’ve worked with Damir for nearly twenty years. We were young when
we started Ravnikar Enterprises, and we built it up from nothing. The things I do everyday at work
are ambitious and fulfilling, but I don’t deal with people very often and I don’t really know how to.
You saw how I was the first few interactions we had.”
Seemingly against her will, her eyes soften. “Yes, I remember. You were stuffy and rude.”
Looking back, I don’t know how we made it past that first date. I disliked her as much as she
disliked me. I didn’t know then the pleasures of talking to Ciara, of making her smile. I wonder if I
ever will again. “When I looked at you in that footage, I saw someone who didn’t deserve to become
embroiled in our cutthroat schemes and ruthless ambition, and I wanted to help you.”
Ciara looks away, vulnerable and uncomfortable, and for the first time I appreciate that she
was orphaned at the start of all this. She’s a strong young woman who’s used to taking care of herself,
but all the same it must have been a shock, knowing that she only had her own wits and resources to
protect herself against a man like Damir.
“Why did you want to help me?” she whispers.
I shake my head, remembering Bethany’s ironic comment when I told her my impulse to help
Ciara. “Oh, sir, what’s that on you? Is that—a conscience?” “It wasn’t just one thing. You looked
like you needed my help, and I was growing weary of Damir. Weary, and afraid.”
She looks at me in surprise.
“It’s the truth. Damir consumes people like wildfire and sooner or later I know he would have
turned on me. So I’ve turned on him first.”
There’s so much more to the strange relationship between Damir and me. Our upbringing in
Slovenia. My parents’ relationship to each other. To us. His disappearance. My coming to work with
him. But I try to focus on just this part first, so Ciara knows how she became tangled up in it.
“My PA gave me the idea about the sugar website and I thought it was worth a try. She knew
you from class and so she went to put the idea in your head.”
 Being reminded of that day must be painful as Ciara’s face creases as if she’s about to cry, but
she holds the tears back. I stand up and go to her, but she fends me off with her uninjured hand.
“It just hurts, hearing you admit how much you lied,” she says in a thick voice. “Don’t,
please.”
Unwillingly, I sit down and keep talking. “I knew you’d have to face Damir to give him money
and I thought the less you knew about where it came from the safer you’d be. I was wrong.”
She shakes her head, as if despairing of something. “I actually considered telling you about
Mr. Ravnikar extorting money from me, but I didn’t because I thought I’d be manipulating you. God,
I’m such an idiot. It was you who was manipulating me all along.”
At the beginning, yes, but that doesn’t mean that everything about our relationship was a lie.
My feelings for her aren’t a lie. I lean forward, beseeching her. “Ljub—” I cut myself off seeing the
furious look in her eye. “Ciara. Everything I said and did after our first date was the truth. I wasn’t
pretending to enjoy your company or find you beautiful. I thought about you every minute of every day,
wishing I could do more for you. Trying to find ways to protect you from Damir. Feeling guilty about
how little you knew about me.”
She immediately bridles. “You expect me to believe you felt guilty about sleeping with me
under false pretenses?”
I hate the outrage in her voice but at least she seems to be open to what I’m telling her, even if
she’s struggling with some of the details. “I didn’t like deceiving you. I gave you honesty when I
touched you. Every kiss was the truth.”
Her eyes drop and I think I see another flush of color in her cheeks. She’s silent for a moment,
considering what we’ve said. “What were you going to do after our time was up and my debt was
paid off? Were you ever going to tell me that you’re Damir Ravnikar’s brother?”
It’s something I’ve thought about so many times, and every time I made a new resolution. “At
first, I was going to let you go. That was my intention. Then I started to imagine that I might keep you.
Forever. Because I love you.”
“You don’t love me.”
“Yes, I do. I’ve loved you since Dubrovnik. I wish we’d met any other way.”
A wistful expression crosses her face, as if she’s imagining the same thing that I am. That
we’d met innocently on a dating site, or perhaps in a bar one night. That we’d both worked hard to
overcome our prejudices and insecurities, just as we have, and then that we’d fallen in love, just as
we have. That there was no Damir. No extortion. No lies.
I think we might have been happy.
Ciara snaps out of this happy daydream before I do. “Well, that was a lovely fairy story to
while away some of the flight. I think I’ll see what else can entertain me until we land and you tell the
pilot to take us straight back to London.”
She turns and strides to the other end of the plane, her gait loose-limbed as if she doesn’t have
a care in the world. But her clenched hands by her sides are white-knuckled.
I consider going after her and talking until I make her believe me, but I decide against it. She’s
got a lot to think over between now and when we land. I don’t want to force her to come with me, but
I will if I have to. There’s no way I’m letting her go back to London to face her death, or worse.
I set out from the beginning to protect her and I’m going to do it whether she likes it or not.
I go back to my laptop and keep working on the ruination of my brother, feeling oddly calm
about everything that has happened, and everything that lays ahead of me. I’m surprised that drugging
and kidnapping my lover hasn’t filled me with misgivings. Maybe I’m more like Damir and my father
than I thought I was.
A few hours later I glance at my watch and then up to the front of the plane where Ciara’s
sitting. She hasn’t moved, apart from to recross her legs or shift in her seat, and her eyes are fastened
on a spot directly in front of her.
I get up and go and stand by her seat. “We’re going to land shortly. Do you have any questions
before we change planes?”
She shakes her head, still looking straight ahead. “I’m not changing planes. I’m going back to
London.”
There isn’t time for persuasion. I’m going to have to force her. “Take off your clothes.”
Ciara’s eyes snap to mine and she regards me with a look of mingled fear and disgust, but I
don’t care. Better alive and hating me than dead.
“Screw you, Mikhail.”
I lean down and put my face very close to hers and say in a low, seething voice. “I’m not
asking. Do it or I’ll strip you myself.”
 Ciara

