Not constantly. Not obviously. But I feel his gaze like a weight, his blue eyes tracking my movements whenever I stand, whenever I walk past his office or bring him documents that require his signature. It's different from yesterday's assessment. This feels more deliberate, more focused, like he's looking for something specific.
Around two in the afternoon, I prepare his coffee again and bring it to his office. He's on the phone, speaking rapid Russian, but he gestures for me to enter. I set the coffee on his desk and turn to leave, but his voice stops me.
"Miss Markova. A moment."
I turn back, my heart rate picking up. "Yes, Mr. Sokolov?"
He ends his call and leans back in his chair, those piercing eyes fixed on me. "Sit."
I settle into the chair across from his desk, my hands folded in my lap, my spine straight. Professional. Composed. Even though my pulse is hammering.
"Tell me about your family," he says, his tone conversational but his gaze sharp. "You mentioned a brother and grandmother in Russia?"
The question catches me off-guard. "Yes. My brother, Alexei, is sixteen. He lives with my grandmother in our hometown."
"And your mother?"
My throat tightens. "She passed away two years ago. Cancer."
Something flickers in his expression, too quick to identify. "I'm sorry for your loss. The medical expenses must have been significant."
It's not really a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes. Very significant."
"How did you manage the financing?"
The question feels loaded somehow, though I can't understand why. "The hospital arranged it. I don't remember the name of the company. I just… I signed whatever they put in front of me. I would have signed anything to help her."
Roman's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "And you're still paying off this debt?"
"Yes." My voice is steady despite the shame burning in my chest. "It will take years."
He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. I want to ask why he's asking these questions, what any of this has to do with my job, but I remember his warning about questions. No questions. No excuses.
"Thank you for your honesty," he finally says. "You may return to work."
I stand on shaking legs and walk back to my office, feeling his eyes on me the entire way. Something about that conversation felt like an interrogation, like he was comparing my answers to information he already possessed. But why would Roman Sokolov care about my mother's medical debt?
Mid-afternoon, the elevator chimes, and a man in an expensive suit steps onto the floor. He's maybe thirty-five, with sandy brown hair and sharp green eyes behind titanium-framed glasses. He walks past my desk without acknowledging me and enters Roman's office without knocking.
I watch through the glass wall as they speak in low tones. The stranger's body language is professional but tense, and whatever he's saying makes Roman's expression harden. They talk for perhaps ten minutes, and then the stranger leaves, his expensive leather briefcase in hand.
He pauses at my desk, and I look up to find those green eyes assessing me with the same suspicious intensity I've been feeling from Roman all day.
"David Brennan," he says, extending his hand. "Roman's attorney."
His handshake is firm, his smile professional but not warm. "Eva Markova. Mr. Sokolov's secretary."
"I know." He releases my hand. "Welcome to Sokolov Financial Group, Miss Markova."
Then he's gone, the elevator doors closing on his carefully neutral expression, and I'm left wondering what the hell just happened. An attorney visiting in the middle of the afternoon, delivering news that clearly displeased Roman, looking at me like I'm a problem to be solved.
The rest of the day passes in a haze of unease. I complete my tasks with mechanical efficiency, but my mind keeps circling back to Roman's questions, David Brennan's assessing gaze, the feeling that I'm missing something crucial about this job, this company, this man I'm working for.
When five o'clock arrives, I gather my things and prepare to leave. Through the glass wall, I see Roman still at his desk, his focus absolute as he reviews documents. He doesn't look up as I walk past his office toward the elevator, but I feel his awareness of my departure like a physical touch.
The subway ride home is crowded and uncomfortable, but I barely notice. My mind is too full of questions I can't ask, observations I don't know how to interpret.
Megan is already home when I arrive, her usual sunshine filling our cramped apartment as she bounces around the tiny kitchen. "Eva! Perfect timing! I'm making pasta, and Tyler's bringing wine to celebrate your new job!"
