Chapter 4: Just Ask

EVANGELINE

I stare at the message, my brows furrowed in confusion. Maybe it was a mistake.

Wait…

Could it be…?

But how did he…?

It can’t be.

Tormented, I type a reply, needing confirmation.

“Who is this?”

The response comes almost instantly.

“Someone is waiting for the right questions.”

Damn it. It’s really him. But why? And how did he get my number?

I hesitate for a moment, but I have to know.

“Mr. Volkov? How did you get my number?”

This time, the reply takes a little longer.

“Do you still want the answer to that question… or did you change your mind?

And call me Aleksander.”

The message only leaves me more unsettled.

I can’t understand him. Why is he doing this? And calling him Aleksander? I don’t even know him that well.

And, as if that wasn’t enough, he completely ignored my question. Of course, he’s not going to answer. After all, he only answers what he wants to.

Maybe he’s just crazy. That would explain why he’s texting me at this hour.

I thought my email had made things clear, but apparently not. Maybe, if I’m a little more direct.

“Mr. Volkov, I’m sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable addressing you so informally, considering we barely know each other.

As I mentioned before, I believe your answers are sufficient for now. I’ll pass them along to the writer responsible for the article.

If you’re interested in discussing the topic further, I can provide her contact information.”

I hesitate a bit, afraid of sounding too rude, but, in the end, I send it—too tired to worry about the ego of an arrogant CEO.

Then I wait, but his response doesn’t come as quickly as before.

I’m almost giving up and going to sleep, when it finally appears on the screen.

“Do you really want to know if I’m obsessed with control?

Or were you just hoping I’d confirm what you felt, Evangeline?”

What I felt? What does he mean?

Could he be offended by the question?

And the way he used my first name, like we’re close, doesn’t sit right either. For some reason, it makes me uneasy, almost uncomfortable.

The same effect his presence had on me. How is that possible?

It doesn’t matter. I don’t like this.

Maybe, if I tell him the truth, he’ll finally leave me alone.

"Want to know the truth?

I didn’t have much time to read about you, sir.

So, I’m sorry if I offended you. That wasn’t my intention.

I was just trying to do my job."

His reply comes within seconds, sounding impatient.

You didn’t answer the question.

God… What is wrong with him?

With a frustrated sigh, I type a reply, deciding to just be honest.

"Alright… I guess I just wanted to confirm the impression I had of you."

Without thinking twice, I hit send.

This time, as I wait for his response, I realize just how ridiculously anxious I seem.

My sleepiness and exhaustion have been replaced by curiosity about what he’ll say next.

I don’t think I could sleep now, even if I wanted to. And when the words appear on the screen, I devour them instantly.

"If you truly want to understand who I really am, just ask.

But it has to be you.

Not the interviewer or the editorial assistant.

Just you."

I… But why me? That’s what doesn’t make sense. No matter how hard I try, I can’t understand it. Why is he so obsessed with giving me answers I didn’t even ask for?

Okay, maybe that’s no longer entirely true. I do want some answers.

I need to know.

"Actually, I’d like to know why you’re doing this."

I press send and feel my anxiety rise as I wait, hoping he won’t ignore my question this time.

And, to my surprise, he doesn’t.

"Because you weren’t the one who was supposed to walk into that room, Evangeline.

But you did."

I type exactly what comes to mind when I read the message.

"What do you mean?"

He replies within seconds.

“Interesting… now I’m just ‘you,’ and not ‘Mr. Volkov’ anymore.

I thought you weren’t comfortable being informal with me, Evangeline.”

The message almost makes me smile, but I choose to roll my eyes. Then I realize: he’s teasing me.

Why? What kind of game is he playing? And why do I like it? I shouldn’t. But somehow, it’s exciting.

And I can’t stop now.

"I’m just trying to understand why you’re texting me, or why you said you’d only speak to me."

As I wait for his reply, I stare at the unnamed number on the screen and decide to finally save his contact.

I hesitate a little before typing "Aleksander", because, well, that’s what he asked me to call him.

Then, I open the message that just arrived.

Aleksander:

If someone’s going to write about me, I want that someone to see beyond just a man obsessed with control.

I’m surprised he didn’t just ignore the question again. Still, his answer doesn’t make much sense, considering I’ve already explained the situation.

"I think I’ve made it clear I’m not the one writing the article."

Aleksander:

And what if you were?

I’d be willing to give you all the answers you want.

Just for you, Evangeline.

Reading that last line makes my blood rush, and nearly takes my breath away.

Why is this so exciting… and, at the same time, so wrong?

I type, searching for more answers:

"But why? Why me?"

Aleksander:

Because I think you’d be willing to do the same.

Do the same? He wants me to answer questions too?

A second message comes when I don’t respond.

Aleksander:

Am I wrong?

Evangeline:

An exchange, is that what you’re suggesting?

Aleksander:

Yes.

Just you and me.

No masks, no lies, just the truth.

Each word sounds dangerously irresistible.

Evangeline:

And why would you be interested in knowing things about me?

I watch the three little dots blinking on the screen, eager to know what he’s typing.

Aleksander:

I just am.

And why wouldn’t I be?

Reading the message makes me clutch the blanket with one hand.

Could Tess have been right? Could he actually be interested in me?

No. This must be some kind of game. One I don’t quite understand yet—but I will.

Still, Tess was right about one thing. This could be a huge opportunity.

But I think there’s a catch.

Evangeline:

If I agreed to this, I think there’d still be one problem.

Aleksander:

What?

Evangeline:

We’re not a gossip magazine, Mr. Volkov.

Just business, if you catch my drift.

Aleksander:

Even so, getting to know someone must help when writing about how they achieved success.

Don’t you agree?

It’s almost irritating to admit he’s right.

Evangeline:

Touché,

Aleksander.

Aleksander:

So, where do you want to start, Evangeline?

The message is enough to send a chill down my spine. The words sound like a dangerous, tempting invitation. And, no matter how hard I try, I can’t control the thrill that simply talking to him stirs in me.

Or maybe it’s the idea of uncovering the secrets of the cold, intimidating man behind that desk.

As much as I feel I should, I don’t think I can stop anymore.

But where to begin?

Evangeline:

Give me a minute to think.

Aleksander:

Take your time.

But if you’d like, I can make some suggestions.

No. If I’m going to do this, I won’t let him take control again. I’ll be the one holding the cards.

Maybe start with something simple. After all, isn’t that the best way to get to know someone?

Actually, I’m very curious about what a man like him is doing at this hour.

Is he lying in bed, like me?

Lying in bed… talking to me…

Why? Why would someone like him do that?

Could he…?

Shit.

Maybe it’s not even him.

Evangeline:

I thought I’d start with something simple, like: what are you doing right now?

Then it hit me—you could just be some psycho pretending to be Aleksander Volkov this whole time.

I send the message, feeling a little stupid for not having considered it before.

But he knew about the questions. And why would anyone pretend to be him?

Maybe it really is him. And now he probably thinks I’m an idiot for suggesting otherwise. Damn it.

Minutes pass. No response. It makes me start to think I was right all along, and whoever it was just gave up after being caught.

Maybe I should just go to sleep.

I’m about to set my phone down when the screen lights up in my hands.

A new notification appears:

Aleksander sent a photo.

A photo? I stare at the notification for a moment, surprised and slightly confused.

Then, feeling my heart race, I swallow hard and open the image.

Fuck.