I descend the stairs without touching the rail, my steps quiet, measured. Kiro nods from the shadows of the surveillance deck; Soren’s voice echoes along the hall with updates from the Vienna safe house.
Everything is in motion, seamless as clockwork.
Everything except the part of me that remembers the softness of copper-red hair caught between my fingers. The heat of a woman who shouldn’t have been mine, who still shouldn’t be anything to me.
The mirrored conference room stretches wide before me as I enter it. When people sit here, they face themselves as much as they face me.
I stand at the head of the long obsidian table. My reflection stares back at me: straight tie, immaculate black suit, dark green eyes that give nothing away.
The mask still fits.
My phone buzzes.
A message from Sera:Be kind.
Another follows before I can roll my eyes:Or at least pretend.
Pretend.
The door handle clicks.
Harper Quinn steps into the room like she owns the air inside it. Crisp black blouse covering her ample chest, fitted trousers that caress her beautifully curvaceous hips like silk, auburn hair tied back with clinical precision.
The fire beneath her composure is unmistakable. Those eyes sweep the room once, then land on me with a steadiness that did not exist months ago.
Something tightens low in my chest—an involuntary, unwelcome contraction that feels almost like memory reaching up to choke me.
I straighten subtly. Her gaze flickers, assessing, unimpressed.
Good. Let her stay contemptuous.
“Ms. Quinn,” I say, my voice smooth enough to cut glass. “Welcome back.”
The moment hangs heavily, a move on a chessboard.
She nods once politely.
“Mr. Ignatov.”
So it’s Mr. Ignatov now.
Professional distance sharpens her edges, makes her even more dangerous. The room seems smaller with her inside it, but I will not look away first.
I incline my head.
“Let’s begin.”
Harper takes the seat across from me. Her laptop clicks open, the metallic sound slicing through the quiet. The screen’s glow paints her features in shades of winter light.
I speak first.
“The project is complex. You’ll be auditing every firewall, every hidden protocol, every fail-safe in the Ignatov cyber grid.You’ll have full access.” I pause, letting the weight of that settle. “Full access requires trust.”
Her gaze is steady.
“Then it’s fortunate that you hired someone qualified.”
The jab is quiet, surgical. If she wanted to accuse me of other motives, she hasn’t yet. She is forcing me to play by professional rules even as her presence cracks them.
