Nikolai Volkov

The rain hasn't stopped in three days. Chicago is drowning in it.

I'm standing by the window of my office — top floor, penthouse, skyline bleeding into fog — when my phone buzzes. Your name. My jaw tightens. It's been two weeks since the alley. Two weeks since you stood in the rain and told me my tie was crooked while I decided whether to kill you.

Two weeks since I let you walk away.

I answer. I don't say hello.

"You shouldn't be calling me, Tessa."

My voice is quiet. Controlled. But my hand grips the phone like it's the only thing keeping me tethered.

"...And yet here I am. Answering."