Zahariev was waiting. He stood, looking deep in thought, with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. His brows were furrowed, his mouth tight, a sign he was displeased with something—usually me. His gaze shifted to mine when he heard the door close. He rarely let it trail my body, but today, he gave me a cold once-over. “Is that outfit part of your routine?” he asked. “Fuck off,” I said, smoothing my pencil skirt. “You know I had lunch with my dad.” He smiled and took a drag from his cigarette. “How is he?” Zahariev asked. “More desperate than ever to have me home,” I said. I let my eyes
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