Knocked Up By the Russian Boss by Bella King
Chapter 35
IVORY
It’s 7 AM, and my back is killing me from falling asleep on the couch in Maxim’s arms. Despite the steady burn of tension in my muscles, I’m content. Last night was the first time I’ve ever felt completely safe and cared for by any man, and he didn’t even try to make a move on me. He let me pick the movie we watched, even if it wasn’t something he’d ever gravitate toward.
As I groggily peel myself from the couch, I reach blindly for my phone on the table across from me. Expectedly so, I’m bombarded with pings and bells and notifications the second I turn it back on. I scroll through the home screen, swiping everything into limbo where it will remain until I give enough of a shit to investigate them.
All except one.
The phone number assigned to “Chad?” has resurged in activity, and I can see from the push notification that there’s a photo attached to the text.
Fuck, is it me again? I don’t know if I can tolerate seeing another nude photo of myself taken by some creep in the woods. My resilience is already wearing dangerously thin.
When I open the message, I could only wish that it was a naked photo.
A grainy picture displays the limp body of a dead man, probably in his mid-thirties. There’s just enough of his face exposed for me to see his eyes, glazed over and unseeing for the rest of eternity.
I jump a bit, learning now that panicking over a photo I’ve received from this number will only stir me into a full-on psychotic episode if I don’t keep my shit together.
Before I’m able to conceal the photo, Maxim notices my reaction and takes the phone right out of my hands. Beyond the obvious invasion of privacy, I’m nervous that he’ll fly into a rage and pursue my assailant with red in his eyes.
“Please give it back. It’s probably just a picture from LiveLeak or something,” I say, my voice wavering as I calm it.
Maxim’s face turns completely white the instant he sees the photo.
I’ve never, ever seen him come so close to panicking himself. He’s always so collected and unbothered by everything that it’s a little annoying sometimes. Seeing his face drain of blood, leaving a china-white canvas for terror, sends an unearthly chill through me. My guts squeeze into a tight ball, using every bit of my already limited energy to hold themselves together.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Obviously there’s a photo of a dead man on my phone, but I didn’t recognize him at all. Even though I don’t know Maxim’s background super well, I doubt a photo from the internet would shake him so deeply.
“Nothing, this person is sick. They’re terrorizing you. I’ll get you a different phone with a new number. Don’t touch this thing, ever, and especially don’t engage with the person sending these messages,” he replies, terror losing its grip on him as it’s replaced by fire in his veins.
I don’t question him. As much as I want to believe that this is all just a sick joke being played by some bored frat brothers that I wouldn’t sleep with, I trust Maxim’s judgment, and he’s legitimately scaring me now.
In an uncharacteristically selfish way, I’m angry that all of this is occurring when I could be focusing on developing a real relationship with Maxim. I’ve finally found somebody who seems to really care about me, who wants to care for me, and I have to spend all of my mental and emotional energy on not spontaneously vomiting from stress.
It’s a miracle I’ve been able to maintain a grade-point average above 3.0, much less been able to develop some kind of relationship with Maxim.
Maxim’s eyes change slightly, and he’s so difficult to read already that I’m frustrated beyond comprehension that he won’t just talk to me.
Does he think I’m too fragile, too young to process something so heavy and dangerous? I’d hate for him to think of me as a child, even if I am much younger than him.
He pulls on a coat and grabs his keys hastily, pausing periodically to try and remember something that I can’t place.
I’m stunned by his sudden and unpredictable actions, but this doesn’t feel like the right time to nag him about where he’s going. If he chooses to just leave without telling me what’s going on, does he really care that much?
“I’ll be back later, do not go anywhere,” he says, practically flying out the door and locking it behind him just as quickly.
Under different circumstances, I’d probably consider Maxim a neurotic and controlling man. Taking my phone right out of my hands, refusing to give it back, and telling me where I can and can’t go would all be major red flags to me in the wild.
Now though, I feel like he knows better than I do that this kind of malicious activity can’t be taken lightly. We need to be proactive. I just don’t know how.
Without a phone, I’m extremely bored in this apartment. I consider leaving just for a moment to go to my own place and grab my laptop, but I wonder if that would piss off Maxim, like I’m trying to circumvent his instructions just to be defiant.
Instead, I wrap myself in a blanket that I pulled from his bed and wander over to the huge picture window that overlooks the city.
Watching other people go about their days is so weird to me, wondering if they’re living with an equally fucked up secret. If my father knew what was going on, he would lock me in the basement of the estate and keep me there until I turned 35, regardless of the outcome of all this drama.
I spot a young couple walking down the sidewalk across from the apartment complex, both holding coffee and laughing together. I envy them so much right now that a little flame of jealousy ignites in my belly, and I wonder what kind of life Maxim and me could have if I had just never met Chad.
