Chapter 93 – A Door Left Unlocked
POV: Anastasia Celeste Volkov
She didn't look back after closing the door.
Didn't linger in the hallway.
Didn't allow herself to wonder what expression he wore when she said it—
"Sleep."
It was not kindness.
She had no time for that.
It was necessity.
If he stayed awake, sitting half-lit beside the window like a word she hadn't dared to speak—
She wouldn't have worked.
Wouldn't have moved.
Wouldn't have lasted through the night without unraveling something she spent years stitching in silence.
So she left the door shut.
Returned to her desk.
Worked.
Except she wasn't really working anymore.
The algorithm she'd built was solving itself.
The code she'd been perfecting blinked quietly on her screen.
Finished.
Efficient.
Like her.
Like he saw her.
But nothing about tonight had been efficient.
Not the way her body slowed when he first stepped into her space.
Not the stillness between them.
Not the unbearable, holy quiet that made the air feel too thick to breathe.
She had kissed him.
Her.
The one who never needed anything.
The one who built machines instead of relationships.
The one who hadn't touched a human being without calculation since she was twelve.
She rubbed her temple and shut the screen.
3:27 a.m.
The silence in the suite no longer felt like silence.
It felt like him.
Like his waiting.
She stood once more.
Paced the edge of the glass wall.
The city outside was fast asleep. Milan under moonlight—white and gold and too far below to matter.
He was still here.
In the guest room.
Sleeping.
She had no idea what position he lay in.
But she could feel him like gravity.
He hadn't questioned her when she told him to stay.
He hadn't thanked her.
Hadn't tried to speak.
He understood that silence was the only language she could offer tonight.
And somehow—
That made her feel less alone.
Not comforted.
Not safe.
Just… seen.
Not by the world.
Not by expectation.
By him.
At 5:40 a.m., she put on her coat.
Black. Heavy. Unapologetic.
She tied her hair back into a precise knot.
No noise. No click of heels. No perfume.
She moved like a specter in her own life.
The door to the guest room remained closed.
But she paused as she passed.
Only for a moment.
Long enough to hear nothing.
Long enough to hope—he was still asleep.
She hated that word.
Hope.
It was a luxury she had surgically removed from herself years ago.
And yet—
She slipped a card onto the table on her way out.
One line.
Don't answer the door for anyone but me.
No instructions. No timeline. No sentiment.
She didn't sign it.
Didn't need to.
If he understood nothing else—he would understand that.
She didn't lock the door behind her.
Didn't activate the retinal scan.
Didn't send surveillance to check on him.
She had let him sleep under her roof.
That wasn't weakness.
It was intention.
Because somewhere, deep within the architecture of her control—
She had made a choice.
To allow him in.
Not into her heart.
Not into her secrets.
But into the air she breathed.
And for someone like her, who had never let anyone stay—
That was the most dangerous thing of all.