She isn’t wearing makeup, or at least not much. I can see the shadows under her eyes, evidence of a sleepless night that matches my own. But her eyes themselves are clear and focused. Those warm brown irises with flecks of amber that seem to catch every bit of light in the room.
She carefully closes the door behind her, her movements controlled despite the obvious tension in her shoulders. Her hands clasp together in front of her, fingers intertwining tightly, and she stands there for a moment, clearly uncertain whether to come closer or stay by the door.
I study her closer. She looks tired and rundown, clearly surviving on adrenaline and fear for too long.
And beautiful.
The thought hits me without permission. She’s beautiful standing there in that simple dress with her hair down, looking at me like she’s not sure if I'm going to yell or just dismiss her.Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with styling or effort and everything to do with the determined set of her jaw and the way she’s holding herself together through sheer force of will.
This is more dangerous to my carefully maintained distance.
Her eyes meet mine and I see wariness and caution there. She moves toward the chair across from my desk but perches on the edge of it like she expects me to lunge across and strike her.
The realization stings more than it should.
Is that really what she thinks of me? That I’d hurt her physically? That I’m capable of...
But then I remember the dinners. The nasty words. The way I’ve deliberately made her life hell since our marriage.
Of course she thinks I might hurt her. I’ve given her every reason to be afraid.
“Sit back,” I hear myself say. “You look like you’re ready to bolt.”
She blinks, surprised, but she doesn't move. She stays perched on that edge, coiled tight with nervous energy.
I sigh wearily. “I’m not going to hurt you, Vera. Relax.”
“You wanted to see me?” Her voice is quiet as she refuses to heed my words.
“I need to ask you some questions about yesterday.” I lean back in my chair, studying her, looking for any sign of deception, any hint that she's hiding something. “About the attack.”
Her face goes, if possible, even paler. “What about it?”
“Did you know it was going to happen?”
“Excuse me?” The word comes out sharp. “No! Of course not. How could you even?—”
“Someone knew,” I interrupt. “Someone gave up the information about that meeting. Location, timing, security protocols. All of it. And I need to know if it was you.”
I watch her carefully as I say it. Her eyes widen and her breath catches. Genuine horror floods her expression before her spine straightens and shoulders pulling back in indignation.
“You think I—” She stands abruptly and her hands curl into fists at her sides. “You think I was part of planning an attack that almost killed me?”
“You’re an Ashford,” I say flatly, ignoring the logic of her answer. “Your family has every reason to want this peace to fail. Maybe they decided you were an acceptable casualty if it meant taking out Volkov leadership.”
“You’re—that’s fucking insane.” Her voice is tight with anger now, not fear. “My father wouldn’t— nobody would—” She stops, swallows hard, and takes a breath. “I almost died yesterday. Those bullets were inches from my head. I felt them go past me. If you hadn’t…”
She trails off, her arms wrapping around herself. The anger drains away, leaving only exhaustion and pain. “You saved my life. And now you’re accusing me of trying to orchestrate my own murder?”
I study her for a long moment. The terror in her eyes is real. The trembling in her hands is real. The way she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will—that’s real too.
She’s not lying.
“Sit down,” I say quietly.
She scowls. “I don’t want to?—”
“Please.”