I fucking hate him. This has to be some kind of record, confessing your love to a man and then doing a
one-eighty on your feelings in a matter of hours.
We disembark the plane with Misha’s coat covering both of our heads, and walk quickly down
the stairs to the waiting car. My high heels flash in the thin morning light and a brisk wind blows.
Misha hasn’t told me where we’ve landed but it’s cold here, and winter has cast its pall over the sky
and landscape. Are we somewhere in the Arctic circle perhaps, like Northern Canada? Or the
southern hemisphere?
We get into the car and it speeds off along the tarmac to the gates. The moment we’re through
the barricade another car races toward us. There’s a screech of tire rubber as the unknown car cuts us
off, and three men leap out, brandishing handguns.
Misha points a finger at the pilot and co-pilot, dressed in our clothes and currently getting out
of the car with their hands up. “This is why we changed clothes.”
Inside the jet, I put a hand over my mouth and shrink away from the cabin window. I don’t
want to see this. The co-pilot’s uniform is baggy on my body. Beside me Misha, dressed in the pilot’s
uniform, grips my arm and holds me in place. “No. I want you to see this.”
In the distance I see the co-pilot, wearing my dress, pull a gun out from behind my clutch and
fire six shots in rapid succession. One of the attackers goes down immediately. The pilot, dressed in
Misha’s dark suit, grapples with another of the assailants.
I feel my heart beating in my throat as I watch the scene. I thought Misha was being needlessly
dramatic when he told me we were going to switch clothes and the pilot and co-pilot were going to
take our places. It doesn’t seem real. That could be us down there, fighting for our lives.
“Are they going to be all right?” I ask in a tight voice.
One of the men brutally backhands the co-pilot across the face. He responds by driving the
point of my high-heel into his attacker’s crotch, and the ill-fitting shoe flies off. He slams the hilt of
his gun into the back of his attacker’s head as he doubles over. The man slumps to the ground,
unconscious.
“Both of them are ex-Royal Air Force. They’ll be fine.”
The pilot dispatches the last assailant with a brutal punch and suddenly the fight is over. We
watch as the pilot and co-pilot drag the dead or unconscious bodies into the back seat of their car, and
then drive back to us.
Misha stands up, and his face is tight and cold. I can’t sense any emotion from him now at all,
and it disturbs me. It’s as if he’s decided to switch everything off so he can focus on the task at hand.
I turn to face him with a shiver. “Who were those men?”
He reaches over and pulls a blanket off one of the couches and passes it to me. “They were
probably local gang members, hired by Damir to take us prisoner. I doubt he’s had time to get here
himself. Not yet.”
“But how did he know where we are?” As I wrap the blanket around myself, I think I see grim
satisfaction in his eyes that I’m asking these questions, and I add quickly, “This doesn’t mean I
believe what you’ve told me.”
He flicks me a sardonic look. “This is my jet. It’s not hard to track a plane via air-traffic
control systems when you know its registration.”
The pilot and co-pilot come aboard. Both are disheveled, and the co-pilot’s nose is bleeding.
I want to go to him, say sorry, ask if he’s all right, but he grabs a stack of paper napkins and holds
them to his face, matter-of-fact. Everyone is calm except for me.
Misha motions to me, brisk and authoritative. “Come on. We need to get out of here before
Damir becomes suspicious about why those men haven’t reported in to him.”
The pilot passes him a handgun and shoulder holster, which Misha buckles on and then covers
with the pilot’s jacket.
I stay where I am. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
Misha straightens the collar of his shirt. “Ciara. Please don’t make this difficult.”
He’s stopped saying ljubica. I’m just Ciara now. I know I told him not to use that endearment,
but it still sounds strange from his mouth. “I never said I was going anywhere with you. In fact, I
distinctly remember you promising to take me back to London if I listened to your nonsense.”
Misha leans down to me and says, “Do you think that was a welcoming party out there? If you
don’t stand up and start walking I will haul you over my shoulder and carry you to that car myself.”
I stare up at Misha, weighing my options. I’ve got no money, no passport, no phone. I don’t
even know what country we’re in. There was a shootout less than five minutes ago a few hundred feet
from where I’m standing. Would the pilots come to my aid if I starting kicking and screaming and
trying to get away from Misha? I glance at them and they’re talking in low voices to each other, not
bothered in the least by the fact their boss is looming over me in a threatening manner.
No, they won’t help me.
Angrily, I get to my feet. “Everything you’re doing only makes me hate you more.”
Misha seems unconcerned by this as he grips me firmly by the upper arm and marches me
outside and down to the waiting car. The bodies of the three attackers have been taken out and
dragged to one side. Two of them are bound so perhaps they’re unconscious, not dead.
As I get into the front passenger seat I avert my gaze from the bloodstains in the back. Misha
gets into the driver’s seat, starts the car and puts his foot down. At the gate my heart starts to pound
and I expect another car to race up and for men to get out, aiming guns at us. But nothing happens.
Misha slows the car just enough to make a left-hand turn, and then we’re off in a scream of tire
rubber.
“Jesus Christ, Misha,” I say, forgetting to call him Mikhail. I fumble for my seatbelt and fasten
it with shaking hands. “Are you a goddamn racing car driver?”
He changes up through the gears in rapid progression and answers me without taking his eyes
off the road ahead. “Amateur. In my youth.”
I glance at the speedometer. One hundred and thirty kilometers an hour. What’s that, like eighty
miles per hour? I grip the bar above the passenger door. “Slow down, can’t you?” He doesn’t reply. I
suppose he’s in a hurry to get wherever we’re going. “If you like driving so much why do you never
drive in London?”
“Because driving in London is about as much fun as having a root canal.” There’s a dark
gleam in his eye as he coaxes even more speed from the car. We’re on deserted roads right now but I
hope he keeps this up when we enter a more built-up area. I would love for us to get pulled over by
the cops.
I still have the blanket Misha gave me and I’m glad for it, as the soft wool is comforting amid
all this upheaval and uncertainty. As we drive I gaze at the landscape of scrubby plains and distant
houses. There are mountains beyond, and one in particular stands out against the lightening sky
because it has a distinctive flat top. I frown, wondering if I recognize it. We’re driving on the left, as
we do in Britain, so we’re not in Europe or Canada, or the United States. Australia? No, we couldn’t
have reached Australia without refueling.
We pass a road sign emblazoned with a Dutch-sounding name. “South Africa,” I say
involuntarily.
“Clever girl,” Misha replies, ironically, but without heat. He seems to wait for me to question
him about our destination, but I turn away and look out the window again, even though I’m burning to
know. I’m not going to chat away with my kidnapper as if I’m fine with what he’s doing to me.
Forty-five minutes later the adrenaline coursing through my system has worn off and I’m left
feeling weak and shivery. The co-pilot’s clothes smell of an aftershave I don’t like. I just want to go
home and for everything to go back to the way it was. I remember Dubrovnik and the happy time we
had there, before I knew who Misha really was, and stupid tears fill my eyes. Everything seemed so
hopeful under that big blue sky. I was going to pay off my debt to Mr. Ravnikar, I was on-track with
my coursework again and I’d met a man who filled me with happiness every time I slipped into his
arms and he held me close.
I can’t help the sniffle that escapes me and I swipe at my eyes. It’s terrible to admit to myself,
but I miss loving Misha. Now I’ll never be happy again, because who could learn to trust a man
enough to love him after this?
Misha takes his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at me. “I’m sorry about all this,” he
says in a rough voice. “I know it’s hard. I wish…”
But he doesn’t finish the sentiment. He can be as sorry as he likes but that doesn’t change
anything he’s done or the lies he’s told. He reaches for my hand but I pull mine away. “Don’t touch
me.”
Fifteen minutes later I’m not surprised to see us pull into another private airport. There’s a jet
refueling on the tarmac and fear clenches in my belly. Where’s Misha taking me now?
He’s quick to get out of the car and come round to my door. As I get out my eyes flicker to the
shoulder holster that I know is beneath his jacket. Would he draw the gun on me if I try to get away?
For a moment he seems puzzled by the direction of my gaze, and then he seems to read my
mind. “Ciara. The gun is to protect you. I don’t need to threaten you. You’re half my size and I’m
much, much stronger than you are.”
To demonstrate, he reaches for me, one of his shoulders dipping, and I see that he intends to
haul me over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. I jump back quickly against the car, both hands raised,
and but he keeps coming. For a moment he’s nearly pressed against me and I feel the warmth of his
body radiating against mine. Even now I feel the impulse to get lost in his touch. Misha seems to
know this, and his arms slip around my waist, big hands splayed, and a pulse of heat goes through me.
“Remember what this felt like?” he asks, his lips murmuring against mine. “The way we fit so
beautifully together?”
I could never forget that. His arms tighten around me and my hips presses against his, and I
feel his cock thickening against my thigh. I’m trapped in his embrace, like a bird who has learned to
love her cage.
I lift my chin with bravado I don’t feel. “Does it get you off, knowing I’m completely in your
power?”
“I find I don’t dislike it. I’m the hero, saving the damsel in distress. Taking her to my castle
far, far away.”
“You don’t seem like the hero just now. You’re more like the dragon.”
“Maybe I’m both,” he murmurs with a smile, and he presses his mouth against mine in a slow,
hungry kiss. I feel him all the way down to my toes, and in my nipples which are pressed against his
chest. One of his hands moves lower, into the cleft of my behind, and then searches for my sex through
the co-pilot’s trousers. When he touches me there my whole body lights up, and his tongue caresses
mine with tender heat.
I wrench my mouth away from his. “Let go of me. You’ve got me captive, there’s no need to
humiliate me as well.”
I press my good hand against his chest. I can feel how much he doesn’t want to step back but
finally he does, his face closed. He takes hold of my upper arm again as if worried I might do a
runner. I would, too, bare feet and all.
The engines are roaring as we board the plane. Inside, the jet is as plush as Misha’s own, with
leather seats, a large television screen at the back and sofas lining the walls. “Whose plane is this?”
He directs me to a pair of seats and sits down beside me for takeoff. “I’ve hired it.”
My ears perk up at this. A hired plane. A female flight attendant in a pencil skirt, white blouse
and high heels is fastening the cabin door, and then she comes towards us with a tray of drinks and a
plastic smile. She doesn’t look like ex-armed forces. This is my chance.
As she leans down to offer us a selection of champagne and soft drinks I lean forward and
gabble at her, “Please, I’m a British citizen and this man has kidnapped me.”
Beside me, Misha reaches out, unconcerned, and plucks two bottles of sparkling water off the
tray. The woman doesn’t even bat an eyelid as she waits for me to choose something, too.
What the hell? Can she not hear me? Maybe she doesn’t speak English. I try again to make her
understand, hoping that help or danger or kidnap or embassy might mean something to her. I clutch
her arm but she seems more concerned about the drinks as they spill rather than the agitated young
woman crying out for help.
