EVA
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, and I twist the lock with shaking hands. My reflection in the mirror is a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, makeup smudged where tears have carved tracks through the foundation I applied so carefully this morning. I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles white, and try to remember how to breathe.
I never cry at work. Never.
But today, I broke.
The memory crashes over me again—glass shattering, the sharp crack of gunfire, Roman's body covering mine as bullets tore through his office. The body on the carpet, blood pooling on expensive Persian rugs. The cleaners arriving with their plastic sheeting and industrial chemicals, working with the kind of practiced efficiency that said they'd done this before. Many times before.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the images, but they won't leave. They replay constantly, a horror film on an endless loop. Every time the elevator chimes, I jump. Everysudden sound makes my heart race. I'm fraying at the edges, coming apart, and I don't know how to stop it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with trembling fingers, already knowing what I'll see. Another email from the hospital in Russia. Babushka Sasha's condition has worsened. The surgery she needs costs more than I make in six months, even with Roman's generous salary. I've been sending every spare dollar home, skipping meals, walking everywhere instead of taking the subway. My credit cards are maxed out. My savings account is empty. And it's still not enough.
The weight of it crushes my chest, making it hard to breathe. My grandmother is dying, and I can't save her. Alexei is alone with her, sixteen years old and trying to be strong, and I'm here in America, drowning in my own problems, useless to the people who need me most.
I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face. The shock helps, clears my head slightly. I need to pull myself together. Need to fix my makeup, straighten my spine, and walk back into Roman's office like nothing happened. Like I'm not falling apart. Like I'm still the competent, composed secretary he hired.
But my hands won't stop shaking as I reapply concealer, trying to hide the evidence of my breakdown. The woman in the mirror looks fragile, breakable. Everything I've sworn never to be.
Home isn't any better. Megan knows something is wrong. She's not stupid. I catch her watching me with worried brown eyes, see the questions she's biting back. She's stopped asking directly what's going on, but the hurt in her expression is worse than anger. I'm lying to my best friend, the person who's been my anchor since I came to America, and the guilt is suffocating.
But what can I tell her? That my boss is a Russian Mob boss? That I witnessed a murder? That his world is violence and blood and bodies wrapped in plastic? Telling the truth would put her in danger, make her a target. So I smile and deflect and watch the distance grow between us, hating myself a little more each day.
I take a deep breath and check my reflection one more time. Professional. Composed. Unbreakable. The mask slides back into place, even if it feels thinner than before.
When I return to Roman's office, he's standing at his windows, his back to me, hands clasped behind him. The afternoon light catches the edge of his profile—strong jaw, the mustache he keeps so precisely trimmed, and those broad shoulders that fill out his tailored suit in ways that still make my breath catch despite everything.
"I apologize, Mr. Sokolov." My voice is steady, professional. "I'm not feeling well. Stress and exhaustion. It won't happen again."
He turns, and those piercing blue eyes pin me in place. He's studying me with the same intensity he brings to everything, seeing too much, calculating. I force myself to meet his gaze without flinching, even though my heart is pounding.
"Sit," he says, his accent thicker than usual.
I settle into the chair across from his desk, my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling. The tension between us is suffocating. We haven't touched since that night. Haven't spoken about what happened, about the desperate sex against his door before bullets shattered his windows. The memory hangs between us like smoke, impossible to ignore but too dangerous to acknowledge.
Roman leans against his desk, close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne—something expensive and masculine that makes my body respond despite my exhaustion. His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, and I see heat flicker in those cold blue eyes before he banks it.
"You're not well," he says, and it's not a question.
"I'm fine."
"You're lying." His voice is low, controlled, but I hear the edge beneath it. "You've been jumping at shadows for weeks. You look like you haven't slept. And today you cried in my office, something I've never seen you do."
I press my thumbnail into my index finger, that nervous tell I can't quite break. "I said I'm fine."
Roman's jaw tightens, but before he can push further, Natasha's voice crackles over the intercom. "Mr. Sokolov, Daria Borisova is here to see you."
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Roman's expression hardens into something cold and dangerous. "Tell her I'm unavailable."
But it's too late. I hear the click of designer heels on marble, moving fast, and then Daria Borisova sweeps past my office toward Roman's door. She's stunning in a way that makes my stomach clench. Tall, elegant, wearing a dress that probably costs more than my monthly rent. Her ice-blue eyes land on me with pure contempt, dismissing me as insignificant.
I stand, moving to intercept her. "Ms. Borisova, Mr. Sokolov is in a meeting?—"
"Get out of my way." Her accent is thick, her voice dripping with disdain. "I don't need permission from a secretary to see my fiancé."
The word hits like a slap, even though I know it's not real, know Roman doesn't want her. But before I can respond, Roman is there, his presence filling the doorway, his expression thunderous.
"Daria." His voice is ice. "Leave. Now."
