Chapter 22 Chapter 22 New Years Eve
The DewDrop Tower is incredible. You have to drive into a car elevator, and it lifts you up to a level with available parking spaces. There are thirty floors of parking, and on the thirty-first floor is the main entrance. Security and concierge stand behind two massive counters. Marble floors, gold-paneled walls, a water fountain feature, even indoor trees—it feels like a luxury hotel lobby. Above all of that are fifty floors of penthouses. The top three take up entire floors, while the rest are split into two units per level, so you actually have a neighbor across from you, just like I do at my place.
Sergey and I make it past security. I tug at my dress—it’s a little too revealing. White silk, knee-length, with two high slits on each side. The neckline plunges in a deep V all the way down to my belly button. The back crisscrosses, and the top is covered in Swarovski crystals. It’s stunning, and it fits me perfectly.
The best part—most of the bruises and marks Alek left are nearly gone.
I was honestly surprised at how Sergey handled what happened with his twin. Other than being furious that Alek was too rough with me, he didn’t seem to care that we slept together. He admitted he had fun with Gemma, but his exact words were, “She isn’t you.”
I don’t even know what that means.
Whatever it is, I’m not going to overthink it. We have two more weeks, and then this ends. Sergey goes back to Russia, and I… I stay here.
His hand shifts from holding mine to resting at my lower back as we step into the elevator.
“Which resident?” the attendant asks.
“Mason Jones,” Sergey replies, his voice low, controlled—almost intimidating, like it always is when we’re out.
“Top floor, coming right up!” the attendant smiles.
Jones’ dad is the CEO of the biggest entertainment group in North and South America. Mason fights because he wants to, not because he has to. He’ll never need to work a day in his life. Still, he’s surprisingly chill for a spoiled rich kid. He talks a lot of shit before fights, but watching him and Sergey interact afterward—it was like they’d known each other forever.
I shift my weight in my heels, silently thanking Jimmy Choo for making shoes I can actually stand in. Sergey pulls me closer, and I glance up at him, giving him a small smile.
The elevator dings, echoing in the large space. The doors slide open, and cool air rushes in, replacing the faint lavender scent with sweat, alcohol, and something electric.
We step into Mason’s penthouse.
It’s packed.
Hip-hop music pulses through the space—loud enough to feel, but not so loud that people have to shout. The lighting is dim, warm, deliberate.
We’re greeted by Mason’s cousin—his name…
“Nate,” Sergey says.
Right. Nate.
“Mason’s out on the balcony by the pool. Let me show you. I’m glad you guys made it,” he says, his eyes lingering on me.
The way he looks at me makes my skin crawl. I don’t mind attention—but his is different. It feels off.
People move aside as we walk through. The place is massive. First, a huge living room and open kitchen. Then a formal dining area. Another hallway lined with doors—bedrooms, maybe offices. At the far end, a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Strip.
We keep going.
Another living space opens up, this one with a full bar. Beyond that, the outdoor area—an infinity pool stretching out over the edge of the building. A lounge area surrounds it, with another bar and servers moving constantly, handing out drinks.
The view is unreal. The Strip stretches out below us, lights everywhere. In two hours, this will be the perfect place to watch the fireworks.
And then I see him.
Jones is lounging on a white couch outside, girls draped over him—two on each side.
Across from him is another couch, a fire pit in the center, chairs scattered around.
As we step out, he looks up, grins, and waves the girls off the opposite couch. He stands, greeting us, motioning for us to sit.
Nate drops into a chair—thank God, not next to me.
Before we even sit, Alek appears, wrapping me in a hug and kissing both sides of my face.
“Damn, you look good,” he murmurs, his hand lingering on my lower back.
He takes a seat beside Sergey. More fighters join—Brown, Matthews, Olivery. I recognize all of them.
Nate signals, and girls in tight dresses start drifting toward each of the guys, settling into laps like it’s routine. Jones has four girls again, already reclaiming their spots.
He’s dressed casually—jeans, a hoodie, his dark hair messy.
A server brings a tray of shots. We each grab one, clink glasses, and throw them back.
Jones watches me over the rim of his glass. His hazel eyes are light—almost too light—and something about the way he looks at me sends a chill through me.
The server returns with drinks—beer for the guys, a couple of mixed drinks.
I sip mine slowly while they talk about upcoming fights and training. Eventually, Matthews shifts the conversation toward sex.
My phone vibrates. I pull it from my bag—Gemma.
I step away to answer.
She asks if I’m having fun. I tell her I am, but she picks up on something in my tone. I laugh it off, reminding her she better be ready for tomorrow—Tish and I are going to destroy her and Erika on the court.
When I walk back, I catch part of the conversation.
Brown is asking Sergey what club he picked me up at.
I rest my hands on the back of Sergey’s couch and laugh.
“I’m not a stripper or a call girl. We met at T-Time Gym. It’s where I train.”
“Elena is a boxer,” Sergey adds. “Among other things. I watched her knock a guy out cold, and the rest is history.”
I smile to myself.
Three weeks. Some “history.”
Alek glances up at me, grinning—because Sergey conveniently left out that I’m still in high school.
These guys don’t need to know that.
“Do you fight professionally? I haven’t heard of you,” Matthews asks.
“Elena is European royalty,” Alek adds, smiling up at me.
Technically true. No title, though—that belongs to my father, my aunt, and my uncles.
I shrug slightly. “I fight because I like violence. And my father used to box, Pavel Dimitrov.”
The guys all gasp. I know they recognize his name.
Alek drags his fingers over his lip, right where I split it.