I round on Misha angrily and see that his eyes are glimmering with amusement. “Who did you
hire this jet from?”
He considers this. “Let’s just say I didn’t find it in the Yellow Pages.”
I watch the woman walk away, my eyes boring angrily into her back. A fellow woman,
ignoring my pleas for help. It feels worse than the same betrayal by a man would. Misha tries to pass
me one of the bottles of water but I slap his hand away. This jet must belong to one of the dodgy
people he knows through Ravnikar Enterprises. Asshole.
We take off, and once we’ve leveled off the flight attendant comes back and says to us, in
accented English, that the bedroom at the back of the plane is ready if we’d like to rest or wash up.
I glare up at her. So she did understand what I was saying to her about being kidnapped, and
she ignored me.
 Once she leaves us alone again, Misha says, “Go and rest. You’re going to need it.”
That sounds ominous. I don’t want to accept anything from anyone on this plane, but a room to
myself away from Misha and the flight attendant sounds appealing. After considering it for a moment,
I stand up. So does Misha.
“You’re not coming with me,” I protest.
“No. I’m going to sleep here,” he replies, going over to the sofa. Out of the corner of my eye I
see him rub his hands over his face, as if he’s weary with something more than fatigue.
I wish I knew what to make of him and the things he’s told me. If he’s been working with
Damir all this time to punish me for my father’s crimes, shouldn’t he be gloating now? Shouldn’t
Damir be here, too, telling me how they played me for a fool and made me give up everything to
Misha? The other explanation, that Misha has been going behind his brother’s back and trying to help
me, that he truly does love me, seems wildly unlikely. Brothers don’t just betray each other for
unknown women, especially not daughters of men who’ve screwed them over.
I stand in the doorway to the bedroom, hesitating. “Mish—Mikhail. I don’t understand why
you’re still lying to me. You and Damir have won. Can’t you just admit that you tricked me into…”
Falling for you. “Believing you were trustworthy?”
“I told you,” he says, not looking at me as he piles all the cushions at one end of the sofa. “I
was never on Damir’s side. I’ve always been on yours.”
I don’t believe him, but I play along just so I can poke holes in his ridiculous story. “So you’re
going to all this effort because Damir wants to kidnap me, and yet you’re doing the same yourself?”
He rounds on me, anger sparking in his eyes. “I think we need to settle this once and for all. I
am not my brother. I will do whatever needs to be done, but for your sake, not mine. Selfishness
drives him. Cruelty drives him.” Misha jabs a finger at his chest. “It does not drive me.”
He’s exhausted, wound up and dangerously close to losing his temper, but conviction burns
brightly in his eyes. As a lawyer you have to evaluate the believability of your client. If you put them
on the witness stand to tell their side of the story, will they come across as truthful? I study the man
before me, the way he holds my gaze, sincere passion in the way he speaks. If Misha had been
accused of a crime and hired me to represent him, I’d put him on the witness stand.
Some people, though, can lie through their teeth while appearing to be as innocent as the
Madonna.
“Then what does drive you?”
He turns back to the cushions and mutters, “The memory of the person someone once thought I
was.”
Someone once thought he was a good person? Who? I know that he and Damir were born in
Slovenia. That they run Ravnikar Enterprises together. That he raced cars as a young man. And now,
that someone once thought he was a good man.
I turn away and go through the door into the bedroom at the back of the jet, closing it behind
me. Misha is asking me to trust him, but with all that’s happened to me lately I don’t know if I can. My
trust has taken one hell of a beating.
The interior of the bedroom is large, warm and comfortable, more like a hotel room at the
Four Seasons than anything that should be airborne. There’s a double bed with a cream comforter and
half a dozen fat pillows. Someone’s laid out two pairs of pajamas, a man and a woman’s set, as if
they expected Misha and I to go to bed together, hold each other, sleep wrapped around each other in
this safe little nest in the sky.
As I step into the bathroom complete with shower and turn the taps on, I imagine what Misha
and I would be doing now if we were on good terms. In private for the first time in many hours, he’d
take me in his arms and kiss me. Maybe we’d even share a tired laugh at the pilots’ uniforms we’re
both wearing, before stripping them off each other and making love, ferociously, because we came so
close to death just a short time ago. I’d want him to pin me down so I was helpless beneath him, and
revel in the weight of him, the strength of him, as he pounded me hard into the mattress.
I make an involuntary moan in the back of my throat, and step into the shower to distract
myself. The water is hot with surprisingly good pressure and, one-handed, I scrub the grit and
exhaustion of the last day from my skin and hair.
When I come back into the bedroom I see a tray with a croissant, fruit, orange juice, and a pot
of both tea and coffee. I’m hungry, and I need to keep my wits about me. I opt for a cup of milky tea as
I munch my way gratefully through the pastry and pieces of strawberry and melon.
Finally, exhausted in body, head and heart I get into the comfortable bed and close my eyes,
but my mind won’t slow down. Someone, somewhere in the universe, knows why all this is
happening. Someone knows the truth about what sort of man Misha is. When I was little I thought of
truth as some kind of omnipotent god, that if only you revered it enough you would eventually
discover all the secrets you wanted. Not just about big mysterious things, like who killed JonBenét
Ramsey and the fate of flight MH370, but personal things, too, like whether your friend in high school
was lying when she said she didn’t kiss your boyfriend. Studying law means becoming obsessed with
the truth. Is that person lying? Why might they be lying? Can we even comprehend reality, objectively
and absolutely?
I’ve never wanted to know the truth about something more in my life. Misha the savior, or
Misha the manipulator?
White knight, or bad dragon?
 I examine the two possibilities in turn, poking and prodding them with my mind. I’ve always
believed that the simplest explanation is probably the correct one, but both are hopelessly
complicated and there’s too much I don’t know. It’s tempting to make an emotional decision, to go
with my gut, but I make a face. Gut instincts are for jurors, not lawyers. I need something solid to go
on.
My last thought before I fall asleep is to wonder where in the world I’ll be when I open my
eyes again.
I wake sometime later with the sensation that time has passed. When I check the row of clocks
on the wall I see that five hours have gone by. Each clock has a label: London, New York, Los
Angeles, Tokyo and Sydney. It’s Tuesday afternoon in London. I’d be coming home from class if I was
at home, maybe rushing so that I could get ready to meet Misha. Perhaps on the way I would have
stopped by Ravnikar Enterprises to drop off—
I give a short, humorless laugh and swing my legs out of bed, because I’ve just realized that I
won’t have to worry about paying my father’s debt off anymore. Not with money, anyway. Damir and
Misha probably have something else in mind for me, if Theory B is correct, and Misha is a master
manipulator.
Someone—presumably that horrible flight attendant—has laid out a change of clothes for me.
When I inspect them I see that they’re my size. Maybe there’s a special kidnapping package that can
be purchased with the hire of this jet, I think sourly, that comes with women’s clothing and no
questions asked.
I dress in the jeans, baby doll tee and ballet flats, splash cold water over my face, and then
head cautiously out into the main cabin.
The couch looks as if it’s been slept on. Misha is awake, working at his laptop, still in the
pilot’s uniform. He looks up as I approach, a guarded expression in his eyes. “Good morning.”
“Afternoon,” I correct as I sit down, stubbornly sticking to London time. The flight attendant
appears and asks if I would like coffee, and says that she’ll be serving lunch shortly. I tell her that
yes, I would like coffee, and I stare balefully at her back as she retreats.
A moment later she returns with a silver pot and a tray with two cups, smiling her plastic
smile.
“You expect me to believe you’re a good person,” I say to Misha as she pours coffee for us,
“and yet you consort with people who turn a blind eye to women being abducted.”
If the attendant heard me she doesn’t give any indication, and a moment later she leaves us to
it. I add cream to my coffee and deliberately place the jug out of Misha’s reach. He takes cream. I
remember from Dubrovnik.
 Misha ignores what I said and leans across the table for the jug. He adds a dash of cream to
his coffee and stirs it. “Did you sleep well?”
I level a dry look at him over the top of my coffee cup. I’m not going to exchange pleasantries
with him. I’m here for information. “Where are we going?”
“Sharjah. In the United Arab Emirates.”
My eyebrows lift in surprise. I didn’t actually expect him to answer me. “Why?”
“Reasons,” he says crisply. “May I use the bathroom in the suite? I would like to shower.”
“You can do whatever you like, apparently.”
He has another mouthful of coffee and then gets up from the table without a word. Twenty
minutes later he’s back, dressed in a white shirt and gray dress pants, his black curls damp from the
shower. The casual way his collar is open and his shirtsleeves are rolled back reminds me of how he
looked in Dubrovnik, and my heart turns over with longing at the memory.
The flight attendant serves lunch, baked chicken wrapped in prosciutto, and asparagus with
hollandaise sauce. There’s also a bottle of Viognier in an ice bucket, draped with a linen napkin and,
after considering it for a moment, I accept a glass. I could use a little Dutch courage for the coming
conversation. Bright sunlight is slanting through the cabin windows. Misha looks handsome and we’re
flying somewhere exotic and international. When I take a sip I find the wine is very good. This would
be idyllic under different circumstances.
I take another sip. “So, tell me about yourself, Mikhail Ravnikar. I mean, technically this is
our first date.”
Misha flicks his gaze up to mine as he cuts his chicken. “I may have withheld certain
information from you but I was always myself.”
“Not really. I don’t know anything about you.”
“You know the important things. What else would you like to know?”
I set my glass down, a little too hard, and pick up my knife and fork. “Let’s start with why you
consort with someone like Damir Ravnikar. By your own account he’s a despicable person.”
Misha takes a sip of water. He’s not drinking the wine. “Damir is despicable. But he’s also
many things I respect and admire. Powerful. Ambitious. Intelligent.”
“Rich.”
“Yes, he’s very wealthy. So am I.” He notices my look of disgust. “Something to say?”
“I find the pursuit of money to the exclusion of all other considerations contemptible.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Then why do you—”
He interrupts me without raising his voice. “It is an ugly story I haven’t thought about in a
long, long time, and if I tell it you will still think the worst of me. Because of this.” He gestures
around at the jet, which I take to mean my kidnapping. “So if it’s all the same to you, Ciara, I would
rather not unbox my unhappy past for a hostile audience.”
He goes on eating in silence, and I feel a thrum of annoyance. This isn’t supposed to be the
way it goes. He wants me to forgive him and understand him, and yet he isn’t falling over himself to
answer my questions. I should be allowed to be as sarcastic and hostile as I want to be.
“How about a truce while we’re in the air? I won’t tell you you’re a bastard and you won’t
get all Ravnikar on me.”
He knows what I mean by “all Ravnikar”. Pushy. Overbearing. Predatory. I want a few
straight answers to a few questions, and then I’ll get right back to trying to escape.
Misha frowns at his plate. Finally, he says, “Fine. A truce. What do you want to know?”
 Misha

