“Mrs. Sharov.” He settles behind the ornate desk, pours himself whiskey from a crystal decanter. “You’re even more beautiful than the surveillance photos suggested.”
“You’re exactly as pathetic as I imagined.”
The insult doesn’t register as offense—if anything, he looks pleased by my defiance. “You have spirit. Excellent. Broken women are useful for certain purposes, but intelligent resistance has its own value.”
“I’m not merchandise.”
“Of course you are.” He sips his whiskey, studies me like I’m a painting he’s considering for purchase. “Everyone is merchandise, Mrs. Sharov. The only variables are price point and market positioning.”
“My husband will kill you.”
“Your husband.” Marcus laughs, genuine amusement coloring his voice. “Yes, let’s discuss Nikola. Such a romantic story—the dangerous man who swept you away from scandal, offered protection in exchange for marriage, promised safety you could never achieve alone.”
He stands, moves around the desk to where I can smell his cologne—expensive, cloying, chosen to announce wealth rather than attract affection.
“Did he ever tell you about Anna?” Marcus continues. “The woman he failed to protect before you? Such a talented pianist. Such promise. Such a waste when she died calling his name while men I’d hired took turns teaching her the difference between art and utility.”
The casual cruelty in his voice makes my stomach turn, but I force myself to meet his eyes. “He learned from his mistakes.”
“Did he? From where I sit, history appears to be repeating itself with remarkable precision.” Marcus returns to his chair, leans back with the satisfaction of someone delivering a punchline he’s been building toward for years. “The only difference is that this time, I won’t be subtle about breaking you.Nikola will know exactly what’s happening, exactly how long it’s taking, exactly how thoroughly his protection failed.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m practical. Nikola needed to understand that caring about someone makes you vulnerable in ways that can’t be defended against. Anna taught him that lesson incompletely. You’ll provide the remedial education.”
I turn to Celeste, who’s been watching this exchange with rapt attention, like she’s attending a performance she’s particularly excited to see.
“Is this what you wanted?” I ask her. “To watch me be tortured by a man who views you as nothing more than an unpaid intern with useful connections?”
Her composure flickers. “I’m not—”
“You’re not what? Important, valued? Anything more than a recruiting tool with social media access?” I let contempt color my voice, truth sharpened into a weapon. “Look around, Celeste. This room, this performance, this elaborate demonstration of power—none of it is for you. You’re staff. You’re help. You’re the woman he sends to do work he considers beneath him personally.”
“That’s not true,” she says, but uncertainty creeps into her voice.
“Isn’t it? When was the last time he included you in strategic planning? When did he ask your opinion about anything other than which women would make suitable targets?” I lean forward as much as the restraints allow. “You spent a year destroying my life for a man who doesn’t even know your last name without checking his files.”
“Enough.” Marcus’s voice cuts through the confrontation with quiet authority. “Celeste, you’ve done excellent work. Your compensation will reflect my appreciation.”
Compensation. Not partnership, not recognition, not elevation to anything resembling equality. Payment for services rendered, dismissal disguised as gratitude.
Celeste’s face goes white as understanding finally penetrates the delusions she’s been nursing. She’s not Marcus’s partner in this operation; she’s a contractor whose usefulness has expired now that I’m captured.
The first gunshot echoes from somewhere deeper in the building, sharp and unmistakable.
Then another. Then the rapid staccato of automatic weapons fire that sounds like war arriving at our doorstep.
Marcus straightens, hand moving to the drawer where he probably keeps a weapon, calm demeanor finally cracking as he realizes that his carefully controlled environment is about to become a battlefield.
“It seems your husband has arrived,” he says.
I smile for the first time since my capture, wide and feral and full of promise.
“About time.”
The gunfire gets closer, louder, more coordinated. Not random violence but systematic dismantling of resistance, conducted with the kind of professional efficiency that can only mean one thing.
Nikola has come for me.
