I woke up warm. Cozy. Where was I?

My eyes opened to Khabib’s sleeping face, still gently smiling. Suddenly, last night, with all its excitement, passion, and things I should not have done, came swimming back to me.

I lifted the cover to look at myself, though I knew already. Oh, God, no.

Despite my movement, Khabib was still fast asleep, and stayed that way, even as I painstakingly made my way out of bed. I grabbed every piece of clothing on the floor that at all resembled mine, then raced out towards a door of what looked to be a bathroom.

Avoiding looking at myself in the mirror, I pulled on the dress, inwardly groaning about how ridiculous I was going to look going home like this. I had no choice, though—I had a video call scheduled with Ra’id in less than an hour’s time, and there was no way I was about to do that from his son’s apartment!

Still in the bathroom, I called a taxi. Then, striding as fast as I could, I was at the clear glass doors. Bruno emerged from somewhere, letting out a cacophony of barks. Even as I closed the doors behind me, the barks continued. Thankfully, the elevator arrived almost immediately, taking me away from the penthouse, where I’d just made what was without doubt the worst mistake of my life.

Downstairs, standing awkwardly at the curb, I gazed dully at the oncoming traffic, none of which was the taxi, of course. What had I just done?

Kissed away your job and any semblance of self-respect you had left.

What I had done was not only rash, but incredibly, incredibly stupid. Khabib was a notorious womanizer, a reckless partier. And, to top it all off, I was supposed to be spying on him!

Even the taxi’s eventual arrival didn’t cheer me up. One thing was for certain: all of this—my night with Khabib, my undeniable affection for and attraction to him—was going to blow up in my face, one way or another.

* * *

It was only once I was at home, collapsed on my couch beside an obliviously snoozing Oscar, that I dared to check my phone. Sure enough, there it was: one missed call from Ra’id.

I peeled myself off the couch and out of my clothes, got on some convincing yet still respectable loungewear, got back into the kitchen on my rickety chair, and called him back.

As soon as we connected, his face was suspicious, irritated.

“It’s 11 a.m. My son must have stayed up late last night.”

I put on my most convincing, innocent smile.

“You got me, Ra’id. But when you hear how well the night went, you’ll see that Khabib deserved it.”

His face looked utterly unimpressed, but I soldiered on anyway.

“We broke all sales expectations, and even had to make a second waiting list. All this came after Khabib’s showstopper presentation.”

Despite his best efforts, a smile was coming onto Ra’id’s face. But then, his eyes narrowed once more.

“But how late exactly was my son up until? And why? How much drinking was there? And did you see any suitable women?”

“We were up until 1 a.m., socializing with the guests. I was with him the whole time, and Khabib only drank as part of the toast.”

I took a deep breath, willing my open-book face not to give me away.

“And as far as potential wives—no, sorry. I didn’t see anyone.”

Ra’id leaned back in his seat, his eager expression falling to a neutral one, apparently satisfied.

“Okay. Yes. So we will talk next week—Tuesday?”

“Yes, Tuesday should work.”

He nodded.

“Good. Well done, Lucy. Goodbye.”

Seconds after he ended the call, the sob that had been making its way up my throat exploded out. I sat there for a minute, sobbing tearless cries. Then, I took a long breath, exhaled, and rose.

By now, Oscar was up, circling me with insistent barks. Finally, I got up and got him out some kibbles. I patted him as he chowed it down.

I wandered into the bathroom and finally dared to look at myself in the mirror. I only kept eye contact for an instant, looking away immediately afterwards. I couldn’t bear it. I hated what I saw. And it wasn’t just the smudged makeup, the deep under-eye circles, no—this ugliness was worse, more intrinsic. Each day that passed, I was getting deeper into the wrong thing, and the deeper I got, the harder to get out it would be.

As I was scrapbooking, trying to get my mind off the whole big mess, I got a call. I answered without looking, petting Oscar with the other hand.

“Hello, Lucy.” My hand on Oscar’s back froze. It was Khabib. “You made quite the exit this morning.”

“Sorry. I had to get home. For Oscar.”

“Yes, yes of course. There’s just one problem.”

My breath left my body. Khabib couldn’t know, could he?

“You left before we could have breakfast.”

My laughter was practically hysterical relief, though it stopped quickly when he spoke again.

“And that isn’t all.”

At his words, my entire body clenched up.

“I wanted to invite you out again.”

His response being equally astounding, I was speechless.

“Lucy, you still there?”

“Yes, I…”

“You don’t have to, of course. I don’t want you to feel under obligation to do anything just because I’m your boss. If you’d rather not pick things up where we left them, I will of course be disappointed, but I’ll respect your decision.”

Once again, I didn’t know what to say. What I should do was obvious; the words were swirling around in my head: “I’m sorry, Khabib, but I think it’s best if we keep our relationship professional.” Or, “I’m sorry Khabib, but while I really enjoyed last night, I don’t think it should be repeated.”

And yet, when I opened my mouth, something entirely differently came out.

“Yes.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’d like to see you again.”

He let out a delighted laugh.

“Great—oh, that’s great! What are you doing Monday?”

“You mean Monday night?”

“Yes. After work, I’ll take you out.”

“That sounds great, Khabib.”

“Wonderful. I’m looking forward to it!”

And then he hung up, as breezily happy as if this was just another plan, just another date.

Already, I felt better than before—and worse. I was more than excited to go out with him again. But I couldn’t keep lying like this—not even just considering the practical aspect of me sucking at lying.

No, I couldn’t take it. Not with the way he was starting to look at and talk to me. Could it be that the womanizing Sheikh was no more? Was he starting to have…feelings? For me?