“You and Damir. What’s your deal?”

I keep my face carefully blank as I cut into the chicken fillet, but my heart feels tight in my
chest. What’s our deal. Why is he the way he is, and why am I the way I am. Ciara knows how to ask
the hard questions. I’ve never told anyone about my family because the memories are a snarl of shame
and anger and regret, and I’m painfully aware that the things I’ve done in my life are nothing of which
to be proud. The only good thing has been to fall in love with Ciara, and what a fucking mess I’ve
made of that. Sometimes I wonder if the Ravnikar men are cursed.
To give myself a moment to collect my thoughts, I reach for the bottle of white wine and pour
myself a glass. I’m going to need it. But where to begin?
Ah. I know.
Putting down the wine bottle, I unbutton my shirt to my waist and pull it open, showing her the
scar over my heart. “You never asked how I got this. Usually I tell people it was in a fencing accident,
but as you know, my hobby was racing cars. What actually happened was that when I was twenty-
four, my father tried to kill me.”
Ciara’s eyes go round with shock. She stares at the thick white bolt of scar tissue on my chest,
and then up at me.
“You remember how hard it is to break with an overbearing parent,” I say as I rebutton my
shirt. “Some of them can take your rejection very much to heart. No pun intended.”
My companion has stopped eating and turned pale. “Yes, but my parents never tried to kill me
for switching from art history to law.”
“That is the difference between your family and mine. Your father was a greedy fool, whereas
mine was a psychopath.”
“He really…?” She trails off and nods at my chest.
“I told him that I wanted nothing more to do with him, as a parent or in business. So he picked
up a kitchen knife and tried to stab me through the heart.”
She swallows thickly. “And so you killed him.”
I shake my head. “No. Damir killed him. He came after me when he realized where I’d gone.
He wasn’t as naïve as me. He knew my father would take my rejection of him as the ultimate betrayal.
Damir saved my life.” Neither of us have ever told anyone what we did, or even spoken about it later.
It feels good to admit the truth to someone at last. “We got rid of the body together. It bonds you,
disposing of your father’s corpse with your brother.”
The development I’d been working on with my father at the time had an incinerator on-site.
Damir and I took his body there and then doctored ourselves out of the CCTV footage. My father had
made many enemies among London’s criminal classes and the police had investigated him,
unsuccessfully, for money laundering the year before. When he disappeared they made a half-hearted
attempt to find out what had happened to him, but the case never got much further than a missing
persons report. With no body or evidence of foul play, the case went cold.
I take a sip of wine. “I’ve sometimes wondered why my father used a knife to try and kill me.
He liked to read Shakespeare after we came to Britain and I think Brutus’ murder of Caesar in the
Senate made quite an impression on him. Daggers and betrayal just go so well together.”
She watches me in silence for a moment. “You’re very cool about this.”
“I’m not. As I said, my past is ugly and I don’t like to revisit it, but I will for you, so you know
why I’ve had to act so drastically to protect you.”
Ciara rubs a hand over her forehead, as if she has a headache. “But I don’t understand. Why
did your father try to kill you? How did you betray him? And what has this got to do with you and
me?”
My mind travels back, to a time and place far away. Now that she knows how the story ends, I
suppose she needs to know how it began. “When I was a boy in Slovenia, I knew there was something
not right between my parents. My mother tried to hide it from me, but she was terrified of my father. I
was her favorite child, and she tried to keep me away from him too, and told me to never trust what
he did or said. ‘You’re a good boy, Misha. Never forget that.’ She would say that to me all the time,
but I didn’t really understand why. My father wasn’t much interested in me. Damir was his favorite.” I
frown, thinking through the years. “I don’t exactly know what went on between them. I never asked,
and then Damir disappeared…”
Ciara’s watching me in silence, perplexed. I’m not making it easy for her, jumping around in
time like this.
“But I’m getting ahead of myself. Damir didn’t disappear until much later. When I was nine,
my mother became very sick, and she died. Cancer. Perfectly ordinary, but I know without a doubt that
my father put that disease into her with his cruelty. She was never happy around him, always on edge,
always fearful. Extreme stress and sadness can make your body rot. I can still see her frail body lying
beneath the blankets. She died at home, with a nurse to attend her. The sickroom frightened me with
its machines, and seeing this skeleton who used to be my beautiful mother.”
That was the dream I had while we were in Dubrovnik, my mother ignoring me in the hours
before her death and lavishing love and attention on Damir instead.
Except that it didn’t happen that way.
“On her deathbed, my mother held my hand and told me I was good, that I was loved. She
ignored Damir. I was nine. He was six. No one ever loved Damir. Not my mother, and not my father. I
think sometimes not even me.”
“Why didn’t any of you love him? He was only a boy.”
I twist the stem of my wine glass. “He was a strange little boy. He could be cruel, and he
never cried and rarely smiled. The only emotions he seemed to express were rage or vindictive
delight. My father thought he was perfect.”
“I thought you said he didn’t love Damir.”
“It wasn’t love,” I say quickly. “My father didn’t love anyone but himself, and certainly not
Damir. Damir was his protégé. He had that killer instinct that my father admired, and for a long time,
Damir liked to be admired in that way. I had always been close to my mother. It was difficult for me
to love my brother when I could see how much she feared him. Then when she died, I was too
unhappy and lonely to love anyone.”
I pick up my fork and stab it through an asparagus spear, but then put it down and take another
mouthful of wine.
“The next year we moved to London. My father raised Damir and me in his image. He told us
we would achieve great things if we were like him. Only like him. His was the only way. I hated him
and was afraid of him and revered him at the same time. I grew up, and my mother became a distant
memory. Damir and my father seemed to understand each other in ways that I didn’t. Then, when I
was twenty-one and Damir was eighteen, he disappeared. I was studying a Master’s degree in finance
at the London School of Economics, and for three years we didn’t hear from him. My father was
enraged and without Damir, I was his whole world. He told me what my duties were as a Ravnikar.
To always win, no matter what. People are weak and stupid and if you don’t take advantage of them
then someone else will. Winning is the only thing that matters. He’d been trying to remake me in his
image for years and with Damir gone, all his energy went into it, and it was killing me, as he’d killed
my mother. I didn’t know how to escape.”
Ciara fiddles with her cutlery, deep in thought. “It’s hard to get rid of someone when they’ve
been part of your life for so long. You have cut out part of yourself to do it. Even when their love is
full of poison, it doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Yes. That’s exactly it.” Ciara knows because she did the same thing. I want to reach out to
her, to show her how grateful I am that she understands this small part of me. When she meets my eyes
I feel a flicker of hope, but she doesn’t say anything so I go on.
 “I told you I admire ambition. Everyone has ambition. I do. You do. Your parents, my parents.
What sets people apart are the lengths that they’re willing to go to and the rules they will break to get
what they want. That’s what makes some people dangerous. They don’t believe that they’re bound by
the law or the rules that govern society. They backstab. Lie. Manipulate. Then there are the illegal
things. Embezzlement. Money laundering. Murder. Anathema to you and all decent people, but not to
those who want to win, and only to win. Damir is one of those people. My father was one of those
people. I’ve come dangerously close to being one of those people. I can be one of those people, if the
need arises.”
I’m being one of those people right now, and I can tell from the trepidation in her eyes that she
understands that.
“When Damir came back, he wouldn’t tell me where he’d been or what he’d done, but he’d
changed. He told me that we didn’t need our father and that we could do things our way. It was
exactly what I wanted to hear. Foolishly, I went to my father to tell him that I was done with him.
Damir realized where I’d gone and what was going to happen, and he came after me and killed our
father with the knife he’d tried to kill me with. I’m not sorry he’s dead, ljubica. I was finally free.”
“Except that you weren’t,” she says. “You became Damir’s pawn instead.”
Ciara hasn’t corrected me for calling her sweetheart, I’ve noticed. “We were partners, at first.
He offered me everything I wanted. He can do that, and it’s…intoxicating, being on the receiving end
of his charm. Damir and I knew how to do one thing, and that was make money, but I’d never been
allowed to do it my way. It had to be my father’s way. Damir told me we’d do it our way, and our
father could go fuck himself. That’s what we did, and I never looked back. Not until I met you.”
She raises an eyebrow at me. “Really? I’m some magical princess who unwittingly saved you
from yourself?”
I can feel the Ravnikar side of my nature unfurling every time I look at Ciara. I want to make
her mine, but I know it will never work that way. She has to step into my arms willingly, love me
willingly, otherwise we’ll end up killing each other.
“In a way. I wanted to believe there was good in Damir, but it turns out my mother was right
about him all along. I felt powerless for most of my childhood. Later, when Damir and I started
working together, moving great sums of money around, seeing the figures go up, that made me feel
powerful. But I’m forty-two now. That’s not going to cut it anymore. I want something real.”
I reach for the bottle of wine and top up both our glasses. “So that’s my poor-little-rich-boy
tale, Miss Alders. Now you know everything. No, one more thing.” I take a large swallow of wine
and put my glass down. “Since we left London I have completely and utterly ruined my brother. The
police should be on their way to arrest him, if they haven’t already.”
 Trying not to show it, I hold my breath, fully aware that I’ve played my final card. If I was
ever going to convince her that I’m worthy of her love despite all the things I’ve done, this is that
moment.
Ciara stares at me, not comprehending what I’ve just said. “I’m sorry, what? Arrest him?
Damir?”
“Yes. For money laundering and insider trading. He’ll be looking at decades, especially if
they can link him to a few unsolved murders he’s responsible for.”
“Why would you do this to your own brother, after all this time?”
I reach out and take a gentle hold of her sprained wrist. “Why do you think?”
For Ciara. I did it for her. He’ll never stop coming after her and I need to know she’s free.
Free to be mine.
“My brother is an unstoppable force and will win at anything if he puts his mind to it. This
was the only way I could think to give us a fighting chance.”
She looks down at my hand around her wrist, but she doesn’t pull away. “You sound like you
still admire him.”
“I do. There’ll never be anyone else like Damir. And thank fuck for that.”
I get up and retrieve my laptop, switch it on, and place it before her. “Go through it all. The
things that I did at Ravnikar Enterprises. The evidence that I handed over to the police not long after
we left London. This is the last piece of the puzzle. I want you to know everything there is to know
about me so you can make your decision.”
“About what?”
“About whether I’m a despicable, manipulative devil who can never be trusted, or if you’re
going to let me save you.”
She looks up at me, calm and clear-eyed. “Maybe it’s both. Maybe you’re a despicable
manipulative devil, but I’ve got no choice but to let you save me.”
I might be the dragon, she means, but there could be bigger, nastier dragon up on the mountain
waiting to eat her up. I trace my forefinger over her cheek. “You could be right, ljubica. I can’t tell.
But I’m looking forward to finding out.”
 Ciara

I don’t know what to do with everything Misha’s just told me, so I put it aside for the moment in favor
of reading the files on his laptop. This is something tangible I can process, and I go through the
emails, bank records and spreadsheets methodically, like it’s evidence in a case. Some of the names
and corporations he mentioned seem familiar and I use the satellite internet to look them up. To my
surprise, I find a number of news pieces about them.
A missing CEO from three months ago, last seen while out jogging. Police have a new lead as
of three hours ago.
A chain of restaurants that went into administration two weeks ago. The financial director was
arrested for embezzlement earlier today.
A five-star hotel is now under investigation for money laundering.
I turn the laptop around and show Misha the news stories. He’s sitting across from me,
drinking coffee and reading his phone. He holds it up so I can see he’s reading the news, too. “I just
saw the same things. Results are wonderful things, aren’t they?”
I go back to the files, wanting to be sure that what Misha is claiming is true, that his dossier of
information is the reason for the news stories and it’s not just a weird coincidence. It takes some time
to get my head around what I’m seeing but I take my time, cross-referencing names, dates and amounts
of money with emails on the Ravnikar Enterprises server. They’re Damir’s deals and contacts, not
Misha’s. Maybe if there were emails incriminating him he’s deleted them, but then he’d have to delete
whole chains and there’d be holes in the dialogue. I check the electronic calendar and I can see
invites for meetings and Misha’s not in any of them.
“Why did you never worry that I would bump into you at Ravnikar Enterprises? I went there
several times to drop money off.”
“Because I don’t work in that building. I haven’t for many years. I like to keep my distance.”
Misha still turned a blind eye to what was going on. Even if the illegal activities were all
connected to Damir, he was an accomplice, just as he was an accomplice to his father’s murder. I
watch him covertly over the top of the laptop, remembering the scar on his chest. How many pints of
blood does it take to earn someone’s loyalty? How many years does it take to stretch that loyalty to
breaking point?
Misha suddenly sits up, still looking at his phone. “Fuck.”
 “What?” I ask quickly.
“I don’t want to rush you, but things just became a little more urgent.” He shows me his phone
and I read a news alert.
With shaking fingers, determined to cross-check everything for myself, I type a few keywords
into the laptop browser to verify what I’m reading. Six news outlets are reporting the same thing. The
first headline reads, LONDON BILLIONAIRE WANTED FOR QUESTIONING OVER MURDER, MONEY LAUNDERING;
INTERPOL ALERT ISSUED.

I read the article. It seems police raided Damir Ravnikar’s home and office at Ravnikar
Enterprises and took hard drives, laptops and cell phones, but Damir had already fled. He knows the
police are after him, and he’s gone on the run. He could be anywhere. He could be waiting for us in
Sharjah, to put a bullet in us for our betrayal. If he didn’t hesitate to kill his father then he certainly
won’t hesitate to kill us.
I make myself take a deep breath and read the rest of the article. “They don’t mention that
you’ve disappeared, too.”
“I’m not a wanted man.”
True. How close can Damir get to us, how much can he do with the police on his trail and his
accounts emptied by Misha? This has gone way beyond revenge on my family. It’s bigger than what’s
happened to me. I keep circling back to the same question: what reason does Misha have to lie to me
about any of this?
As if he knows where my mind has gone, Misha asks, “Do you believe me, ljubica?
Everything I’ve told you?”
He’s started calling me ljubica again, and I haven’t told him not to.
The evidence agrees with what he’s told me. The police want Damir, not Misha. I exhale
slowly, hoping with all my heart that I’m making the right decision. It’s all I’ve got left to go on. My
heart. “All right. I believe you. Everything you’ve told me.”
The relief in his blue eyes is intense. He starts to get up and comes toward me, but I hold up a
hand. “That doesn’t change what you’ve done and the lies you’ve told. I can see now the necessity of
us fleeing London, though you still frightened the hell out of me and I’m not over it. I’m coming with
you, but I’m not going to sleep with you. I’m not going to kiss you. All that’s over. So you have to
make a decision: will you still save me, even if you can’t have me?”
Misha studies me, frowning. “You think I would send you back to die? Under any
circumstances? Ciara, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Ever.”
He reaches for my hand but I pull away. “None of this forever business. I’ll let you protect me
until Damir is arrested. I’ll do whatever you say. Then, when it’s safe, I’ll return to London and try to
start my life again.”
I wonder how long it will take my university to dis-enroll me when I don’t hand in any
assignments or attend my exams. Is a madman was out for my blood across international borders
because my dad swindled him and then my sugar daddy sold him out an acceptable deferment
excuse?
Misha doesn’t say anything but I see the echo of the words in his eyes. Ever. I’m not letting
you go, ever. A shiver passes through me. I need Misha right now because he’s going to keep me alive
while Damir is at large, but I have the feeling he’s not going to give up on us no matter what I say to
him.
I hope he doesn’t make me regret this, but right now I don’t have any other choice.
At Sharjah we disembark and cross the tarmac on foot toward another plane. I notice that
Misha carefully buttons his suit jacket, concealing the gun he has holstered beneath his arm, and I ask,
“Is this a non-dodgy charter flight, or are you just being particular about your outfit?”
He gives me a tight, humorless smile. “It’s a legitimately hired private plane. I don’t have
endless questionable contacts at my disposal, especially not now an Interpol alert has been issued for
Damir. They’re his contacts, not mine, and they’ll have dropped him like a ton of bricks.”
“So if I told the flight attendant on this plane that I was being kidnapped, they’d take me
seriously?”
“Yes. But I’d rather you didn’t.”
I give him a withering look. Of course I’m not going to do that now.
Outside the plane we’re met by a dark-haired man in a customs uniform. He asks for our
passports in brisk tones, and my stomach plummets through my body. I was so focused on the Damir
that I forgot there were other things that could derail our plan.
To my amazement, the man produces two British passports from a pocket, checks and stamps
them. Then he passes them to Misha and nods. “Have a pleasant journey, Mr. Gaettiti, Miss Stein.”
Misha hands me my passport and I look at the photo that’s meant to be me. It’s a blonde
woman about my age who looks passably like me. I suppose these were made in a rush.
“What would you have done if I refused to get on this plane willingly?” I ask, tucking the
passport into my jeans pocket. “Did you have a Plan B?”
He links my arm through his elbow, proprietorial and protective at the same time as we walk
toward the jet. “There was no Plan B. I banked on you trusting me by now.”
“I only decided to trust you thirty minutes ago. Cutting it fine, weren’t you?”
“Perhaps. But I wasn’t worried. Ravnikars always get what they want.” His eyes flicker over
me covetously, so quickly I almost don’t see it. Almost.
 Cocky bastard. He still thinks I’m going to fall into his lap and then into his bed.
As I walk up the stairs to the plane Misha’s large hand is splayed on my lower back, warm
and possessive. I reach behind me and pull it firmly away.
“Where to now?” I ask him, settling into a leather seat for take-off. This jet is very minimalist
and business-like, with a boardroom in the center of the cabin and a lounge beyond.
“The Seychelles are beautiful this time of year.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re kidding.”
“If we’re going to be in exile it might as well be somewhere beautiful.”
The flight attendant approaches us with refreshments and I feel my insides clench with the
memory of needing to escape. But I’m not trying to run from Misha now. This is my life, for the
foreseeable future.
I take a bottle of sparkling water with a murmur of thanks and notice there’s a self-satisfied
expression in Misha’s eyes. He’s got me at last.
 Misha

