The Heart System

Chapter 61: Chapter 61

Anotta Anotov stepped inside like she owned the room—and hell, she probably did. She wore a form-fitting pink dress, hugging her hips and waist like it was molded to her body. Red high-heels clicked against the floor, sharp and commanding. Her silver hair shimmered under the light, cut short and styled clean, giving her a look that was both elegant and intimidating. Her eyes—icy and unyielding—landed on me like a target.

Behind her came two shadows. A tall, broad man in a dark suit, his face a blank mask, and a woman with her hair tied back tight, eyes scanning the corners like a hawk. Her bodyguards.

I swallowed, forcing myself to stand tall as I bowed my head slightly. ”Mrs. Anotov,” I greeted formally, voice steady despite the tension twisting my stomach.

She looked me over once, her gaze cool and measuring, then gave a single nod. No smile, no warmth—just acknowledgment. Without a word, she stepped further inside, the bodyguards flanking her like twin wolves.

She moved further into the room, the click of her heels steady, almost echoing. Her presence alone made the air heavier, like the space itself bent around her. She didn’t speak, didn’t spare me another glance. Just stopped near the massage table and, without hesitation, slipped her fingers under the straps of her dress.

The silk slid down her shoulders, and before I could even process the sight, her bodyguards stepped forward, cutting off my view like a pair of doors slamming shut.

I swallowed and turned my head away, fixing my eyes on the corner of the room. Didn’t matter—I could still hear it. The quiet shuffle of clothing, fabric brushing against skin, the faint rustle of her jewelry as it shifted. My cock twitched just from the sound.

More footsteps—softer now. Bare feet across the carpet. She walked past the guards and toward the table. A moment later, I heard her settle down on the padded surface, the leather creaking under her weight.

”She is ready,” the female bodyguard said flatly.

I turned my head back. She was lying chest down on the table, a towel draped across her ass. Her skin looked pale and smooth under the lights, silver hair spilling to one side. My throat tightened. I gulped, trying to keep my face neutral, but my cock was straining against my pants.

”Where should I focus, ma’am?” I asked, my tone as formal as I could manage.

Her head tilted slightly, voice calm and even. ”My shoulders. And my legs.”

”Understood,” I said with a nod.

I grabbed the bottle and poured a little into my palms, rubbing them together. The scent rose up immediately—sweet, rich, heavy in the air. Then I pressed my hands onto her shoulders, working the oil into her skin, slow and steady.

No sigh. No gasp. Nothing. Her eyes just opened, and she turned her head slightly, watching me out of the corner of her gaze.

I froze. ”Is there a problem, ma’am?”

Before she could answer, the male bodyguard shoved me back, stepping between us. His shoulders were broad enough to block out the light, his stare cold.

”Did you do something to her?” he asked, voice low but firm.

”No—nothing. I—”

”Leave him,” she interrupted, her voice sharp but calm.

The guard hesitated, then stepped back, the woman following.

”Come here,” Anotov said, her eyes flicking toward me. ”Keep massaging.”

I exhaled, forcing a nervous laugh out of my throat. ”Right... I’m sorry if I did anything weird, ma’am. Feel free to call another masseur if you’d like.”

Her gaze stayed on me, unblinking. ”Susan recommended you. I’ll trust her.”

I kept my palms moving over her shoulders, pressing the oil deeper into her skin, trying to find some kind of crack in that steel mask she wore. The oil was supposed to work. Always did. On Jasmine, on Kim, on anyone. It made them relax, softened their edges, made them slip down into heat. But with Anotov? Nothing.

Her skin gleamed, but her body stayed still. No gasps. No moans. No twitch of her hips or the slightest sigh. She was a statue—eyes half-lidded, her face calm, breathing even.

My cock twitched against my thigh out of pure habit, but inside, I felt a bead of sweat forming. Shit. Why isn’t it working?

I shifted lower, letting the oil run down my hands as I slid them along her back. My thumbs traced the lines of her spine, pushing in harder, trying to tease a reaction. She didn’t even flinch.

