The moment Sam steps out of Ivanov's office, he feels the weight of his own heartbeat pressing against his ribs. His hand still tingles where Ivanov kissed it, and his lips—damn it—still feel warm from that sudden, forceful kiss.
He storms down the corridor, gripping the envelope tighter in his hands. It's empty now. Torn. Useless. Just like his attempt at taking control of his own life.
"What the hell just happened in there?"
The thought keeps circling in his head, a relentless loop of disbelief and frustration. Ivanov is toying with him, as always, but this time—this time, he crossed a line.
Sam slams the door behind him as he enters his office, his breathing uneven. He presses his back against the door, running a shaky hand through his hair. His face burns, his heart won't slow down, and worst of all—he hates the way his body reacted to Ivanov's touch.
"That bastard... he kissed me."
The memory replays, unwanted and vivid. The way Ivanov's lips pressed against his. The teasing smirk afterward. The knowing look in his eyes, like he could see through every damn defense Sam tried to build.
Sam groans, gripping his hair. "No. No, no, no. I am not thinking about this. Not like that."
He storms to his desk and pulls open the top drawer, searching for something—anything—to distract himself. His hands tremble as he reaches for a stack of papers, forcing himself to focus.
But his phone vibrates.
He flinches. For a second, he considers ignoring it. But then he sees the name on the screen.
"Liam"
A friend. Someone normal. Someone safe.
Sam exhales sharply before answering. "Yeah?"
"Damn, man. You sound like shit. You good?" Liam's voice is casual, but there's concern beneath it.
Sam swallows. "Just tired."
"You sure? You don't sound like you."
Sam forces out a chuckle. "What does me even sound like?"
"I dunno—less like you just got hit by a truck?"
Sam rubs his temple, closing his eyes. If only it was a truck. That would've been easier than dealing with this.
"Hey, listen," Liam continues. "I was thinking we could grab drinks later? You need a break, man. I can hear the stress through the phone."
Drinks. A chance to breathe. To be anywhere but here.
Sam almost says yes—he wants to say yes—but then his phone vibrates again. A new message.
From Ivanov.
> 6 PM. Don't be late, sweets. I'm looking forward to our little… chat.
Sam stares at the screen, his stomach twisting into knots.
"You still there, dude?" Liam's voice pulls him back.
"...Yeah."
"So, drinks?"
Sam hesitates. His fingers tighten around the phone. He should go. He should escape.
But.
But.
He can still hear Ivanov's voice from earlier. "Or I'll break your legs."
A joke. It had to be a joke, right? But something about the way he said it, the sharp contrast between his teasing words and that sudden coldness—Sam isn't sure anymore.
"Maybe some other time," Sam mutters.
"Your loss," Liam sighs. "But hey, don't go dying from stress or some shit."
Sam forces a smile he doesn't feel. "I'll try."
He hangs up. The room is silent again. His hands feel clammy.
And then, before he can stop himself, he whispers under his breath:
"What the hell am I doing?"
---
6 PM -
Sam finds himself outside the private lounge before he even realizes his feet carried him there.
His palms are sweaty. His heart pounds. He's gripping the doorknob too tightly, frozen.
I could still walk away.
I could just turn around and leave.
But then, the door opens before he even knocks.
Ivanov stands there, as if he had been waiting, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looks relaxed—too relaxed—like he already won whatever twisted game they were playing.
The smirk that spreads across his lips is slow, deliberate. "There you are, sweets." His eyes flick over Sam, taking in every nervous tick, every hesitation. "Come inside."
Sam stiffens. His instincts tell him to refuse—to walk away, to shove the door closed in Ivanov's smug face. But his legs betray him, carrying him inside before he even processes the decision.
The door clicks shut behind him.
The room is dimly lit, warm, luxurious. A sleek leather couch sits against the far wall, the scent of expensive liquor lingering in the air. Sam tries not to focus on how intimate the setting feels.
Ivanov moves leisurely, pouring himself another drink. He takes his time, as if Sam isn't standing there, fists clenched, struggling to control his emotions.
"Bold of you coming to my den on your own." Ivanov murmured, taking his gaze linger on Sam's curves. "Well then... Shall we start?"