The Seychelles is a paradise of turquoise water, white sand and warm breezes. I came here alone
once as a much younger man to enjoy some time away from work. The archipelago of islands was
able to draw my attention for a short time before I found myself working again. It wasn’t so much a
holiday as a change of office space.
This time I’m not on holiday and I don’t even try to enjoy the sea air and gently swaying palm
fronds. I spend most of my time at my laptop, tracking the news, managing my portfolios and reading
reports from the private detectives I’ve hired to look for Damir. They’ve found no trace of him since
Ciara was attacked on the street and, as far as I can tell, the British authorities and Interpol have no
leads on his whereabouts, either. As he’s on the run without funds I don’t imagine it will be long until
he’s apprehended.
Please, don’t let it be long.
I read the news, check in with my detectives and then work on investments for a few hours,
and then the cycle begins again. I could take a break occasionally but I don’t know how. If Ciara and I
were together as we were in Dubrovnik she’d know how to get me to switch off; to enjoy her smiles
and warmth and connect to the beauty around me. But Ciara has withdrawn from me, and I sense
sadness emanating from her every time I come close to her.
I have rented a house for us on La Digue, on the beach away from the hotels and other
residences. It’s a stunningly beautiful locale. A honeymoon destination, even. I thought Ciara would
be happy here, but perhaps I made the wrong choice and should have taken us to some bleak, rainy
mountainside instead.
Shortly after we arrived a security detail I hired from a company in Dubai flew in, half a
dozen men who guard the perimeter of the property twenty-four hours a day. They watch Ciara like a
hawk on my orders. Though she doesn’t complain, I know she hates it. There’s little for her to do
apart from read and sit on the private beach in front of the house. I’ve bought her a laptop and an e-
reader, but stressed to her that she must be careful what she does online. No social media, no
emailing, no contact with anyone at all from her old life. I barely see her using the laptop. Mostly she
reads and swims.
We eat together in the evening, but our meals are strained, over-polite affairs with little
conversation. I update her with news about Damir. There isn’t any really, so it doesn’t take long at all.
 “What about Bethany?” she asks one evening, pushing her fish around on her plate. I told
Ciara about not being able to get in touch with her during our flight to the Seychelles.
I feel the familiar stab of guilt that I wasn’t able to protect Bethany. “Still missing. There’s
been no sign of her since she left work the day you were attacked.”
I’ve tried calling her phone several times, blocking my new number first, but it goes straight to
voicemail. One of the investigators I hired checked up on her bank account for me—not strictly
legally—and the money I gave her hasn’t been touched. The account hasn’t been used at all since
Ciara and I left London, something that makes me fear the worst.
“Won’t the police be coming after you, soon?” Ciara asks me.
It takes a moment for me to draw my attention back to our conversation. “Me? Why?”
Ciara picks up a piece of bread, but shreds it on her side plate instead of eating it. “I see you
working all day.”
She leaves that sentence hovering in the air, full of meaning.
“What of it?” I ask.
Ciara looks away, uncomfortable, and mutters, “I don’t know. You can’t be doing anything
legal, can you?”
I see. I worked for Damir and so everything I do now is tainted with corruption. “Would you
like to know, or would you prefer to jump to your own conclusions?”
She shrugs, and keeps tearing her bread.
“Left to my own devices, beholden to no one for the first time in my life, you think I would
immediately start money laundering or arms dealing? The money I took out of Damir’s accounts is
buried in the Caymans. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with it yet but I haven’t touched it.
Money from accounts that I managed but that I believe were linked to Damir’s criminal activities is in
those accounts too. The money that I earned legitimately while at Ravnikar Enterprises, on properties
that I managed and investments I made, is the money I’m reinvesting now.” I’m aware that I’ve
become angry as I talk, laying heavy emphasis on the words. The money that I earned, investments I
made. Either Ciara trusts me or she doesn’t, but I thought I’d made it clear to her by now that I’m not
my brother, I’m not beholden to him, and I’m not a fucking gangster.
“You can look at the work I’m doing. I’ve got nothing to hide from you.”
“Fine,” she agrees, her eyes challenging me. “Show me. Teach me some finance.”
“You mean that?”
“Sure. There isn’t anything else to do.”
I keep my face neutral, trying not to show how happy I suddenly feel despite the grudging way
she put it. I would love to teach her about what I do. “All right.”
 After we finish eating I get out my laptop and I take her through the various accounts, where
the money came from, the projects I was working on at Ravnikar Enterprises, how the business came
our way. She asks intelligent questions about the projects and seems genuinely interested. I show her
the investments I’m considering and why. I enjoy her sitting close to me while I share something with
her that I’ve never shared with anyone before. It’s always just been me doing this by myself, with
Damir’s accountants to enact the orders I give them.
I watch her surreptitiously as she clicks through spreadsheets and reports, her eyes bright with
interest. She’s stopped putting on makeup and curling her hair. The clothes she wears are loose,
comfortable things that make the daytime heat bearable. She’s different, and never looked more
beautiful. I wish I knew how to tell her that without her thinking I want something from her.
Because I do want something from her. I want everything, with a longing so powerful it keeps
me up at night. I think about touching her, but mostly I think about making her smile again. My mind
can’t stop playing what if. What if Damir had never lost his temper with Ciara and had his men attack
her? What if we’d been left alone until she loved me so much that the truth hadn’t immediately burned
everything to the ground?
I show her the money buried in the Caymans. Seen through her eyes I know it’s an obscene
amount and that she finds it distasteful, but it’s there in case we ever need it. I don’t know if it’s
occurred to her, but we could be hiding from Damir our whole lives. The police may never catch him
and my investigators may never track him down.
“How did my father come to be involved with Ravnikar Enterprises?” she asks.
Oh. That. “He was referred to us via a mutual business acquaintance. I convinced him that the
development was an excellent opportunity to him.”
Ciara goes silent, and the illusion of our intimacy shatters. A few minutes later she stands up
and says coolly, “All right. Thank you for showing me this.”
I watch her walk out of the room without another backwards glance. I could have lied, and
told her that it was Damir who’d been responsible for ruining her life. But it wasn’t. It was me.
It becomes clear over the following days that Ciara is desperately unhappy. I thought I could
turn a blind eye to it and tell myself that her happiness is secondary to knowing that she’s safe, but my
guilt grows stronger and stronger until it’s all I can think about.
We can’t go on like this.
I begin to formulate a new plan. A dangerous one that could mean I lose everything, forever,
including her. She’d be safe, though. I go over and over the plan in my mind until I’m sure I’ve thought
of every contingency. I think it will work, and once I’ve accepted that I see that it’s the only possible
solution.
 Over dinner a few days later, I break the news to her. “I’m going back to London. It will look
to Damir as if I’ve returned in order to cooperate with the police investigation.”
Ciara stares at me, her fork dangling loosely in her hand. “But Damir will try to kill you.”
“Yes. That’s the plan.” I’m going to draw him out, away from Ciara, and I’m going to finish
what started long ago, way back in our childhoods. Damir might kill me, but if I go out I’m going to
take with me. He won’t get Ciara if I can help it. She’ll be safe here, and afterwards she’ll be able to
return to London and start her life again, away from the dangerous influence of men like her father,
Damir and myself.
Ciara puts her fork down, her food forgotten. She seems perplexed as she studies me.
I try to put my reasons for going into words for her. “I’m the one who dragged you into this, so
I should be the one to put it right.”
She looks away, chewing on her nail. “When will you go?”
If I hoped she would put her arms around me or say thank you I guess I was expecting too
much. It is expecting too much. All the same, my chest feels hollow with the need to hold her in my
arms. My lips remember the feel of hers and I crave one last kiss from her. A kiss that means
goodbye, forever. But I can’t even have that.
“First thing in the morning,” I tell her, and she nods absently. “I want you to stay here, in this
house, and the full security detail will be here with you. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything better. I
know it’s lonely here, but I’m hoping that in a short time you’ll be able to return to your old life, and
the Ravnikars will become a distant—”
Ciara stands up, her shoulders tight and her fists clenched at her sides. Then she turns her back
on me and walks quickly out of the room.
 Ciara

