“I do,” I assure her.
Mikel opens the door, and Polina steps inside. She offers Rowan a faint smile, her demeanor calm and professional. “Ready?”
Rowan glances back at me one more time, then nods and follows Polina out of the office.
The door closes behind them, and Mikel turns to face me. His expression is unreadable, but I know him well enough to recognize disapproval when I see it.
“You have objections,” I note.
“She’s a vulnerability,” Mikel replies bluntly. “Emotional attachments create weaknesses.”
“She’s also the only living witness to Alexei's confession,” I counter. “Protecting her is strategic.”
Mikel's eyes narrow. “You’re lying to yourself if you believe that’s the only reason.”
I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I move back to my desk and sink into the chair, my hands steepled in front of me. “Whether or not I have personal reasons is irrelevant. She’s under my protection now. That’s all that matters.”
Mikel holds my gaze for another moment, then nods once. “As you wish,pakhan.”
He leaves the office, and I’m alone again with the silence and knowledge that he’s right. Rowan is a vulnerability. An emotional attachment I didn’t plan for and don’t fully understand. But losing her isn’t an option. And that truth, more than any strategic justification, is what will guide every decision I make from this point forward.
9
ROWAN
The apartment Kiren arranged for me is stunning. The first thing I notice every morning is the quiet. Not the absence of sound. This place hums constantly. But the absence of unpredictability. No neighbors arguing through thin walls. No sirens wailing past my windows. No distant thump of bass from a car idling too long at the curb. The quiet here is engineered. Designed to close in from all sides.
It sits high above the city, built from glass and stone in muted tones that suggest money without ever advertising it. The floors are polished concrete warmed by radiant heat. The furniture is low, clean-lined, and arranged with symmetry that makes my fingers itch. Steel-framed windows stretch from floor to ceiling, offering a panoramic view of Charlotte that feels less like freedom and more like surveillance. Even the light feels managed. Automated shades rise and fall at preset times,allowing sunlight in without glare, and shadow without darkness. Nothing here happens by accident.
My clothes hang in the walk-in closet, looking shabby next to the empty space meant for a wardrobe I don't own. The bathroom has heated floors and a rainfall shower with six different settings. The bed is larger than my entire bedroom back at my apartment, dressed in sheets with a thread count that feels excessive rather than luxurious. Life inside Kiren’s protection feels like living inside a silk-lined cage.
I pad barefoot across the living room, the soles of my feet whispering against the floor. My reflection moves alongside me in the glass. The kitchen is immaculate. No clutter or crumbs. Even the coffee maker looks like it’s never been used, though I know it has. Someone cleans while I sleep. Someone always cleans.
I make coffee by grinding the beans by hand because it gives my fingers something to do. The sound is rough and real. The kettle heats silently.
I take my mug to the window and stand there, watching the city wake up. Traffic thickens along the main roads below. People move in orderly lines, unaware they’re being observed from this height. For a moment, I imagine stepping outside alone. Walking down the street and blending back into my life.
It's been a week since the accident. A week since Kiren swept in and rearranged my entire life. Somewhere out there is my real life. My apartment with the leaky faucet and the neighbor who plays guitar at two in the morning. My coffee maker thatrequires percussive maintenance. My couch with the permanent indent from where I curl up with medical journals.
Here, everything works perfectly. Everything is controlled. Including me.
The elevator dings, and I don't need to turn around to know who it is. Kiren is the only person with access.
“Good morning,” Kiren says.
His voice is calm and assured, with that quiet authority that never seems to rise yet somehow fills the room. I feel it along my spine before I feel his gaze.
“Morning,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the window.
He stops a few feet behind me. Not close enough to touch, yet not far enough to be accidental. I register the faint rustle of fabric as he adjusts his jacket. He always looks composed when I see him. Pressed slacks, dark shirt, and his hair neat without appearing styled. As if effort itself would be an indulgence.
“You slept,” he observes.
It’s not a question.
“I did,” I answer. “Eventually.”
The silence lingers, but it’s not awkward. Kiren’s silences are intentional things. They leave space rather than demanding it.
