"Your performance this week has been adequate," I begin, my voice low. "You learn quickly. You handle pressure well. You're competent."
"Thank you, Mr. Sokolov." Her voice is steady, but I see her pulse quicken at her throat.
I let the silence stretch, watching her. She doesn't fidget, doesn't fill the quiet with nervous chatter. She simply waits, and I find myself respecting that control even as I want to shatter it.
"Tell me about your mother's medical debt." The question comes out harder than I intend, sharper. "Who financed it?"
For the first time since she started working for me, I see genuine fear flash across Eva Markova's features.
7
EVA
The question hangs in the air between us like a blade suspended by thread, and I don't understand why my heart is suddenly hammering against my ribs. Roman sits on the edge of his desk rather than behind it, one ankle crossed over the other, his piercing blue eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes my mouth go dry.
"Tell me about your mother's medical debt," he says again, his accent making the words sound almost intimate despite their clinical nature. "Who financed it?"
My hands are folded in my lap, my thumbnail pressing into my index finger hard enough to leave a mark. I force myself to stop, to keep my voice steady. "I don't know the name of the company. The hospital arranged everything. I just… I signed whatever they put in front of me."
The memory of those final months crashes over me. The endless paperwork. The insurance denials. My mother's hollow eyes as the treatments failed one after another. I'd have signed anything, promised anything, to buy her more time.
"The interest rates?" Roman's voice is low, controlled, but there's something coiled beneath the surface. Something dangerous.
"High." The word tastes bitter. "Twenty-three percent. Compounding monthly. I've been making payments for two years and the principal has barely moved."
Roman's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He stands, moving to the windows, his hands clasped behind his back. The afternoon light catches the edge of his profile, the strong line of his jaw, the way his tailored suit emphasizes his broad shoulders. Even now, even terrified, I can't help noticing how he moves with that controlled power that makes my pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
"Did anyone approach you about the debt?" He turns back to face me, and I'm struck again by how his blue eyes seem to see straight through every defense I've built. "Offer to help with payments? Suggest ways to reduce what you owe?"
"No." Confusion wars with the fear tightening my chest. "Why would they? I'm nobody. I have nothing to offer."
"Has anyone contacted you recently? Made unusual requests?"
"No." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I don't understand what this has to do with my job performance."
He studies me for a long moment, and I force myself to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes are calculating, assessing, and I feel like a specimen under a microscope. Then something shifts in his expression, something I can't quite read.
"Do you know anyone named Yakovlev?"
The name means nothing to me, but the way he says it, the careful emphasis, makes my stomach clench. "No. Should I?"
Roman's silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I watch his chest rise and fall with controlled breaths, notice the way his hands have curled into loose fists at his sides. There's tension radiating from him that wasn't there before, and I don't know if I've said something wrong or something right.
"Is something wrong?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "Have I done something to concern you?"
He moves back to his desk, settling into his chair with deliberate precision. When he looks at me again, his expression has returned to that carefully neutral mask he wears like armor. "Your performance is adequate, Miss Markova. You may return to work."
The dismissal is abrupt, almost cold, and I stand on shaking legs. As I reach for the door handle, his voice stops me.
"Eva."
I turn, and for just a moment, I see something flicker in those blue eyes. Concern, maybe. Or calculation. Then it's gone.
"Be careful," he says quietly.
The words follow me back to my office, echoing in my mind as I try to focus on the files spread across my desk. Through the glass wall, I watch Roman make phone calls, his expression hard, his movements sharp with barely contained tension. Whatever I said in there, whatever he was looking for, it's changed something.
Lev Baranov arrives mid-afternoon, his dark suit immaculate, his expression professionally neutral. But when he passes myoffice, his dark eyes land on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. It's not sexual, not threatening in the obvious way. It's assessing. Calculating. Like he's trying to determine whether I'm an asset or a liability.