I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see blood. Damir murdering that man in front of me. My
parents’ broken bodies in the plane wreckage. Blood pouring down Misha’s chest, except that this
time his attacker is Damir, not his father, and Damir’s eyes are lit with cold, demonic light.
Several times I go to my bedroom door, wanting to go into Misha and wake him up. And then
what? I don’t know what I want to say to him. I don’t even know if there’s anything to say. It’s only
right that he does this. He could have stopped Damir long ago, and he didn’t. Now Misha’s using
himself as bait to catch his brother, so I can be free.
I shove my hands through my hair, anger racing through me, and I’m not even sure with who.
With Damir, definitely, and with my father, and probably with Misha, as well. With all of them, for
creating this storm of fear and danger that’s led me here to a beautiful, tropical captivity. I fling
myself back onto the bed and clench my arms tight around my pillow, imagining it’s Misha, as I’ve
done every night since we arrived on La Digue. I imagine his arms around me, holding me close and
whispering to me in English and Slovenian that everything’s going to be all right. I’ve wanted to go to
him a thousand times, rail at him, cry, have him fuck me, hard, to get all the anger and frustration out. I
know he feels it, too, the unfairness of what’s happened to us. That we were thrown together in
impossible circumstances and found something even more impossible.
Love.
Only to have it snatched away, just as it began to blossom. When he leaves tomorrow, I know
I’ll never see him again. He may die at his brother’s hands or he may survive, but either way I know
that he’ll never come back. I saw the finality in his eyes. This is his way of getting closure, for
everything that has happened between him and his brother, from the day his mother took his hand on
her deathbed and not Damir’s.
At seven in the morning I hear the shower turn on in the bathroom and I get out of my sleepless
bed and dress. I wait outside by the car, two men from the security detail watching me from a discreet
distance. Twenty minutes later Misha comes out. He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt and carrying his
laptop bag, a jacket slung over his arm. It’s an attitude I’ve seen from him so many times, the neat,
reserved businessman, except that today his eyes are haunted.
“Coming to see me off?” he asks, his voice husky in the thin morning light.
I nod, and he opens the car door for me and I get inside. We sit in the back, rigid with
unspoken words, as one of the guards drives us to the airport.
A jet is on the tarmac being refueled. I get out of the car and stare determinedly at the plane,
not knowing where else to look or what to say. There are no words to bid farewell to a man who
might be about to go to his death for you, not when you can’t say the only three words that matter.
Misha comes around to my side of the car and looks at me for a moment. “Can I tell you
something, ljubica? I will tell you in Slovenian so that you don’t understand what I mean. I don’t want
to hurt you. I just want to say it once in my life, and then I’ll leave you alone forever.”
My throat feels so tight that I can’t speak, so I nod instead.
He puts his bag and jacket aside, and reaches tentatively for my hand. I let him take it,
focusing on his fingers twining through mine.
“You have given me more life, more happiness, than anyone I’ve ever known. Ljubim te. Moje
srce je resnično in srce je za vedno.”
Ljubim te. I never got the chance to look it up but I know instinctively what it means. My eyes
smart and I reach out with my free hand and run my fingers down the seam on his shirt, trying to
distract myself. Trying to keep myself together, like he is.
“What—what was it you said? After I love you.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle “I said, My heart is true, and my
heart is forever. I don’t know how I will live without your sweetness. I have known you, and now
you will be an open wound in my heart for the rest of my life.”
I trace the place where I know the scar is over his heart, and tears spill down my face.
Misha takes my face in his hands and wipes the tears away with his thumbs. “Ljubica, please
don’t cry. I can’t bear it.”
“I don’t want you to go,” I say in a cracked whisper. “I won’t die, but I will be an open
wound, like you said. I will bleed out and live a half life from this moment on. A cursed life.” I put
my hand on his chest and seek out the steady, strong thump-thump of his heart. “I think you’re going to
die. You think it too, don’t you?”
“Ljubica,” he says, enfolding me in his arms. His grip is so tight I feel like he might crack my
ribs, but I don’t care. However hard he holds me it will never be enough.
“You will always live in my heart, for as long as it keeps beating,” he says fiercely. “But I
have to go, so that one day you can be free.”
He kisses my quivering, tear-streaked mouth and for a moment the world comes to a perfect
stillness, like a raindrop suspended in the sky. There’s just Misha and his arms around me, and I want
to live here forever, frozen in time and love.
But he breaks the kiss, and the raindrop plummets toward the ground. Time moves on. Misha
turns away.
“Goodbye, ljubica. I will never, ever forget you.”
He picks up his bag and jacket and walks toward the plane. I stand with my arms wrapped
around my shaking body, leaning against the car for support. I have to let him go. He’s doing what
needs to be done and I have to let him do it. I watch him walk up the steps of the jet and see the figure
of a flight attendant, ready to seal and lock the door behind him. He steps inside, and it starts to close.
“No!” I shout. I run to the steps and up them as fast as I can and slam my hands against the
door. “Misha, no, open this door.”
The door swings open again and I see the flight attendant’s bewildered face. Then Misha
comes back and I take hold of his arms. I’m no match for him but I drag him back out again. I’ll
summon superhuman strength to keep him right here. Tears track down my face. “Please, don’t.”
He tries gently to pull away but I wrap myself around him. The whine of the engine is so loud
and my hair is blowing all around us. I speak as loud as I can through a throat ragged with emotion.
“You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying here with me.”
Misha’s arm comes tight around my waist and his other hand smooths my hair back from my
face. He gazes down at me. “Ljubica, you will never be free unless I do this.”
“I don’t want to be free. I just want to be with you.”
He groans and pulls me to him, slanting his mouth across mine in a bruising kiss. Then he’s
holding me so tightly, kissing me like we’re drowning in each other and we never want to be saved.
Misha pulls away and looks down at me. “We’re fools, you realize? We’re absolute fools.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, determined to never let him go. “Then we will be fools here,
together. I’d rather die by your side than let you go.”
Misha closes his eyes and cups my face in his hands, savoring my words. I sense the conflict
in him, the desire to both leave to protect me and to stay here and love me.
“Ljubim te,” I whisper, and he pulls me even tighter against him until I’m devoured by his
embrace. His heat and love burns through me and I feel that small, hopeful glow that he lit within me
flicker into life once more.
Happiness.
Love wins out in the end. Love will always win. I will believe that until the day I die.
Hand in hand, we walk back to the car. To the security detail, to refreshing news reports again
and again, to looking over our shoulder and waiting for the unthinkable to happen. But we will have
each other, which is the most important thing of all.
We are fools. But we’re fools in love.
 Ciara

We get back to the house and go straight to my bedroom, tearing clothes off each other in our haste to
feel skin against skin. Just like the first time, he rips my briefs apart trying to get them off me and the
tatters fall to the floor as we fall into bed. It’s pure desperation, this need to be wrapped around each
other with nothing in between us. I take him in my mouth, caressing the hot length of him with my
tongue while his fingers find my sex. It’s been a desert of time since we touched each other and I
drink down his touch, his scent. I want his scent all over me. But soon even that closeness is not
enough, and we need more.
He pauses just long enough to slide a condom on and pulls me down the bed toward him. It’s
as if I’ve never felt him against me before. Never felt his hard chest beneath my hands or my thighs
tight around his hips. Never felt his cock plunging into me, over and over. I wonder why I feel so
naked beneath his touch and his gaze, when I remember that this is the first time that we’ve made love
without any secrets between us.
I rake my nails down his chest, needing to mark him. Needing him to feel me as much as I’m
feeling him right now. “I’ve missed you so much.”
He groans and grips my hair hard in his fist. “I’m never letting you go now. Do you
understand, ljubica? I’m not letting you out of my sight and I don’t have it in me to leave again.”
“I don’t want you to.”
He turns me over and plants my hands on the headboard, and smacks me hard on the ass as he
moves between my knees. “Good. We’re clear. You’re mine.” Then he’s slamming into me, without
forgiveness or mercy.
“Misha,” I cry out raggedly. “My Misha.”
I lean back into him, arching my back, letting him give me everything he’s got.
After, I lie curled into him, stroking my fingers thoughtfully against his chest. “I need to do
something while we’re here or else I’ll go mad. You’ve got your work, but I can’t continue my
degree.”
He kisses the top of my head. “I’m sorry about that. I know it’s your dream to be a lawyer.”
I know he means this. He was so concerned that I continue with my studies when he was my
sugar daddy. “I found it interesting going through all your deals and spreadsheets and reports, and you
explain everything so well.” We were hardly on the best of terms at the time, but I enjoyed the patient
and clear way he explained everything to me. “I thought you could go on teaching me finance, and I
think I would like to try investing some of the money in the Cayman accounts.”
He looks at me in surprise. “Are you sure you want to get involved with that money?”
“Damir did a lot of shitty things to get it. I think it will feel good to put it to good use. Schools
in Syria. Renewable energy. There are so many possibilities.”
“But I was going to spend that on you. I thought a yacht called Ciara would suit you very
well.”
I feel my cheeks heat with indignation. “I don’t want a yacht. I will not let you treat me like my
parents did or like I’m still your sugar baby. I’m your partner.”
“Ljubica, I was joking.”
“Oh.”
“Though I hope that doesn’t mean I can’t spoil you a little.”
“A little spoiling is nice,” I concede with a smile, rolling onto my belly and propping my chin
on his chest. “You can bring me cups of coffee, or massage my shoulders when they’re sore from
working too long. And I will do the same for you.”
“It’s a deal.” He lapses into silence after that, rubbing my back in thoughtful circles and
staring at the ceiling.
“Is something worrying you?”
Misha heaves a sigh. “Yes. Bethany. My investigators still haven’t turned up any trace of her.”
I’ve thought several times about Bethany, wondering if I’m angry with her for being in on the
secret with Misha. Now that I know everything, including the fact that she’s disappeared, I’m only
worried about her. “Does she know what Damir is capable of?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, I think she’s terrified of him. Whenever he came to the office she would find
excuses to stand close to me or behind furniture.”
Sensible girl.
“I keep reminding myself that she’s a clever young woman and she knows how to look after
herself, but it doesn’t help. I still feel responsible for her. It would put my mind at rest if I knew she
was safe.”
“Maybe if she can’t be found it’s a good thing, and means she’s hidden herself away
somewhere.”
“Maybe,” he says, but I know he’s thinking about the alternative: that Damir has her. What if
he tried to get information out of her about our whereabouts, and when she couldn’t help him, he
killed her?
I sincerely hope not. If this is ever over, I’d like to be able to sit down with Bethany and get to
know her better and thank her for her part in mine and Misha’s unconventional relationship.
“You know,” Misha says, a moment later, “Damir has done many terrible things, but he did
give me something that I am beyond grateful for. Out of vengeance and cruelty, I have this wonderful
gift.”
“What is that?” I ask, looking up at him.
Misha brushes his lips across mine. “You, ljubica. Ljubim te.”
 Bethany

