I stare at Eva's file, my mind racing through possibilities.
Coincidence? Or is Eva Markova a plant sent by Abram to infiltrate my organization? Is her desperation real, or is it a carefully constructed cover?
The timing is suspicious. Abram starts testing my territory at the docks, and suddenly, a young woman with connections to hislending scheme appears in my office, working directly for me, with access to my files and my schedule.
I think about the way she looked at me tonight. The fear in her eyes. The trembling hands. Was any of it real?
I close the laptop and drain my vodka, the burn doing nothing to ease the cold suspicion settling in my chest.
Tomorrow, I'll have my security team dig deeper. I'll watch Eva more carefully, test her, see if she reveals herself. And if she's working for Abram, if she's been sent to destroy me from the inside…
I'll handle it the way I handle all threats to my organization.
With ruthless, absolute efficiency.
3
EVA
The alarm on my phone buzzes at 5:30 a.m., and I silence it immediately, my hand shooting out from beneath the thin blanket before the sound can wake my roommate, Megan. The apartment is still dark, the first hints of dawn barely touching the edges of the curtain that divides our living room into two makeshift bedrooms. I lie still for a moment, listening to Megan's steady breathing on the other side of the fabric barrier, then carefully extract myself from the narrow bed.
My feet find the worn floorboards, and I navigate the cramped space with practiced silence. The bathroom door creaks slightly when I open it, and I wince, freezing until I'm certain Megan hasn't stirred. Inside, I flip on the light and confront my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. Dark circles shadow my eyes despite the concealer I'll apply in a few minutes. My blonde hair is a mess from tossing and turning all night, replaying my encounter with Roman Sokolov on an endless loop.
In my organization, mistakes have consequences.
The way he'd said it, the emphasis on "organization" rather than "company" or "firm", had sent ice through my veins. But it's the other memory that kept me awake, the one I'm trying desperately not to examine too closely. The way his blue eyes had lingered on my face, the heat of his body when he'd stood close to correct my filing error, the rough timbre of his accented voice that had made my pulse quicken for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
I turn on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up. The pressure is terrible, as always, but at least it's hot. I step under the weak spray and let it wash away the night's anxieties, focusing instead on the day ahead. My first real day. I need to be perfect. No mistakes. No questions. No weakness.
By 6:15, I'm standing before my narrow wardrobe, wrapped in a towel, studying my limited options. I select a tailored navy sheath dress that cost more than I should have spent but photographs well and projects competence. A structured blazer in charcoal gray. Classic black pumps with a modest heel that I've already broken in. I dress with careful precision, each piece of clothing like armor I'm strapping on before battle.
The mirror reflects back a woman who looks put-together, professional, capable. I practice my expression—calm, composed, unreadable. My hand drifts to my side, and I catch myself pressing my thumbnail into my index finger. I force my hands to still, take a deep breath, and meet my own eyes in the mirror.
"You need this job," I whisper to my reflection. "Don't fuck it up."
The commute passes in a blur of subway cars and crowded platforms. I arrive at the gleaming glass tower at 7:30, earlierthan necessary, but I want time to prepare before Roman arrives. The security guard recognizes me this time, waves me through with a nod.
The floor is empty when I arrive, just as I'd hoped. I set my purse in my office, then move to the kitchen to prepare Roman's coffee. Black, two sugars, heated to precisely 185 degrees. I've memorized the specifications, practiced the routine in my mind. The espresso machine is intimidating and expensive, but I manage to coax it into cooperation. I test the temperature with the thermometer left on the counter, adjust, test again. Perfect.
I'm organizing files at my desk when I hear the elevator chime. My spine straightens automatically, my hands stilling on the papers. Through the glass wall, I watch Roman Sokolov step onto the floor, and my breath catches the same way it did yesterday.
He's wearing another perfectly tailored suit, this one charcoal with subtle pinstripes, and he moves with that same controlled power that makes the space feel smaller. His short black hair is immaculate, his mustache precisely trimmed, and when his blue eyes sweep the floor and land on me through the glass, I feel the impact like a physical touch.
I stand, smoothing my dress, and walk to his office with his coffee. My heels click against the marble floor, each step measured and professional. He's already at his desk when I enter, reviewing something on his laptop, but he looks up as I approach.
"Good morning, Mr. Sokolov." I set the coffee on his desk, careful to place it exactly where his previous assistant had indicated. "Your coffee."
"Miss Markova." His voice is low, that accent making my name sound different, almost intimate. "You're early."
"I wanted to ensure everything was prepared for the day."
His blue eyes study me for a moment longer than necessary, and I feel heat creep up my neck. There's something in his gaze I can't quite read, something calculating and intense that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"Efficient," he finally says. "Good."
I nod and retreat to my office, acutely aware of his eyes following me until I'm seated at my desk. Through the glass wall, I can see him take a sip of the coffee, and I hold my breath, waiting for criticism. But he simply returns his attention to his laptop, and I exhale slowly.
The morning passes in a flurry of activity. Phones ring constantly, and I field calls with careful professionalism, taking messages, screening requests for Roman's time. I organize files according to the color-coded system I'm still memorizing, double-checking each placement. And through it all, I'm aware of Roman watching me.
