Knocked Up By the Russian Boss by Bella King

Chapter 28

IVORY

Ilay in my bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying to listen for Maxim in the apartment below. My heart is pounding in my chest, and holding my breath to listen to his movements feels like a violation somehow, like I should be trusting him implicitly, and it’s my fault that I can’t.

I don’t think he’s home anymore. He must’ve gone out again.

What I saw in the red-light district with Maxim will haunt me forever. I’ve never been anywhere near a place so depraved and destitute, especially not with a man. He seemed so unbothered by it all, like he felt at home there.

But he also seemed very comfortable and natural surrounded by excess and wealth at the restaurant we originally went to. He’s obviously loaded. He wants me to know that.

I can’t lie; I’m a little insulted that he feels the need to wave his money around when I clearly have enough of my own.

I’ve always been stupid about men and their intentions. I have a terrible habit of expecting abject honesty from everybody, as if I’ve ever received it from anybody in a life so full of pageantry and opulence where people’s entire livelihood can be summed up as lying. My own father lies for a living.

My mother never trusted men. Even before I was old enough to understand the delicate intricacies of adult relationships, my mother would call me into her bedroom where she drank wine in the dark, telling me stories about past flames who ruined her emotionally, mentally, or financially. She never made a point to emphasize how my father’s actions contrasted theirs, and so I always assumed, correctly, that he was part of the problem.

Men like Maxim are notorious in academia, much older than their female partners, holding some form of influence over them and abusing it for personal gain.

I’ve been approached by more than a few of my professors, offering “extra credit” to take me on a date, or more boldly, to bend me over their desk and fuck me in their office after hours. As one of the students with a near-perfect GPA, the exchange of sex for academic security wasn’t as enticing as they thought.

Maxim is imposing and likes to be in charge, that’s for certain. What would he want with someone as inexperienced as me? He came out of nowhere, and now he seems to be around every corner, always there to rescue or console or fuck me when I need it.

It all seems a little too perfect, too streamlined to be a coincidence.

Could this have something to do with my father being a well-known political figure? He’s had sycophants and bottom-feeders trailing him ever since he stepped foot into politics, especially since he started out more wealthy than his competitors and would pay people insane amounts of money to complete menial tasks for him.

Maxim obviously doesn’t need the money. That’s been established, but something about his sudden and profound presence in my life is unsettling. He’s not supposed to be here.

There’s still a mountain of homework for me to complete before the week is over if I want any time to myself this weekend. I open my laptop and am immediately lambasted with emails, notifications, and alerts from virtual classrooms, creating a brief cacophony of pings as I scroll through them. I can almost feel my stress levels rising the longer I stare into the endless list of mostly pointless tasks.

I begin with a reading assignment about apartheid in South Africa. I skim through the discussion board posts, and my classmates have been so uninspired and unoriginal with their responses that I could probably write more articulately if I were a lab monkey that was dosed with PCP.

As I’m typing up my responses to their inane revelations regarding the position of South Africa in the 1992 Barcelona Olympics, I’m overcome by the desire to just stop. I stare intently at the cursor blinking at me on the screen, waiting intently for me to continue with my diatribe that nobody cares about and nobody will read.

I think I need some tea.

Tea isn’t like coffee. It doesn’t help me focus. It only serves as a reason to leave my desk and recalibrate myself, potentially to eliminate distractions or indulge them entirely.

I get up from my seat and make my way into the kitchen, reaching for my favorite coffee cup that says “#1 Grandpa.” I’m out of peppermint tea, which has been my go-to since forever, so I settle for some lavender tea and start to heat the water in an electric kettle. That ought to calm me down.

As I listen to the subtle hum of the kettle as it activates, I feel my phone vibrate as I receive a notification.

It’s a text from an unknown number.

Usually, when I receive messages or calls from unknown numbers, it’s because one of my friends was trying to blow off a guy who asked for her number, and she gave him mine instead. It’s annoying, but I’d prefer that they do that than give into him if she doesn’t want to.

When I open the message, though, I discover something much worse. My heart jumps into my mouth, and I can’t breathe.

“Hey, it’s Chad. Do you miss me?”

What the fuck?

This is obviously a sick joke orchestrated by a bored psychopath. Could it be Spencer and his mongoloid friends? Would they really sink so low as to impersonate a murder victim in the midst of an investigation?

I guess I haven’t heard much of the investigation.

I don’t even know who’s being prosecuted for his death.

More messages pour in, my phone seizing as text after text rolls in from the same unknown number. One of the messages is a photo of Chad in the woods by the bat caves.

My skin feels ashen and clammy, and I’m ready to throw up.

Maybe my intuition wasn’t lying before. Maybe there is someone watching me, or at least keeping very close tabs on where I am and what I’m doing.

The silence in my apartment is deafening. Blood pounds my eardrums as my heart rate rockets through the double digits into the hundreds, climbing higher and higher until my Apple watch chirps at me, asking politely for me to cease exercise until I calm down.

My hands shake so hard that I feel completely out of control, like I’m possessed and am moments away from grabbing a knife from the butcher block and slitting my own throat, if only to escape from the unknown terrors that have just revealed themselves to me.

I dial my father’s phone number.

Before he answers, I hear a knock at the door.

I drop my phone.

My breathing is out of control now, and my vision grows fuzzy as I hyperventilate. My body buzzes as I reach for the door, numb to the sensation of cold brass as if I’ve inhaled enough cocaine to kill a whale shark.

When I open the door, relief crashes over me so intensely that I could cry.

It’s Maxim.