2

That pretty much set the tone for our working relationship.

“I’m leaving,” Ruslan announces back in the present moment. “Make sure the folders are set out for the department head meeting in the morning.” He rounds the desk and strides toward me. My heart quickens when he gets close enough for me to smell his cologne. Today’s is woodsy. Smoky. Crisp.

“Yes, sir,” I croak quietly.

“Oh,” he adds, “I also need my tuxedo brought to the penthouse on 48th. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” I balk. “But I have to—”

He’s already gone. Swishing out the door without bothering to look back. The only thing left behind is the trailing tendrils of his cologne.

An hour later, I am the walking dead. Every nerve ending in my feet is on fire. I trekked my booty across town to Ruslan’s tailor, picked up his tuxedo, and trekked back to Midtown to his penthouse.

When the elevators let me out directly into his foyer, I release a sigh. One final task on this Tuesday custom-designed by Satan.

Not that tomorrow will be any different.

My shoes clack as I walk down the marble flooring and emerge into the living room. It’s floor-toceiling glass windows on three sides, so I can see the entire city wrapped around me, bejeweled and glistening in the night. The furniture and finishes are every bit as gorgeous as the man who owns this place—and every bit as brutal. It’s all black matte and sharp edges. Grotesque modern contorted sculptures in the corners. Grotesque modern contorted paintings on the walls.

I once looked up the price he paid for this place and almost threw up in my mouth. It had a few too many zeroes for my comfort level. The most sickening part of all is that he comes here once a month at most, usually with one of his many actress/influencer/model dates on his arm. It’s pretty much just the world’s most expensive fuckpad.

I drape the suit over the back of his black suede couch. It’s weird being here, in Ruslan’s personal space. It smells mostly like cleaning product, but I swear, every time I turn around, I catch just a whiff of that cologne again.

It’s making my head swim.

I want so badly to curl up on the suede couch and sleep for the rest of my life. But I have to keep moving. People are counting on me. Three little ones in particular.

So sleep is off the list. My next thought is how nice it would be to get some kind of petty vengeance against the bosshole from hell for the wringer he’s put me through today.

My sister wouldn’t have hesitated for a second.

“Sienna, don’t you dare pee on his car!”

But my sister was already clambering up on the hood in her way-too-short, way-too-pink nightclub dress, cackling like a madwoman. I was mortified. Her laugh was infamous across campus, so I had no doubt that someone was going to recognize it, open their dorm window, and look out in the East Campus parking lot to see the Carson sisters up to no good, as per usual.

Correction: Sienna was the one who was always up to no good. I was the one who was always trying to rein her in. Not that it helped; Sienna did what she wanted.

Always had. Always would.

And when she saw my dirty, rotten, cheating ex’s car gleaming in the primo parking spot, it sparked an idea that she absolutely refused to ignore.

Which is how I ended up holding her hand for balance as she squatted on Tommy’s Range Rover and let loose.

I can’t say he didn’t deserve it; this just wouldn’t have been my preferred method of vengeance. “Screw that,” Sienna said when I told her that living well was the best form of revenge. “Don’t get even; get ahead. That’s my motto.”

When she had relieved herself of a long night’s worth of cranberry vodkas, I helped her back down to the asphalt. “You’re insane,” I informed her. “Absolutely clinical.”

“And yet you love me. What does that say about you?”

“Nothing good,” I muttered.

“Shut up. Say it. Say you love me.” She made kissy faces at me and, when I refused, she tickled me in the spot under my ribs that I’d hated since we were little.

“Fine! Fine! I love you!” I shrieked.

Only then did she relent.

“Good. I love you, too, Em. You’re the stars to my moon. Never forget that.”

Then, just for good measure, she mooned me. We laughed—her laugh and mine, two sides of the same coin, filtering up and out into the night beyond.

I never imagined a life without her. I never thought I’d have to.

I’m not Sienna; I’m not going to pee on Ruslan’s fifty-thousand dollar couch. And, as of three years, six months, and four days ago, she’s not here to do it for me.

With a sigh, I turn and slump out.

It’s a long subway ride from gleaming Midtown to my dirty, cramped apartment building in Hell’s Kitchen. When I get there, it’s a long walk up the four flights of stairs because, of course, the elevator is broken yet again. I’m almost literally sexually aroused at the prospect of a REM cycle—but when I open the door, I realize with a molar-grinding horror that sleep is a long way away.

My apartment is an absolute disaster.

Beer bottles are scattered everywhere. The kids’ clothes are mildewing in the wash. The kitchen sink is stacked high with dirty plates.

I don’t have to look far to find the culprit. Ben, my sister’s widower, is passed out in the corner armchair. A half-finished cigarette dangles from between his fingertips and the other hand is clutching the dregs of a lukewarm Bud Light. I march over and pluck both from him, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray and hurling the beer into the recycling bin. He startles for a second before sinking right back into an open-mouthed snore.

Ben. The bane of my existence, no pun intended. There’s a reason he’s not on the lock screen of my phone. A reason I try not to think about him whenever I can help it.

He took Sienna’s death hard. That’s no surprise; we all did. When someone is that bright of a personality, it’s hard not to feel like you’re living in the shadows once they’re gone.

But the kids and I have soldiered on, no matter how much it hurts.

Ben, on the other hand, is wallowing in the mud. He was fired from his job, so now, all he does is drink and smoke and mutter to himself around the clock—which he does here, since he couldn’t afford the mortgage on their house with no income. When he deigns to parent his own children, he does it like a fairytale ogre, all spit-flecked bellowing and flying off the handle at the least little thing.