“Wait. We got Henderson?” I ask, quickening my pace to match Leonie’s efficiency.
She doesn’t turn around. “Mr. Belov negotiated the acquisition yesterday.”
Of course he did. In the same twenty-four hours that he married me and apparently conquered Elite Properties.
The conference room falls silent when I walk in. Six faces turn toward me—four men, two women, all wearing the same expression of cautious assessment. Mark is the only familiarface, and even he looks different, like someone replaced his usual rumpled Oxford with something that actually fits.
“Director Marquez,” he says, standing. The others follow suit. “We were just reviewing the Henderson properties.”
I slip into the chair at the head of the table, setting the iPad down. “Excellent. Let’s start with the beachfront listings. Those are our priority market, given the current buyer profile.”
For a moment, they all stare, clearly expecting the boss’s wife to fumble. I don’t.
Instead, I pull up the portfolio specs and begin dissecting price points, target demographics, and marketing strategy with the precision that made me the agency’s best performer. I know these properties. I know this market. And suddenly, the tension in my shoulders eases just a fraction.
This—this I can do.
The meeting flows, and I find myself leaning into the rhythm of numbers and strategy. The regional managers shift from wary to engaged as I outline a targeted approach for each property segment. By the time we reach the third property group, they’re no longer looking at me like I’m a curiosity—they’re looking at me like I’m someone who knows what the hell I’m talking about.
I take the moment of privacy to check my watch. It’s 4:10 already. The dinner with Konstantin’s “family” looms closer, and my stomach tightens at the thought. I roll my shoulders back, trying to maintain the confidence I just commanded in that meeting.
Leonie returns, tapping her watch with a precision that would make Swiss engineers jealous.
“Your 4:15 is ready. Marketing brief on the downtown gentrification project.”
I stand, grateful for the distraction. No time to worry about dinner with Russian powerbrokers when I have a $40 million downtown development to discuss.
The marketing team looks even more terrified than the regional managers did. I recognize their fear—it’s the same look everyone had when Sandra was on one of her tirades, threatening jobs over font choices.
“Let’s start with the target demographic analysis,” I say, settling into my role. “And I want honest assessments, not what you think I want to hear.”
Their surprise is visible. But so is their relief.
By 4:30, I’ve approved their strategy, suggested three amendments that actually made sense, and somehow managed to not think about my impending dinner for a full fifteen minutes.
When Leonie appears in the doorway, her expression is as unchanged as ever.
“Your car will be here in fifteen minutes, Mrs. Belov.”
The name hits me like cold water. Mrs. Belov. Not Ms. Marquez. Not Director. Mrs. Belov—like I’m an extension of him, a possession rather than a person. My spine stiffens automatically.
Reality crashes back. Dinner. Family. Konstantin.
“Thank you, Leonie.” I gather my things, trying to look like someone who regularly attends dinners with criminal enterprises. I refuse to let her see how that name—Mrs. Belov—still feels like someone else’s identity slipped onto my shoulders. “Can you tell me anything about tonight? Who will be there? What should I—?”
“Mr. Belov’s inner circle will be present. The invitation is considered an honor.” She pauses almost imperceptibly."You might want to get going. You have five minutes."
I blink, caught off guard by what almost sounds like actual advice.
The meeting room empties and I’m left alone with my reflection in the glass wall. Despite everything, I don’t lookcompletely out of place in this costume of power and professionalism. The woman staring back at me managed three back-to-back meetings without flinching, commanded a room of experienced professionals, and didn’t once let them see her uncertainty.
Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can be Director Marquez by day and Mrs. Belov by night and somehow keep my soul intact.
I smooth a hand over the front of my blazer, catching a stray fleck of mascara under my eye. The woman in the reflection transforms again, something fierce emerging in her eyes.
My phone pings with a message from the building security. The car is waiting.
Into the lion’s den, then.
