Page 202 of Sexting His Assistant

Inside the lobby, the night guard looks up from his desk and nods.

I nod back. The elevator takes too long.

I check my reflection in the mirrored doors and nearly laugh at myself. My lipstick is softer than it was when we left for the gala, my eyes look too bright, and my expression belongs to someone who has no idea what she is going to do with her own life.

When the elevator arrives, I step inside and press my floor.

My phone buzzes before the doors close.

Luka.

Inside?

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling when I type back.

Elevator. Relax.

His reply comes almost immediately.

Unlikely.

I press the phone against my chest for one second, because apparently I’m pathetic now.

The elevator opens on my floor.

The hallway is quiet.

At first, nothing seems wrong.

The lights are on, the carpet is clean, and the air smells faintly of floor cleaner and someone’s dinner from another apartment. I walk toward my door with my purse tucked under one arm, already thinking about removing my heels and washing my face.

Then I slow down.

My apartment door is not closed.

It’s open by an inch.

For a moment, my brain refuses to understand what I’m seeing.

I stop in the hallway and stare at the gap.

The lock is not fully engaged. The door sits slightly ajar, dark inside, silent.

A cold feeling moves through my stomach.

“Misha?” I call quietly.

No answer.

My hand tightens around my purse.

I should turn around. I should call Luka.

I should go back to the elevator, press the button, get downstairs, and tell the night guard to come with me. Every sensible thought lines up at once, clear and obvious.

I push it gently with my fingertips.

The hinges make a small sound.