I open my eyes to an unusual amount of light coming through my bedroom window. Way too much
light.
Shit. I slept through my alarm. Mr. Ravnikar’s going to be so pissy with me when I get into the
office, doing his frowny thing and looking meaningfully at the clock on the wall. That’s worse than a
bawling out. I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.
When I get into the office, out of breath and a hot mess, it’s blissfully quiet. Maybe Mr.
Ravnikar’s in bed with Ciara or something. The thought makes me grin as I wait for my computer to
boot up and sip my coffee. Dirty old bugger. I’m glad he’s getting some at last.
It occurs to me I didn’t feel my phone buzz in my bag the whole way to the office. No
Instagram DMs? No @s on Twitter? That can’t be right. Then I remember: when I left my date last
night I put my phone on DO NOT DISTURB so I wouldn’t have to deal with Callem calling to beg me to
touch his dick.
Fuckboys. They’ll be the death of me. Where’s my terminally ill old rich dude already?
I dig my phone out of my bag and see I have a dozen missed calls. Several from Callem—piss
off—and even more from Mr. Ravnikar. Shit. Did I forget he had a flight somewhere? A meeting I was
supposed to attend with him? Oh, god, I’m too tired for this. I call my voicemail, braced for my
boss’s cold, sarcastic tones.
An electronic voice announces that this message was received at eleven-seventeen last night,
and I roll my eyes in anticipation of hearing Callem’s voice. But it’s not, it’s Mr. Ravnikar, and he
doesn’t sound sarcastic in the slightest. In fact, he doesn’t sound like I’ve ever heard him talk to me
before.
“Bethany. Damir has found out about Ciara and me. It’s too dangerous for us to be in
London. We’re leaving the country immediately and you need to get out as well. He’ll be coming
for you as soon as he realizes we’re gone. When you get this message, get in a taxi and come to the
private airport I use off the M11. Don’t pack. Just get your passport and go. Call me.”
I sit bolt upright in my chair. Oh, shit. Oh, shit! That was ten hours ago. Before I can even
process the message an electronic voice announces another, received at twelve thirty-three this
morning.
“Bethany. We have to take off. Do not go into the office. Leave the country immediately.
There’s five hundred thousand pounds in your bank account. Use it to disappear. You won’t be able
to contact me. I’m sorry. Goodbye.”
I put my phone down slowly, trying to catch up with events that transpired hours earlier.
Do not go into the office. I look around. Too fucking late.
With shaking fingers I call Mr. Ravnikar’s cell, but the number has been disconnected. I go
into his office, hoping that somehow, magically, he’ll be in there, surly and reassuring, but his chair is
empty. I stare at it, wishing I could undo the events of the last twelve hours. Panic wells up, because I
know I’ve missed out on something important. I should be with him and Ciara right now, safe and on
the other side of the world. Instead, I’m here, alone.
“Get a hold of yourself, bitch,” I whisper fiercely. “You’ve got money. Time for a new plan.”
I won’t go to Heathrow. Planes are so predictable. I’ll go home and get my passport, and then
I’ll catch a train to Plymouth and get a ferry across to Spain. Then I’ll just keep going and going until I
feel safe. Five hundred thousand pounds, that will last me a while, but if I’m clever I’ll barely need to
touch it. I’ll do what Ciara did and find a rich man to protect me from Damir.
As if I’ve summoned him by thought alone, the lights go out with a snap. Thin, gray daylight
splashes over Mr. Ravnikar’s desk, but everything else is in darkness.
“Hello, Bethany.”
Goddamn it all to hell.
That voice. The prick of steel at my throat. The sticky blood on his forearms. The large, warm
hand sliding down my belly to cup my sex. The surge of wetness he felt with his fingers, despite my
terror. Because of my terror.
I turn around slowly, and Damir Ravnikar steps out of the darkness, the shadows playing over
his cruel, handsome face. Black stubble on his jaw. Storm-cloud eyes. He’s smiling a smile so cold
that it makes my blood freeze. He smiled just like that as he rubbed my clit, his other arm clamped
around my throat so I couldn’t get away. Being forced to come and then come again as he whispered
things in Slovenian I didn’t understand. He said the same thing to me in this office the day after
Mikhail’s first date with Ciara.
Pridna punčka.
I whimper and back away from the only man who’s ever given me an orgasm.
A sob rises in my throat. I’ve left my phone on my desk. Fuck you, Mr. Ravnikar. Fuck you
for leaving me behind. My hand lands on a pot plant. I snatch it up and hurl it at Damir’s head.
He’s faster, and he dodges to one side. The pot smashes through the inner glass wall of the
office with a sound like a gunshot. The whole pane shatters, and broken glass explodes everywhere
and falls in a shower to the floor. Damir doesn’t even flinch. His eyes are fastened on mine and he
walks inexorably closer. My blood pounds hard in my lower belly and my breath comes faster.
It’s fear, it’s just fear. I’m not turned on. I’m not attracted to a killer. He keeps coming toward
me, a tide of danger that I can’t hold back. I walk around behind Mikhail’s desk but Damir keeps
coming.
“I’ve got some questions for you. Why don’t you take a seat?” He puts a heavy hand on my
shoulder and forces me into the chair.
My nipples are hard buds poking through my bra and my shirt. His smile widens. The backs of
his fingers brush against my cheek, mock-sympathy playing across his face.
“I guess he didn’t want you after all,” he murmurs, meaning Mr. Ravnikar, I suppose, and I
wonder if he thought we were sleeping together.
“Don’t worry, baby. I want you. Girls like you…” His lips whisper across my cheek and he
speaks into my ear. “You’re my favorite.”

LAP OF LUXURY, Book Two in the Love Don’t Cost a Thing series, coming soon
 Read on for an excerpt of THE PROTÉGÉ by Brianna Hale
He’s always protected me since I was eight years old, the neglected girl he took off the street and raised as his own. Laszlo can
feel what music needs instinctively. He can tell what I need.

My world shattered the night of my eighteenth birthday and he still hasn’t forgiven me for what I did. I’m not asking him to love
me, touch me, take me to bed. What I want goes deeper than that and I have to say this out loud because it’s one thing that music
won’t be able to tell him.

I want what only Laszlo can give me. I want to be his protégé again. And this time, I’m going to be so good for him.

Yes, maestro.

Yes, sir.

Yes, daddy.

Brianna Hale has yet again surpassed my expectation with THE PROTÉGÉ. Laszlo and Isabeau's story stole my heart. This
book has everything. Steam. Romance. Emotions. Sex. All kinds of feels. If you love reading BDSM, especially
DDLG...This one is for YOU. One of my top reads of 2018! - Lylah James, author of THE MAFIA AND HIS OBSESSION

I love THE PROTÉGÉ beyond words can describe...It isn't all about steamy scenes, it's about real life doubts and lessons.
Laszlo will have your heart racing and will leave you panting for more. - White Rose Stories

My heart is still wrapped in these two...perfection is hard to come to in a book, but this one succeeded. - Anne Reads and
Reviews

I always seem to like the age gap relationships portrayed by Brianna Hale. She just writes them so beautifully while also
addressing the issues that might and do crop up because of the said age gap. What I love the most is that she presents a
warm, nurturing and above all, a healthy relationship between two consenting individuals and I can totally get behind

that. - Mango Tea and Toska

An intense romance filled with raw passion that makes your dirty mind run around with lust and addiction...My love for

this romance novel is so immense! - CristiinaReads

A magnificent and complicated read...either you approve or you don't, but one thing you can't mistake is Brianna Hale's

writing is marvelous. - Saucy Books

I fell so hard in love with this book! Isabeau and Laszlo have stolen my heart. I was hooked on them from the very
beginning and my heart broke right along with them but they also put all the pieces of my heart right back together. -
Hanna's Book Obsession
 Isabeau

I came to say sorry, but it didn’t work out that way.

“A cellist?” says the woman with the clipboard, looking between me and my instrument
case as if we’ve ruined her day. “I’ve only got one cellist on my list and his name is Roger Somers.
Who are you? Is Mr. Valmary expecting you?”
My heart bangs like a timpani drum against my ribs hearing his name. Laszlo Valmary,
conductor and musical director of the Royal London Symphony Orchestra and my former guardian
and mentor. I’ve come straight from the train, luggage and all, to face the man I haven’t spoken to in
three years. Now that I’m in London again I feel him on every street I walk down, in every strain of
music I hear, in the very air I breathe. But he’s not expecting me and I wasn’t expecting this,
whatever this is that’s happening today.
The woman cuts across what I was going to say. “Never mind. The flautist hasn’t turned up
so the schedule’s a mess anyway. Go through and wait.” She gives her clipboard a pained look and
marches away, and I’m left in the alcove by the stalls as musicians file past me. I draw back into
the shadows letting my thick red hair fall forward, not wanting to be recognized.
The Mayhew Concert Hall in the West End is a huge, stately venue of plush velvet and gold
scrollwork. An enormous crystal chandelier hangs overhead and the auditorium is lit by dozens of
sconces lining the balconies. The seating goes up and up to the dizzying nosebleed sections where
people crowd together for five pounds a head for a glimpse of the orchestra on stage. For those
paying upwards of three hundred pounds a ticket for a stalls seat every string of the violins is
visible, the notes on the sheet music, the precise movements of Laszlo’s large, skilled hands as he
conducts. It’s a more intimate experience down in the stalls but up in the gods the music is just the
same. The music soars.
I breathe in the memory of remembered notes. I’ve missed this place.
At this time of day on a Thursday I expected to find Laszlo in his office but rehearsals seem
to have gone on longer than usual. No, not rehearsals. Auditions by the looks of things. If Laszlo’s
lost orchestra members then he’ll be impatient, distracted. This isn’t the time for me to untangle my
feelings for him or ask for his help. I should go, but curiosity holds me in place. What has
happened? Has a swathe of the ensemble walked out again? He’s not the “callow youth” that he
was accused of being thirteen years ago when he took over the orchestra. He’s a man of thirty-eight
and the darling of the British classical music scene. The best musicians in the country clamor to be
part of his ensemble.
I listen to threads of conversations going on around me and try to discover what has
happened to the orchestra. Then I tell myself to focus and plan what I’m going to say to Laszlo; how
I’m going to have to tell him that after all his training and effort I’ve ruined my musical career
before it’s even begun.
“Isabeau.”
My hand convulsively grips my cello case. I turn and see him standing by the rows of red
velvet seats, the man who took me from my home when I was eight years old. Who taught me almost
everything I know about music. About life. The man I’ve spent the last three years in turmoil over.
Missing him like crazy. Being angry with him. Wanting him.
I don’t need to get close to know that he’ll smell like sweet peppercorns and smoky
Arabian nights. He looks good, but then he always looks good, tall and lean and smartly dressed in
a dark shirt and suit. A sultry mouth and hawkish nose, and not quite enough facial hair to call it a
beard but just enough to scratch your nails through and feel the lovely rasping of the bristles. Hazel
eyes that always seem to be moments away from warm pleasure or flashing emotion, and fine,
sandy brown hair that’s too long as usual, growing down to his collar. I used to tease him about
that, telling him that he has conductor’s hair, the careless mane that maestros grow so they can toss
it about in passion to the music and look romantic in journalists’ black and white photographs. I
was the only one who could tease him. One of the few who could make him smile.
Laszlo steps forward, and my heart leaps because I think he’s going to fold me in his arms
and hold me close like he used to do. But when he reaches for me his hand closes around my upper
arm, cold and hard, and he leads me out of the auditorium and along a corridor without a word.
Hopeless tears prickle in my eyes. He’s still ashamed of me. I look up at the ceiling and breathe in
sharply, a trick that a makeup artist once taught me before a solo student performance, the first one
of my career that Laszlo wouldn’t be watching. Suck those tears right back in, pet. Don’t go
ruining your face.
He takes us into to his office, closes the door behind us and then just stands there with his
back to me, one hand braced against the door. A clock ticks on the wall and I count the seconds in
three-four time, a minuet clashing with the pounding of my heart.
I should speak first but I don’t know how to unravel the apology that’s become snarled on
my tongue. The last three years without him have been hell and losing him was like cutting off a
limb. No, worse, like taking a sledgehammer to my cello. My world shattered the night of my
eighteenth birthday and I can see that he still hasn’t forgiven me for what I did. I hid the broken
pieces of my heart deep down where no one would ever find them and I don’t know what he’ll do
with them if I show them to him now.
His hand slides down the wood and he turns to me. “Isabeau—”
The door opens and a man puts his head in. I recognize him. Marcus Sabol, Laszlo’s first
violin and concertmaster. “Laszlo, that oboist… Oh. Hello.” Marcus comes to a halt when he sees
me. He’s a stringy man in his late fifties with a shock of white hair and the energy and bubbliness of
a much younger man. We never met as he joined the orchestra after I went to university in Durham,
but I’ve seen him play. He and Laszlo are perfect together, working in tandem to get the most out of
the ensemble.
Marcus’ eyes travel from my face to my cello case and back again. “You’re Isabeau Laurent.
I saw you play in Cambridge last year. Absolutely phenomenal. Are you coming with us?”
He sees my blank face and smiles. “Laszlo didn’t even tell you why you’re here, did he, he
just called his protégé back from university. Former protégé? Anyway, we’re trying to put this last-
minute fiasco together with half a damn orchestra. Thank god you’re here.”
Laszlo’s expression doesn’t change but I see how his jaw clenches. Marcus has just put him
in a difficult position. The first violin is the most important person in the orchestra after the
conductor and he gets a say in the principal players. I should correct Marcus and come back
another time. It’s not just the graceful thing to do, it’s the only thing to do if I want to put our past
behind us and ask for Laszlo’s help.
The atmosphere is as tight as a bow string and Marcus’ smile dims. “You are here to
audition, aren’t you?”
There are so many things I want to say to Laszlo. Most importantly that I’m sorry, but also
that the happiest time of my life was when I was his protégé. That my musical career has stalled
and I don’t know what to do about it. That when I play the music doesn’t even sound like me
anymore.
 That I need him in ways he doesn’t understand and I’m only just beginning to.
I’ve never been good at saying what I feel but Laszlo always knew how I felt when I played
my cello. It’s not everything I want to say but it’s a start, and if he’s leaving for a tour then I need to
say it now.
I lift my chin and look Laszlo in the eye. “Yes. I’m here to audition.”
 Laszlo
Now

