“Correction,” I cut in. “When you needed me to come to The Whitney.”
“At no time did I ever consider living with you,” she continues. “So, you can get that thought right out of your arrogant and delusional head.”
There’s a knock on the door, and I take the opportunity of Katja walking to answer it to head over to the couch to make myself comfortable. I don’t bother to even look over my shoulder to see who’s at the door.
I already know.
I hear Katja ask, “What is this?”
“Mr. Cohen has asked for all his belongings to be moved to the penthouse,” the voice of the bellman answers.
“What? Dex!” The screech that comes from such a usually composed woman amuses me.
I finally glance over my shoulder and motion for the bellman to enter. “Bring everything to the room across from Ms. Belov’s.”
The bellman moves past Katja and pulls the cart with the beginning of my belongings into the room. He’s a smart enough man to know to do as he was originally asked and to act oblivious to the tense energy in the room.
Katja storms over to me and whispers between clenched teeth. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I love the fact that she doesn’t want to make a scene in front of the staff. It’s keeping her in check. Otherwise, there’s a chance she’d try to claw my eyeballs out.
I kick off my shoes and lean back fully into the fluffy couch pillows. Smiling, I say, “Moving in.”
Chapter Sixteen
KATJA
This is ridiculous. I’ve been standing in my closet, making tiny changes to my outfit for thirty minutes. As meticulous as I am with my appearance, even I’m not normally this indecisive.
I’m hiding.
There. I admitted it to myself, except it doesn’t make me feel any better because it just means I’m letting Dex Cohen have the upper hand in this little game we’re playing.
He barged his way into living in the penthouse four days ago and while we may technically be living in the same suite, we’ve barely seen each other, which suits me just fine. The problem is that even when he’s not here, the threat of him returning at any moment hangs over my head, keeping me on pins and needles. It’s like having to be battle-ready at all times.
I hate it.
This is my home. I shouldn’t have to worry about running into my enemy when I’m just grabbing a cup of coffee or getting a book from my library. Thankfully, my bedroom has a sitting area so I’ve been able to stay closeted away for the most part when I wasn’t up to going to war, but this isn’t sustainable.
Worse, the asshole went behind my back and canceled all of the normal services I had arranged with the staff. No more morning coffee delivery. No more nightly turndown with Francesca, or afternoon housekeeping touch-ups. Hell, Dex even canceled my standing dinner order with Chef, forcing me to either leave the penthouse or phone for service each time I need something.
It’s ridiculous, and I’m prepared to tell him so the next time I see him, which at the current rate could still be days away.
I take a deep breath and pull open my bedroom door, mentally prepared for a fight.
The joint sitting room space between my room and Dex’s new bedroom is quiet. I shed a tiny bit of the anxiety I’ve been carrying around since finding out Tristan had died.
To be fair, my brain knows I was in just as much trouble when he was alive, it’s just that Tristan did a spectacular job of hiding all the financial danger from me. But admitting it’s better to have the truth out in the open doesn’t make facing my situation any easier.
I weave through the suite, past the small library nook and the guest bath. The June sun shines in through the mammoth windows with a gorgeous view of Central Park on full display. A ray of light catches the crystal vase full of fresh-cut flowers on the grand piano. They hadn’t been there when I’d gone to bed. In fact, I’d canceled such frivolous luxuries during my financial drought, and I resent the sliver of pleasure I feel at their return because I know they are only here because of Dex.
Just like yesterday, and the day before, the smell of freshly brewed coffee greets me as I enter the kitchen. I know Dex is responsible for the small gesture, but it’s just another way he refuses to let me ignore his presence.
There’s one small difference I notice this morning and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Waiting next to the pot of coffee is a small plate filled with an assortment of flaky croissants.
My favorite pastry.
An ancient memory I’d long forgotten floats to my brain as I remember telling him my preference years before when we were still just kids and our father’s had Sunday Brunch together each week after my mother died. I reject the idea he would have remembered such a small detail. It has to be a coincidence.