Finally, I nod once. “Very well. Keep the file. Review it. Bring me your decision when you’ve had time to weigh conviction against certainty.”
Her lips curve slightly—not into a smile, but into something sharper. Agreement, acknowledgment. She gathers the file without ceremony, slipping it into her bag. Then she rises, smooth and steady, every line of her posture deliberate.
“Until then, Mr. Sharov.”
Her eyes linger a moment longer than they should, as if daring me to stop her. Then she turns and walks away.
I don’t watch the sway of her hips, don’t glance at the untouched glass of vodka sweating on the table. My eyes fixonly on the door she disappears through. The click of it shutting behind her carries louder in my ears than the music, louder than the chatter of men below. Silence trails after her like a shadow, leaving a hollow in the room.
For a long moment, I stay still. My cigar burns low between my fingers, ash curling dangerously close to the leather of my glove. I don’t flick it away. I’m listening—to the absence she left behind.
Dimitri approaches from the bar, leaning one shoulder against the booth. “She didn’t touch the drink,” he notes, voice rough with smoke.
“No,” I reply, still watching the door.
“That means she doesn’t trust you.”
“That means she knows better.”
He huffs a low laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s just cautious. Women like that usually are. They play it safe until they’ve had their fill of the game.”
“She isn’t playing safe,” I say.
Dimitri raises a brow. “No?”
I finally glance at him, smirking faintly. “Safe players don’t hold my eyes that long.”
His chuckle fades into a frown, the scar on his hand catching the light as he drums his fingers against the table. “You’re giving her too much credit, Brother. She’s a lawyer. They live for performance.”
“Performance,” I echo, tasting the word. Maybe. Or maybe she’s been performing for so long she doesn’t remember where the mask ends. Either way, it interests me.
I stub out the cigar, stand, and adjust my jacket. The club hums on, thick with music and heat, but the air feels thinner without her sitting across from me.
“Watch her,” I tell Dimitri, voice low, final. “More closely than before.”
His mouth twists. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”
“I pay you to do as I ask, don’t I?”
I don’t wait for his answer. I step away from the booth, heading toward the balcony that overlooks the city. The glass doors are cold against my palm as I push them open, the rush of night air biting sharp against my skin.
The city sprawls beneath me: streets glowing, traffic weaving, neon bleeding into the dark. Usually it feels like mine, every block tethered to me by invisible strings. Tonight, it feels further away, as if something has shifted, pulling the ground just slightly off-balance.
I light another cigar, the ember flaring against the dark. Smoke unfurls in the wind, carried away before it can hang heavy.
My thoughts circle back, inevitably, to her. Vivienne Wilder.
Her voice, low and deliberate. Her eyes, unblinking, carrying storms she pretends don’t exist. The way she asked if I wanted her recommendation or the truth—like she knew the difference mattered more to me than the answer itself.
I exhale smoke into the night, slow and steady.
I’ve seen a thousand women pass through these halls. Some bold, some trembling, some thinking they can tame the wolf at their door. Vivienne doesn’t tremble. She doesn’t preen or chase.
She intrigues me. Not because she’s beautiful, though she is. Beauty is nothing. Danger is everything. She doesn’t even know yet how dangerous she is—to me, to herself, to everything she touches.
I draw deep on the cigar, the taste rich, bitter. The city hums beneath me.
Vivienne Wilder is hiding something. I can feel it in my bones.
