"Coded designations in Brand's files. Recipient Alpha-One, Beta-Three, that kind of thing. But cross-referenced with payment records and surgical dates, yes. Traceable. The kind of evidence that could bring down not just Brand but the entire network."
"This could trigger federal investigation," Nikolai observed, and there was something in his tone—not quite approval, not quite calculation. "FBI, DEA if they're moving drugs through the same channels. International investigation given the buyer base."
"Yes."
"Then why haven't you used it?"
The question hung between us. Such a simple question with such a complicated answer.
My jaw tightened hard enough to ache. "Because the moment I surface with this information, I'm dead. Brand has connections throughout law enforcement, hospital administration, the medical board. He orchestrated my destruction in less than two weeks—planted evidence, bought testimony, turned me from a respected surgeon into a drug-addicted pariah before I could blink."
The memory of it rose like bile—the moment I'd found the planted opioids in my locker, the horror of realizing how thoroughly I'd been outmaneuvered, the devastating precision of his attack.
"I went to the FBI," I continued, voice going flat to keep it from breaking. "The agent I spoke to called Brand two hours later to 'verify my claims.' By that evening, I had three men waitingoutside my apartment. I ran with what I could carry and never went back."
"There has to be protection—" Sophie started, leaning forward with earnest concern that made my chest tight.
"I tried that." The words came out sharper than intended, driven by exhaustion and fear and the weight of six months running. "The first person I trusted, another resident who promised to help, sold me out within a week—ten thousand dollars to report my location. The second, a detective who said he'd investigate quietly, turned out to be on Brand's payroll for years. Everyone has a price. Everyone can be bought or threatened or disappeared."
I forced myself to meet Sophie's eyes, even though her genuine concern felt like sandpaper against raw wounds.
"Trust is just another word for vulnerability. And vulnerability, in my experience, gets a knife between your ribs."
Silence settled over the office like dust after an explosion. Sophie looked stricken, one hand unconsciously protecting her pregnant belly as if my words might somehow harm the child within. Maks had gone back to typing but slower, thoughtful. Nikolai watched me with those dark eyes that calculated everything and revealed nothing.
But it was Kostya who broke the silence, his voice cutting through from his position by the door.
"You haven't eaten."
The non sequitur made me turn to look at him. He stood in exactly the same position as before, but something in his posture had shifted. Attention focused with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"What?"
"You haven't eaten. Not since yesterday. Maybe longer. Your hands are shaking from hypoglycemia, not just stress. When did you last have an actual meal?"
The question was so unexpected, so precisely observed, that I couldn't formulate a lie fast enough. My mouth opened, closed, no words emerging because I genuinely couldn't remember.
"I'm fine," I managed finally.
"You're lying." He said it without judgment, just fact. "You're running on adrenaline and cortisol, and when those crash, you will too. Can't think strategically when your brain is eating itself for fuel."
Heat flooded my cheeks. Here I was trying to maintain some semblance of professional dignity, and he was cataloging my physical deterioration like I was a patient requiring intervention. Which, maybe I was. But I didn't want to be. Not here, not in front of these people who held my life in their manicured hands.
"Perhaps we should take a break," Sophie suggested gently, standing with the careful movements of late pregnancy. "This is a lot of information to process, and Dr. Cross has been through significant trauma in the last twenty-four hours."
"I don't need—" I started.
"Yes," Nikolai interrupted smoothly, "you do. We'll continue this after you've eaten and rested. Kostya will escort you back to your room. Food will be brought."
It wasn't a suggestion. Nothing in this room was a suggestion. Everything was choreographed control, even Sophie's seemingly spontaneous kindness. But my body was betraying me—the tremor in my hands worse now that Kostya had pointed it out, my stomach cramping with emptiness, vision starting to gray at the edges in that familiar way that preceded collapse.
I stood, medical bag clutched against my chest like always, and moved toward the door. Kostya stepped aside to let me pass, but I could feel his attention following me, cataloging every tell my body couldn't help but broadcast.
Theguestroomfeltsmaller with Kostya in it, like his presence consumed the oxygen and left me breathing something else entirely—ozone before lightning, maybe, or that thin air at altitude that made your heart work harder.
I curled into one of the armchairs by the gas fireplace, pulling my knees up, medical bag in my lap with my arms wrapped around it. A barrier between me and the world. Between me and him. The leather was soft, broken in, the kind of chair that invited you to sink into it and never leave. Instead, I perched on the edge like a bird prepared for flight, even though we both knew there was nowhere to run.
Kostya didn't leave. Of course he didn't. He moved through the room with surprising quiet for someone his size, disappearing through a door I hadn't noticed before—small, discrete, probably leading to some service area. When he returned, he carried a tray that he set on the side table next to me with deliberate care.
