Leonid
She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she stands there staring at the framed photo of her in the vault.
I let the silence stretch. I’ve learned over the years that people tell you more in stillness than they ever do when they’re speaking. Victoria stands with her back half-turned, one hand hovering near the desk like she’s been caught mid-theft, which she has, in a way. The room smells faintly of her now, earthy almost, and there’s something deeply satisfying about that. Like proof that she belongs in this space, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.
Her shoulders are tight. Her breathing is shallow. But she hasn’t reached for a weapon. She hasn’t bolted. That’s the first tell.
She turns slowly, eyes bright with anger and fear and something else she doesn’t understand yet.
“You stole from me,” she says.
I lift a brow. “You’re the thief.”
“You took my passport. My photos. You watched me.” Her voice shakes despite her obvious effort to steady it. “Because I took your watch? Because I bruised your ego?”
I take a measured step closer, keeping myself controlled. “You think this is about my ego? That you’re here because of a watch?”
Her eyes narrow while she works over the information she has, then her head tilts, weighing what she knows. “You activated the alarm when you knew I had enough time to escape.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” she demands again, like the answer might change if she forces it out of me hard enough.
I’m close enough that her awareness of me sharpens. Her pulse is fast. I can see it jump at the base of her throat. See the way her skin flushes a shade darker, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
“Because I wanted to know if you were skilled,” I say. “Or stupid.”
Her laugh is sharp and humorless. “And?”
“I’m still trying to figure it out. The skill is obviously there, and captivating in its rarity. But you were easy for me to find. Your uncle was hot on your heels until I threw him off the scent and sent him home to lick his wounds.”
That does something to her. I watch it happen. The anger doesn’t vanish, but it shifts, folding inward, becoming something heavier. She straightens like she’s preparing for impact.
“You don’t get to do this,” she says. “You don’t get to decide what I am.”
I tilt my head slightly, studying her. “You’re still thinking this is aboutownership.”
“Isn’t it?” she snaps.
“No.” I step closer, slowly enough that she has time to move away if she wants to. “It’s about recognition.”
Her breath catches, just for a second. The second tell.
“You saw the vault,” I continue quietly. “You saw how many men work for your uncle. How many systems protect his treasures. And you still went in alone. You didn’t bring backup. You didn’t plan for rescue. You planned for success or death.”
Her eyes burn. “I planned for freedom.”
“And you took it,” I say. “That’s what fascinates me.”
She exhales, sharp and unsteady. Her gaze drops. Like she’s trying to find solid ground in a room that keeps shifting beneath her feet.
“You framed it,” she says, nodding toward the photograph. “Like a trophy.”
“No,” I correct. “Like a moment.”
Her brows knit. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” I say, lowering my voice, “that that was the moment I knew. I want you, and I want you exactly as you were in that corridor. Focused. Alive. Untouchable. That’s the exact moment I knew there was no other woman on this planet for me. None of them would measure up to you.”
