1
EVA
Istand on the sidewalk staring up at the gleaming glass tower, my reflection fractured across its polished surface. Twenty-four years old, and I look like I've lived twice that. The dark circles under my eyes are expertly concealed beneath makeup I can't really afford, my blonde hair pulled into a sleek bun that took three YouTube tutorials to perfect. The navy sheath dress hugging my frame cost more than my weekly grocery budget used to be, back when I had money for things like food.
But I need to look the part. I need this job.
My phone buzzes in my purse—probably another debt collector. I silence it without looking. $150,000. That's what my mother's death cost me. Medical bills, student loans, the price of watching someone you love waste away while insurance companies find creative ways to deny coverage. Two years later, I'm still drowning, working three jobs that barely keep my head above water while sending what I can to my little brother, Alexei, and Babushka, Sasha, in Russia.
This temp position at Sokolov Financial Group pays triple my normal rate. Triple. Enough to finally make real progress on the debt. Enough to send substantial money home. Enough to maybe, possibly, eventually bring my sixteen-year-old brother back to America where he belongs.
I can't afford to lose this opportunity.
I push through the revolving doors into a lobby that screams money—all marble and steel, with a security desk manned by guards who look more like soldiers than rent-a-cops. My heels click against the polished floor as I approach, and I'm acutely aware of how worn my coat is, how my purse is a decent knockoff, but still a knockoff.
"Eva Markova," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I have an appointment with Sokolov Financial Group."
The guard checks his tablet, then directs me to a bank of elevators. "Thirty-eighth floor."
The elevator is mirrored, and I use the ride up to check my appearance one more time. Professional. Polished. Competent. I press my thumbnail into my index finger—a nervous habit I've mostly broken—and force myself to stop. I need to project confidence, even if I'm terrified.
The doors open onto a reception area that makes the lobby look modest. Polished marble floors in deep charcoal gray stretch toward floor-to-ceiling windows offering breathtaking views of the skyline. The reception desk is a massive piece of black granite and brushed steel, and behind it sits a woman who looks like she might shatter at any moment.
"Eva Markova?" Her voice is soft, accented. Russian, like mine used to be before I worked to minimize it. "I'm Natasha Kuzmin. Welcome to Sokolov Financial Group."
She's maybe thirty-two, with mousy brown hair pulled back in a tight bun and pale blue eyes that are slightly red, like she's been crying. Or is about to. She clutches a tissue in one hand as she stands, smoothing her shapeless cardigan with the other.
"Mr. Sokolov is expecting you on the forty-second floor," she says, her hands trembling slightly as she gestures toward a private elevator. "I'll take you up."
The ride is silent except for Natasha's shallow breathing. I want to ask if she's okay, but something about the tension radiating from her stops me. When the doors open, I understand why.
The forty-second floor is stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls offer panoramic views that make my breath catch. The office space is all clean lines and expensive minimalism—dark wood, brushed steel, leather furniture that probably costs more than my annual rent. Everything is immaculate, controlled, revealing nothing.
"This will be your office," Natasha says, leading me to a glass-walled space adjacent to a larger corner office. "You'll work directly for Mr. Sokolov. His previous assistant is leaving for maternity leave, so you'll shadow her today and tomorrow, then take over on Monday."
Through the glass wall, I can see into what must be Roman Sokolov's office. It's massive, dominated by a custom desk that looks like a piece of architectural art. The space is empty now, but I feel its power anyway—the careful control, the wealth, the authority.
"He's very particular," Natasha continues, her voice dropping to almost a whisper. "About everything. His coffee must be exactly right. His files organized precisely. His schedule managed to the minute. No mistakes. He doesn't tolerate mistakes."
The way she says it makes my stomach tighten. This isn't normal corporate perfectionism. This is something else.
"I understand," I say, keeping my voice professional.
Natasha looks like she wants to say more, but footsteps in the hallway make her straighten, her face going carefully blank. "He's here."
Roman Sokolov walks into view, and my breath catches.
He's tall—easily six-two—with a broad-shouldered build that his perfectly tailored suit emphasizes rather than hides. Short black hair, meticulously groomed. A trimmed mustache that gives him a distinguished, old-world appearance. But it's his eyes that stop me cold. Piercing blue, sharp and assessing, the kind of eyes that see everything and reveal nothing.
He moves with the confidence of a man who owns everything he surveys. There's something almost predatory in his grace, controlled power in every step. His presence fills the space, commanding and dangerous and magnetic in a way that makes my pulse quicken for reasons I don't want to examine.
"Mr. Sokolov," Natasha says, her voice trembling slightly. "This is Eva Markova, the temp from the agency."
His blue eyes sweep over me, assessing. I force myself to meet his gaze, to keep my spine straight and project the competence I need him to see. For a moment, something flickers in thosecold eyes—interest, maybe, or calculation—before his expression returns to neutral.
"Miss Markova." His voice is low, accented, the kind of voice that forces you to lean in to hear properly. Russian, definitely, though his English is flawless. "Come."
It's not a request. He turns and walks into his office, clearly expecting me to follow. I do, my heels clicking against the marble, acutely aware of Natasha's pitying expression as I pass.
