"See that you do," she says, voice dripping with aristocratic disdain perfected over generations of old money and older grudges. "Fast."
Then she turns on her heel and walks out, leaving the door open behind her like a final insult.
I stand in the space she just vacated, and the silence rushes back in. Different now, charged with her absence instead of peaceful.
Then I laugh.
It starts as a quiet exhale of breath and builds into genuine amusement that feels foreign in my chest, unused muscles remembering how to work.
She just stormed into my office uninvited, insulted my wardrobe, demanded renovations to my private space, and left with a parting shot that would've gotten anyone else thrown through a window or worse.
And instead of fury, I feel fascination. Sharp, dangerous, unwelcome.
Victoria Ainsley is executing a strategy to make herself intolerable, to force renegotiation, to reclaim the independence I've constrained.
She's intelligent. Strategic. Ruthless in her approach.
All qualities I recognize because I employ them myself.
The problem is that her strategy assumes I want her gone, that her presence is burden rather than temptation, that chaos repels me instead of drawing me in like gravity I can't escape.
She's wrong.
And that miscalculation might be the most dangerous thing about her.
I return to my desk. Pick up my pen. Force my attention back to the contract that still needs reviewing, the decisions that still need making, the empire that still needs managing.
But my mind keeps circling back to one inescapable truth: Victoria Ainsley is going to be the end of my carefully constructed control.
And for the first time in twenty-five years, I'm not entirely sure I mind.
9
VICTORIA
My room is suffocating.
Cream silk drapes filter morning light into something soft and golden, expensive sheets whisper against my skin, and the faint hum of river traffic drifts through double-paned glass designed to muffle the world outside.
It's too still. Too quiet. Too perfectly orchestrated. A cage lined with cashmere and good intentions.
The walls press in despite the generous square footage. High ceilings do nothing to ease the claustrophobia tightening around my ribs. This room was designed to pamper, to impress, to keep a wife comfortable in her gilded prison while her husband conducts business she's not meant to understand. Every surface deliberately chosen. The pale wood nightstands, the plush rug underfoot, the abstract art that means nothing.
I pace to the window, phone pressed to my ear, voice low. Controlled. The mask firmly in place even though no one can see me.
"I'm doing everything I can, Jelena. But I can't just walk out of here without raising suspicions."
On the other end, Jelena sighs in frustration wrapped in understanding. We've worked together long enough that she knows when I'm cornered, when the walls are closing in despite my best efforts to appear unaffected.
"Our little furies are getting antsy," she says. "They need action, Victoria. Purpose. Sitting idle makes them restless, and restless makes them reckless."
"Keep them training with Katarina." My voice drops into the register I use when giving orders. Efficient, low, the commander beneath the socialite. "Tell them I'll be back soon. Tell them to stay sharp. This is temporary."
"And the cargo at the safe house?" Jelena's voice drops lower, more careful. We both know phone lines are never truly secure, that even encrypted calls can be intercepted if someone is motivated enough. "We're managing for now, but decisions need to be made. Soon."
The cargo. Documentation takes time. Money. Connections I can't access while I'm under constant surveillance in this fortress masquerading as a home.
"Eryan Nis will handle it when it's safe," I say, letting steel coat my words. "Not before. We don't move until I'm certain we won't be traced. Tell them to be patient. Tell them we've never lost anyone yet, and we're not starting now."
