Irina settles into the chair across from Eva, her hands clasped in her lap. But I see them trembling, see the way her throat works as she swallows. She knows. She fucking knows why we're here.
Lev pulls out his phone, swiping through images with controlled fury. "My security team has been investigating since the moment Eva's dress started falling apart. They found several interesting things." He turns the screen toward Irina. "This is you, purchasing industrial strength thread dissolver from a specialty chemical supplier three days ago."
Irina's face goes pale. "I… that's not…"
"This," Lev continues, his voice dropping lower, "is security footage from this morning. You, entering Eva's room while shewas downstairs with Katya. You, spending exactly seven minutes inside. You, leaving with something concealed in your purse."
"The hair comb," Eva breathes, her hand flying to her updo. She yanks out the antique piece Irina gave her, and even from here I can see the oily residue coating the silver. "You put the dissolver on this. When you placed it in my hair, you got it on your fingers. Then you touched my dress, worked it into the buttons and seams."
Irina's polished façade shatters completely. She stands, her voice rising to something shrill and desperate. "I was protecting us! Protecting what we've built! This money-hungry bitch is going to destroy everything, Lev. Can't you see that? Roman's obsession with her is making you weak, making you vulnerable. The Moscow delegates are here because he's failing, because he's distracted by pussy instead of focused on the empire!"
The words hang in the air, ugly and venomous. I feel Eva flinch beside me, see her hand move protectively to her stomach. Rage floods through me so powerfully, I have to grip the desk to keep from lunging at Irina.
But Lev moves first. He crosses to Irina with terrifying speed, his hand closing around her arm hard enough to make her whimper. His dark eyes bore into hers with absolute contempt.
"We're done," he says, his voice ice. "Pack your things. Get out of my apartment. Get out of my life. I never want to see your face again."
Irina's composure disintegrates into hysteria. She starts screaming about betrayal, about years wasted, about how Lev is choosing me over her, how she's given everything to this organization, only to be discarded. Her voice rises to somethingalmost inhuman, and I see genuine madness flickering in her green eyes.
"You'll regret this!" she shrieks, struggling against Lev's iron grip. "All of you! I'll destroy you! I'll tell the authorities everything! I'll?—"
Lev's hand covers her mouth, cutting off the threats. He looks at me, and I nod once. My security team materializes from the hallway, professional and efficient as they take custody of the hysterical woman. They'll escort her from the estate, ensure she causes no further damage. What happens after that… we'll decide once the immediate crisis is contained.
The study door closes behind them, Irina's muffled screams fading as they drag her through the reception. I turn to Eva, ready to comfort her, to apologize for bringing this chaos into what should have been a sacred moment.
But I freeze.
Three men stand in my study doorway, their expensive suits and calculating expressions immediately identifying them. The Moscow delegates. They've witnessed everything. The sabotaged dress, Irina's breakdown, the screaming accusations about my fitness to lead.
Their faces are cold with distaste as they survey the chaos that is my wedding day.
43
EVA
I'm still wrapped in Roman's suit jacket, the fabric warm from his body and smelling of his cologne, when three imposing men in expensive suits approach me in the study. Their presence fills the space with an authority that makes my spine straighten instinctively. These aren't normal wedding guests. Everything about them screams power and danger, from their perfectly tailored suits to the calculating way their eyes sweep over me.
"Mrs. Sokolov." The tallest one speaks first, his Russian accent thick and formal. His gray hair is slicked back with precision, and his dark eyes miss nothing as they catalog my disheveled appearance. "Congratulations on your marriage."
The words should be celebratory, but they feel like an assessment. I'm acutely aware of how I must look, clutching Roman's jacket closed over my ruined dress, my carefully styled hair coming loose from its pins, my makeup probably smudged from the stress of the ceremony.
"Thank you." I force warmth into my voice, channeling every ounce of composure I possess.
He extends his hand, and his grip is firm, testing, then gestures to the other two men. "These are my colleagues. We represent certain interests in Moscow."
The Moscow delegation. My stomach clenches with dread, but I maintain my polite smile. These are the men who hold Roman's future in their hands, who've come to judge whether he's fit to remain Pakhan. And they've just witnessed the chaos of our wedding, the sabotaged dress, Irina's hysterical breakdown.
"It's an honor to meet you." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
His gaze drops to my stomach, lingering there for a moment before returning to my face. "We understand congratulations are doubly in order. An heir for the Pakhan. Very… fortuitous timing."
The implication in his tone makes my cheeks burn. He thinks I trapped Roman with a pregnancy, that I'm some opportunistic secretary who saw a chance and took it.
"Yes, we're very happy." I press my hand protectively over my belly beneath the jacket.
One of the other men, shorter and stockier with a thick beard, steps forward. His smile doesn't reach his cold blue eyes. "Might we borrow your husband for a few minutes? There are matters we need to discuss. Business matters."
The request is phrased as courtesy, but I hear the command beneath it. This isn't optional. They're summoning Roman like he's some subordinate rather than the Pakhan of this territory.