No sound. No reaction.

I swallowed. My heartbeat was in my ears. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I had to make it look natural. Professional. I slowed my movements, focused on her shoulder blades, and then glided lower, across the dip of her waist, brushing the edge of the towel that hugged her ass. Even then—nothing.

I worked my way to her thighs, pouring more oil onto her legs. My hands kneaded into her muscles, squeezing, sliding over her skin. I pressed into her calves, her hamstrings, even her ankles. Still no reaction. Not a twitch.

It was like massaging a goddamn mannequin.

I tried harder, fingers digging in deep, rolling the tension out of her thighs, sliding up and down her toned legs. Nothing. Not even the faintest sigh. The silence stretched so long I started panicking inside.

She’s resisting it. She has to be. Holy shit, she’s resisting it.

By the time I made it down to her calves, I felt like I was the one sweating through my clothes, not her. My stomach churned. This was supposed to be easy. Oil, touch, they melt, I take it from there. Instead? I was kneeling between the legs of a Russian CEO like some underpaid spa clerk, trying not to freak out.

Finally, after about half an hour, I pulled my hands back, wiped the excess oil on a towel, and let out a breath. ”Massage is complete, ma’am.”

Her head tilted slightly, but she didn’t answer. She just pushed herself up.

I turned my head away out of instinct, giving her privacy. I could hear the faint rustle of fabric as she reached for her dress again. The towel slid off the table. I stared hard at the corner of the room, my jaw tight.

Cloth against skin. Zippers. Heels shifting on the floor. The sounds of her getting dressed seemed louder than they should’ve been, each one cutting into the silence like a knife.

When I finally turned back, she was pulling the sleeves of her pink dress into place, smoothing it down against her thighs. Her silver hair framed her face perfectly, like not even undressing and redressing could rattle her composure. She was ice. Pure, unshakable ice.

Before leaving, she turned her head over her shoulder, those cold eyes pinning me in place. ”Which days are you working here?” she asked, voice flat, unreadable.

My mouth went dry. I cleared my throat. ”I... don’t work here,” I said, forcing the words out. ”I’m sorry.”

One eyebrow lifted. ”You don’t?”

”No,” I lied quickly. ”Personal issues. Yeah...”

Her stare lingered, like she was peeling me open with just her gaze. I couldn’t hold eye contact. After a beat, she gave the faintest nod, then flicked her head toward her male bodyguard—the big guy with hands like shovels.

”Save his phone number.”

”Of course, ma’am,” the guard said.

”We’ll be at the car.”

”Yes, ma’am.”

And just like that, she walked out, the female bodyguard following right behind her. The click of her heels faded with each step until the door shut, leaving just me and the man-mountain inside the room.

He didn’t say anything at first, just strode toward me, pulling a phone out of his pocket. I braced myself, wondering if this was the part where they broke my jaw for looking at her wrong.

Instead, he opened his contacts. ”Phone number.”

I blinked. ”If I may... why am I giving you my number?”

His face didn’t move, not even a twitch. ”I don’t know. Just give it.”

I let out a long sigh and rattled it off.

”Name?” he asked.

”Evan.”

”Surname?”

”Marlowe,” I muttered.

He pressed a few more buttons, then slipped the phone back into his pocket. ”Done.”

And with that, he turned on his heels and walked out, not sparing me another glance. The door closed, leaving me standing there in silence.

I stood frozen for a long moment, staring at the floor, my thoughts spiraling.

What the fuck just happened?

The oil hadn’t worked. She hadn’t melted. She hadn’t moaned, hadn’t gasped, hadn’t even blinked out of rhythm. It was like she’d been bracing for it, like her willpower was ironclad. She’d resisted the whole thing.

”Damn...” I muttered, tugging off the fancy suit jacket and tossing it onto the chair. I stripped back into my casual clothes, yanking my shirt over my head, jeans back on. ”Why didn’t the oil work? She just... resisted it?”