“Maksim isn’t conventional,” Ivan replies, voice calm and final. “He’s essential.”
Essential.
Not useful. Not effective.
Essential is what you say when you mean non-negotiable.
Volkov absorbs it. That’s what power looks like when it’s old. He inclines his head.
“A pleasure,” he says. “I look forward to seeing what the Baranov organization accomplishes under your... combined leadership.”
He moves away.
“He was measuring,” I say quietly.
“He was confirming,” Ivan corrects. “There’s a difference.”
The opera begins. We take our seats in the private box.
The auditorium is darker than the foyer. The music swells—voices rising in phrases I don’t understand but can feel anyway.
Ivan sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch.
During the second act, a man in the adjacent box looks at me too long.
Young. Handsome. Entitled. His gaze travels over my shoulders, my jaw.
It’s not subtle.
I feel Ivan notice before I see him react. His hand moves from his armrest to my thigh, settling there with a possessiveness that would be invisible to anyone not trained to read micro-gestures.
His fingers press into muscle. Firm. Deliberate.
I lean closer, lips brushing his ear.
“Jealous?”
“Observant,” Ivan murmurs. “He should learn where not to look.”
“Should I educate him?”
Ivan’s hand slides a fraction higher on my thigh.
“That depends. Do you want to?”
I glance at the man again. He’s still watching, but his expression has shifted—uncertainty creeping in as he registers Ivan’s hand.
“No,” I say. “I have everything I want right here.”
Ivan’s smile is small and satisfied. His hand stays where it is for the rest of the performance.
We leave before the final curtain.
Strategic. You don’t linger in public spaces longer than necessary.
Outside, the winter air hits sharp and clean. The car waiting at the curb is warm. The privacy partition rises, sealing us away.
Streetlights smear into gold lines through the tinted glass.