She’s even more beautiful than I remember. Cheekbones finer, features more delicate. The years
apart haven’t changed how I feel about her, but nothing could change that. Not my regret, my pain,
my guilt. My anger. Even when I’ve been mad as hell I’ve still wanted her, the one woman in the
world I can’t have.
I watch her smiling at Marcus as he takes her coat and suitcase so she can unpack her cello,
her curtain of red hair falling in front of her face. She used to wear it up at home and while she was
practicing, but she always, always wore it down while she was performing, the thick tresses
spilling over her shoulders. I want to step forward and put a stop this but the thought of seeing her
like that again, sitting at her cello and playing for me, holds me rooted to the spot. She and Marcus
move past me out of the office, deep in conversation about the best audition piece for her. I listen to
their voices as they fade away down the corridor.
What would I have said to her if Marcus hadn’t come in? I don’t even know where to start
with all the things I want to say to her. I’ve never forgotten how things ended between us and I
regret how I lost her. She left a hole in my world and my heart that I’ve never been able to fill. I
don’t even know if she wants these truths from me. In three years she never tried to contact me.
And now she’s here.
The keening notes of her cello reach my ears. They’ve started without me. What is she
playing, Bach?
 No. It’s our piece. She’s playing our piece.
I picture her sitting with her mother’s cello between her knees as she draws the slender
bow across the strings. The long column of her neck bent just so, her eyes drifting closed as she
plays. Before I know it my feet are leading me out to the auditorium toward her. I need to see her
for myself.
She’s seated at the front of the empty stage. The sleeves of her lightweight sweater are
pushed back past her elbows and she’s wearing calf-length boots with a green plaid skirt. She
definitely didn’t come here to audition. Isabeau would never dream of auditioning in anything but
black. She’s playing Vocalise by Rachmaninoff arranged for cello and piano, though the piano to
the right is standing silent and she’s playing alone. There are dozens of pieces for those two
instruments together but this one was ours. The last year she lived with me we played it often, on
our quiet Monday nights or tired Sunday afternoons, after the work was done, the practice finished
and the rehearsals over. The steady and questing piano phrases. The insistent, plaintive cello,
asking and leading before drawing back again. Not for an audience or applause. Something just for
the two of us.
And she’s playing it by herself.
She opens her eyes and fixes her gaze on mine. Unbidden, the fingers of my right hand are
tapping out the piano part against my leg and before I can stop myself she sees, and her playing
falters. Just for a split second, but I hear it. I hear other things as well. The cello is like a human
voice and the music she’s making is filled with sorrow and regret, as clear as if she’s speaking the
words aloud to me.
I’m sorry, Laszlo.
I don’t want her apologies. There’s nothing for her to be sorry for because I’m the one who
let her down. For ten years she looked to me for protection and safety and when she needed me
most I betrayed her.
Isabeau reaches the end of the piece and instead of tapering slowly into silence she stops
abruptly and leans back from her cello as if she can’t bear it anymore. Her eyes are full of hurt. I
know how much it hurts because I feel it too.
Marcus turns to me with an appraising look. He’s smiling, waiting for me to tell Isabeau
that she’s perfect, that she’s hired. He doesn’t understand what was said between us through the
music. He only heard one of the most proficient cellists in the country.
“Well, Laszlo?” he asks.
Well, nothing. The point wasn’t for her to audition, the point was for her to show me how
she feels. I wish Marcus and the Mayhew and everything else would just disappear so I could tell
Isabeau that she has nothing to be sorry for.
I move forward and put my hand on the stage at her feet and look up into her eyes. “Thank
you, Miss Laurent.”
I’m not being cold, addressing her like that. It’s part of the etiquette of the concert hall.
Later when we’re alone I can call her Isabeau, and we can talk. I still have her number and I’ll text
her when I get back to my office and ask her to wait and give me a chance to explain.
I turn to go but she calls out, stopping me. “Mr. Valmary.”
She’s standing, one hand wrapped around the neck of her cello. There’s a new look in her
eyes, something bright and determined.
“Do I get the place?”
I stare at her, not understanding. Marcus is looking at me with an expectant smile. I know
what he’s thinking. I’d be crazy to refuse a cellist like Isabeau, especially when we need her so
badly.
Isabeau, part of my orchestra again. Turning toward the string section and seeing her just a
few feet away, looking back at me. Feeling that exquisite happiness that only comes from knowing
she’s close to me.
But Isabeau can’t come on tour with us. Spending every day and night together for the next
five weeks is out of the question with the way things ended between us. This tour is meant to be an
escape for me, a way to get out of the funk and uncertainty that has invaded my life so I can
consider what I want next. Is the answer Europe? Is it New York? Somewhere further afield?
Where is up, what is onwards when you have achieved your lofty goals by the age of thirty-eight?
That’s the whole reason I said yes to this “fiasco”, as Marcus called it, with parts of the orchestra
on leave. To stretch myself and help clarify things. But I won’t be able to think straight with
Isabeau close to me.
They’re both still looking at me, expectant, so I reach for the first phrase to hand. “My
assistant will call you.”
Marcus starts to say something but I go back to my office, close the door behind me and rest
my back against it. I picture the way Isabeau’s hair fell across her shoulders as she played just
now, thick and soft and beautiful. I remember how it felt running through my fingers that night. The
memory comes back as clear as a single note from a Stradivarius violin. How she felt in my arms
at last. My perfect, untouchable girl, finally mine.
A knock on my door startles me out of my reverie. Fuck. Isabeau.
But when I open my door I see, not Isabeau, but a smiling man in his forties holding a cello
case. He beams at me. “Sorry I’m late. Roger Somers, here to audition.”
 Somers. I remember now, he was suggested by our third violin as a very good cellist. I saw
him play in Oxford two years ago. The sensible choice. The right choice for the tour.
But when I imagine standing at the front of the orchestra and turning to the string section I
don’t see this man looking back at me. I see Isabeau.
I want Isabeau.
“The place has been filled. Thank you for coming.” I shut my office door in Somers’
startled face, take out my phone and call my PA. “In thirty minutes’ time call Isabeau Laurent. Tell
her I want to see her tomorrow. At my house. No, she has the address. I’ll forward you her
number.”
I end the call, send the contact information and close my eyes, certain that I’ve just made a
huge mistake. Isabeau in my orchestra. Isabeau in my life again. Marcus’ confusion about what she
is to me, my protégé, my former protégé, something else entirely, is my confusion.
When she was a child it was so easy. I was her mentor, her guardian, her safety and her
home. But then she grew older and things changed, so slowly that I didn’t even realize what was
happening.
I look at my phone and watch the minutes tick by. Half an hour later the email comes
through from my assistant confirming my meeting with Isabeau at the house tomorrow morning. It’s
done. I’ll be alone with her, just Isabeau, and all the things that have been left unsaid since the night
she turned eighteen. I rest my head against the door and close my eyes, my mind turning back to that
wintry day thirteen years ago. The first time I ever saw her.
 Acknowledgments

Thank you to the beautiful L.R. Black, Elizarey, Abby Gale, Laura Griffin, Liz Meldon and Gabby
Westfall-Salvaterre for your invaluable feedback and encouragement!

Thank you also to my loyal readers and reviewers who make this journey so wonderful for me.

And thank you as always to Mr. Hale. Sugar and kisses, my love.
 Also by Brianna Hale

LITTLE DANCER

PRINCESS BRAT

MIDNIGHT HUNTER

THE PROTÉGÉ

THE NECROMANCER’S BRIDE

 About the author

There's nothing Brianna Hale likes more than a large, stern alpha male with a super-protective and
caring streak, and when she's not writing about them she can usually be found with a book, a
cocktail, planning her next trip to a beautiful location or attending the theatre. She believes that
pink and empowerment aren’t mutually exclusive, and everyday adventures are possible. Brianna
lives in London.

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