Page 119 of Cruel Demands

Mikhail watches my face, which I’m certain is bloodless and as white as the snow outside. He stops the recording and returns his phone to his pocket. “It goes on for another few hours, but it’s you snoring, and then your phone dies, I think.”

I stare at the phone. “What is that?”

He looks at me. “You know.”

“No.”

He raises one eyebrow. It’s an expression I’ve seen him use on lying donors, incompetent assistants, and men who are about to regret speaking.

“Play it again,” I say. His hand moves in his pocket. “No.” He stops. “I mean—don’t.” A memory comes back in broken pieces. My apartment. Dark except for the lamp beside my bed. A glass of water on the floor. My phone in my hand while I argued with myself about calling him. I remember opening his contact. I remember staring at the button. I remember deciding not to press it. Did I accidentally press it instead? I put my phone under the pillow—was the screen still open? My face begins to burn. “You know that was an accident.”

“I suspected.”

“And you still listened?”

“It was addressed to me.”

“It was not addressed to anyone.”

“You said my name.”

“Stop.”

He does. I can hear the radiator ticking. A car passes outside, tires hissing over wet pavement. My skin feels too tight. I want to disappear into the floor, or throw his phone through the window, or force time backward until I can drown the device in the sink before it betrays me.

“Delete it,” I tell him. Mikhail studies me. “Now.”

“I can, but I have already memorized it.”

My breath catches. “That’s not funny,” I say, but he says it without amusement. That’s the worst part. There’s no smile, no cruelty, no satisfaction at having found a new way to embarrass me. He treats the recording with the same gravity he gives everything else, as if I confessed beneath oath.

“I am not being funny. I will delete it,” he says softly. “But it will not make you unsay it. And it will not take it from me. I memorized every moan, every breath.” He steps toward me and murmurs, “You, I belong to you.” He trails his fingers up my arms, and I shiver despite myself. “You, Mikhail. It’s yours. Take me.”

Something sensitive flares through the humiliation. Between my legs, I’m pulsing wildly. He almost never uses contractions when he speaks English. He really has memorized it.

“Earlier, you said you are not mine, but on this recording, you say that you are. And you say it’s mine too. Tell me, Taylor, what is it? What is mine?”

My pulse jumps. Heat gathers low in my stomach. Every memory I have tried to bury pushes forward at once: his mouth, his hands, the weight of him behind me, the way his voice changes when he stops pretending to be civilized. I feel sick with embarrassment. Sick with fear. And I feel sick with desire. I can’t untangle them. Fear and desire should not feel this similar. I hate him for teaching my body otherwise.

“You have memorized a drunk woman talking into a phone. It means nothing.”

“Drunk words. Sober thoughts. I heard you finally say what you wanted. Do not ruin it by being ashamed,” he says, the same thing he told me that night in his house.

“You hear what benefits you.”

“And you deny what frightens you. You do not want me to delete it because it is false,” he says. “You want me to delete it because it is true.”

I move around the table before I realize I’m doing it. Toward him. He remains still. “I want you to delete it because you’re my boss, and it’s disgusting that you have that. You think one accidental message undoes everything else I have told you? I have told you over and over that I do not want a relationship, haven’t I?”

“Yes, you have told me that.”

“That I just want to get good grades and do my job. Haven’t I said that, Mikhail?”

“You have, Taylor.”

“I wanted you for one stupid night, that’s it. I don’t want you anymore.”

His eyes drop to my mouth. The air leaves my lungs in a thin, unsteady line. Mikhail lifts one hand. He doesn’t touch me. His fingers hover near my face, close enough that I feel the warmth of them against my skin. I should tell him to stop. I should move. Instead, I stand perfectly still.