But then Annie leans across the table, eyes bright. “You seem… far away tonight.”
I freeze, then force a shrug. “Long week. Court was intense.”
She studies me, head tilted, like she’s trying to read between the lines. My mask doesn’t slip. It never does.
We move to the couch with our wine, talking about trivial things. Movies, old professors, the bar we used to haunt after finals. We laugh, and it feels almost real. Almost. Except every time I smile, I feel the lie pressing against my teeth.
As she rambles about a disastrous Tinder date, my phone buzzes against the table. The sound rips through me like a blade. Annie barely glances at it, but my chest tightens.
Unknown number.
One line. An invitation. The address of a hotel downtown. A time. No explanation.
I don’t need one.
I delete the message instantly, slipping the phone into my pocket before Annie can ask. My pulse won’t settle.
I know who it is.
The wine in my glass tastes sour suddenly. Annie is still talking, her voice a gentle blur, but I can’t hear her anymore. My thoughts are already somewhere else, caught between thegraveyard’s silence and the weight of gray eyes watching me across polished wood and smoke.
I smile when she looks at me, because it’s what she expects. I laugh when she finishes her story, because it’s what I used to do.
My mind isn’t here. It never is anymore.
Chapter Four - Alexei
The club is quiet tonight. Quieter than usual, at least. Low music drifts from hidden speakers, bass softened by thick velvet curtains and marble floors that have seen more whispered deals than dancing. Smoke hangs in the air, curling upward in lazy ribbons, blotting the edges of the light. It suits me. I prefer shadows.
I sit in the corner booth, back to the wall, glass of vodka untouched in front of me. My men know to keep their distance tonight; this meeting is mine alone. Dimitri lingers somewhere in the background, close enough to intervene, far enough to let me breathe. He knows better than to interrupt when I want clarity.
The door opens, and she enters.
Vivienne Wilder.
Her stride cuts through the haze, measured, practiced. She walks like she’s unafraid, though I know better. It’s in the tension of her shoulders, the way her eyes sweep the room once before locking forward again.
She’s pretending not to be afraid, and she does it well enough that most wouldn’t notice the difference. I appreciate the effort. Fear can be concealed. Only the foolish deny it exists at all.
I watch her approach, my eyes tracking every movement. Tonight, she wears black again: sharp, professional, but understated. No flash, no shine. The kind of choice that says she wants to blend, even as every man in the room turns to watch her pass.
She stops at the table.
“Ms. Wilder.” I motion to the seat across from me.
“Mr. Sharov.” Her tone is clipped, polite, cool as glass.
She sits without hesitation, back straight, hands folding neatly in her lap. I slide a glass toward her, vodka chilled, the rim sweating in the dim light. She doesn’t touch it.
“You don’t drink?” I ask, not as a question but as an observation.
“Not when I’m working.” Her eyes meet mine evenly.
A small hum of approval escapes me. Control, discipline. More and more interesting.
We start with pleasantries, the surface-level nonsense that greases the wheels of business. I ask about her last case, and she gives me the broad strokes without revealing more than she has to.
She asks if Sergei has been keeping quiet since his release; I smirk, tell her he’s learned the value of silence.
