What I can’t put my finger on is if she’s targeting me as Damian’s wife or as a trusted source within the Ignatov network?
I let her comments go with a mute nod, and a meek smile.
I’ve worked in tech labs where ego outweighs gratitude, corporate boardrooms where politeness is a sport. I know weaponized charm, and I know how it’s wielded.
But Inessa makes it look like a dance. It’s only when I get looks where I haven’t before, commands ignored where theywere law before, and whispers behind my back where there were compliments before do the alarms start ringing in my head.
Right as I’m about to leave the break room, I hear a soft murmur. The same honeyed voice, the same ass-kissing she must be doing.
Only this time, her words pin me in my place.
“Oh yes, Harper is brilliant, of course she is… but one wonders how much authority she actually holds. After all, power through marriage is not quite the same.”
When my feet work and I leave the room, Inessa is nowhere to be seen, but the executive she was talking to startles when he sees me. He avoids my eyes, scurrying out of there before I can open my mouth.
From then on, I never hear anyone repeat her words directly, but I see the effects clear as a day. There’s hesitation in their responses, a fleeting pause before agreeing to my directives. A subtle recalibration of respect.
And I know exactly where it’s coming from.
I tried to chalk it up to paranoia. I told myself I’m imagining it. That maybe I’m overreacting.
Confirmation arrives on an ordinary afternoon, at the worst possible time, the final straw that breaks the camel’s back.
I give a simple command regarding system redundancy testing. It’s a basic procedure, routine as breathing.
The two analysts I’m commanding exchange glances. When my brow raises at their hesitance, one of them opens her mouth to ask, “Are you sure Mr. Ignatov approved—?”
Anger blinds my senses, the sheer disrespect making me see red.
Fucking Inessa. All of this isherdoing.
I try to brush it off, to keep the emotions buried under logic. I remind myself she is nothing but a communications liaison.
But my feet storm through the floor, my rage leading me to no one but my husband’s office.
Enough is enough. He has to see the bullshit I’m putting up with.
He is at his desk, posture straight but exhausted, like he’s holding himself together with threads of steel that are beginning to fray. The room is dim, lit only by the amber glow of a desk lamp that casts warm shadows across his face that make him look older and harder.
“Did you invite her onboard?” I ask, trying to stop my voice from trembling like a wire under tension.
He looks up, slow, measured, almost too calm.
“Invite who?”
“Inessa,” I bite. “You know who I mean.”
His jade eyes are unreadable as he takes a beat too long to answer.
“Her assignment came through official channels.”
Official channels.Not what I asked.
That nonanswer enrages me even more.
“Didyouapprove it?” I snap.
His jaw tightens, just barely.
