Don't hate it

I sit at my desk, my gaze falling on the handful of magazines scattered across its surface. Each one features a face or figure that doesn't quite match the man I've been searching for—my Ivan. According to the background search, he's been in the modeling world, but these? These are small-time castings, hardly worthy of someone with his beauty, his presence.

It's baffling, considering he had a sponsor. One of those nouveau-riche types. The Blacks, wasn't it? Their heir—Donald? Derrick? Doesn't matter. He had the means, the connections, to make Ivan a household name, to set him ablaze across the brightest stages and screens. And yet, here I am, piecing together fragments of his past like a puzzle. If he'd been the star he deserved to be, I would have found him sooner. I would've plucked him away from his grasp and claimed him as mine.

Such is the way of this world—the bigger fish always wins.

I glance at my phone, frustration bubbling as I see his silence yet again. Ivan has been ignoring my texts, leaving my words unanswered, my attempts to bridge the gap hanging in the void. But at least the man I sent to watch over him is doing his job, sending me updates and photos. I know Ivan is safe, even if he insists on keeping me at arm's length for now.

I exhale, leaning back in my chair, my mind drifting to the plans I've made for tomorrow. Tomorrow. The day I've been waiting for, the moment I've yearned for since we parted. Tomorrow, I'll finally see him again. I'll hold him in my arms, where he belongs, and remind him that he doesn't need to run from me.

***

It's a hectic day at work. Friday afternoons are always busy, but today feels especially chaotic. Why is it so packed in this small town anyway? And it's only 1 PM.

I weave through the crowded tables, balancing plates as I rush to take orders. My patience is already wearing thin, made worse by the lecherous stares from some of the alphas in the room. I grit my teeth, suppressing the urge to slam these gourmet plates into their smug faces. Professionalism, Ivan. Just make it through the day.

"Ivan, boss is asking for you," Jane calls as I pass her near the kitchen, arms laden with a stack of empty plates.

Curious, I set the plates down and head toward the back hallway, stopping in front of the boss's office. As I approach, I notice a man standing outside the door. He's dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit and wearing sunglasses—indoors. He's tall, broad, and bald, his imposing aura making the narrow hallway feel even smaller.

"Hello," I say, giving the door a soft knock as I step inside.

"You have the day off," the man states bluntly, his tone gruff and final.

I blink, taken aback. "Uhm, okay?" I manage, though his cold, dismissive glance makes it clear there's no room for questions. So much for an explanation.

I turn to leave, but as I step back into the hallway, the man follows and pulls something from his jacket—a neatly folded note. He hands it to me with both hands, his movements rigid and precise. Intrigued, I take it, unfolding the paper carefully.

"As repercussions for stealing my tie and ignoring me these past two days, I sentence you to a date with me."

A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it, and for once, I don't even bother trying to hide it. My mysterious alpha.Only he could send something this ridiculous and make it sound so commanding.

"Follow me," the man orders, his thick Russian accent catching my attention.

I glance at him, hesitating for just a moment before nodding. With a sigh, I leave the restaurant and trail behind him to the sleek black cars parked outside. The attention these things draw is absurd, but I love attention so I don't mind. The man opens the door to one of the cars, waiting for me like some kind of chauffeur.

I slide into the plush interior, trying not to act like this is a totally normal occurrence. As he gets into the driver's seat, I can't help but ask, switching to Russian, "Your accent—are you from the homeland?"

"Yes. I saw your features and thought so too, but I didn't know how to ask," he says, his stern demeanor softening.

As he speaks, my mind drifts momentarily. The author of this world was undeniably lazy—it's blatantly modeled after Earth. The countries that don't overlap in the plot still have their original names, but nothing here feels fully fleshed out. I'm fairly certain I'm in what would equate to America, but it's all frustratingly vague. The author couldn't even bother to name the place properly—just "Country A" or "City B." Lazy.

I refocus on the bald man as we continue chatting in Russian. His imposing presence fades with each exchange, replaced by a surprising warmth and eagerness to connect. It's almost endearing. The conversation flows effortlessly, and I find myself forgetting the chaos of the day for the first time in hours.

I chuckle at that, realizing how out of place this giant of a man suddenly looks, giddy and flustered like a child. We talk the entire drive, a strange warmth settling in my chest as I realize how easily the conversation flows between us.

When the car finally pulls up to my apartment, I glance outside to see not one but two sleek black vehicles parked conspicuously in front. Zander's handiwork, no doubt. Such an attention seeker. I shake my head, unable to stop the small grin forming on my face.

Honestly, I don't hate it. Not one bit.