Instead it felt right. Inevitable. Like I'd been moving toward this moment—toward her—my entire life without knowing it.
Iwokelatethenextday. So late I missed the whole morning. I had to take control back, so I made lunch myself. Couldn't delegate. Couldn't let anyone else choose what Sophie would eat for our first real conversation.
Borscht. The recipe my grandmother had taught me when I was twelve. Beets, cabbage, beef stock, the kind of food that meant home and safety and someone caring enough to make sure you were fed properly.
Black bread from the bakery in Brighton Beach. Still warm. The crust crackling under my knife as I sliced it.
I arranged everything on the tray. Bowl of borscht, steam rising. Thick slices of bread. Small dish of butter. Glass of water with ice. Cloth napkin folded precisely.
My hands shook slightly as I carried it upstairs. I told myself it was low blood sugar. Lack of sleep. Anxiety from the situation with the Belyaevs.
I knew it was Sophie.
The third-floor hallway was quiet. My footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet. I stopped outside her door. Counted to four. Unlocked it with my master key.
She was standing at the window. Still. Tense. She'd changed into the clothes I'd left in the bathroom—black leggings, grey t-shirt. Both fit perfectly because I'd been careful about sizing. Because I'd noticed every detail on that auction stage.
Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, damp at the edges like she'd washed her face recently. Clean. Comfortable. But her shoulders were tight. Her hands were fisted at her sides.
She didn't turn when I entered. Just kept staring out at Brooklyn like she could will herself through the glass and away from here.
"I brought lunch," I said.
She turned then. Those grey-green eyes found mine. Wary. Defensive. Beautiful.
I'd thought she was beautiful on the auction stage. Thought she was beautiful drugged and terrified in my car. But now, in daylight, in my clothes, with her guard up and her defiance showing—she was devastating.
Small. Delicate. But fierce. The contrast made something tighten low in my abdomen.
I set the tray on the dresser. Gave her space. Didn't crowd.
"Borscht," I said. "And black bread. You should eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat anyway." I kept my voice measured. Patient. "We need to talk about the arrangement."
Her laugh was sharp. Bitter. "The arrangement. Is that what we're calling my captivity?"
I'd expected anger. Was prepared for it. Didn't make it easier to hear.
"You'll work off the debt," I said. Straightforward. Clear. "Two point two million at a fair rate means approximatelythree to four years of service. You'll assist with research, intelligence analysis, household operations." I paused. Chose words carefully. "Nothing you're uncomfortable with."
The silence stretched. She was processing. Calculating. That brilliant mind working through implications.
"So I'm still property," she said finally. "Fine."
"You're under contract." I moved slightly. Not closer. Just shifting position. "There's a difference."
"No." Her voice was flat. Hard. "There isn't. I didn't ask to be bought. I didn't agree to this debt. And I'm not spending four years as your . . ." She gestured angrily, searching for words. "Your indentured servant."
The words hit harder than they should. Indentured servant. Accurate, technically. But missing all the things I wanted this to be.
Partnership. Protection. Trust.
"If you refuse—" I started.
"I do refuse." She crossed her arms. Lifted her chin. Small and defiant and so obviously scared underneath. "I refuse. Find someone else to do your research. Find someone else to analyze your intelligence. Find someone else to shine your damn shoes. I won't do it."
