I grin.
“Well, everyone is right. I’m an artist too, so I get extra votes.”
His eyes brighten immediately.
“You are?”
“Mm-hm. I draw, I paint, and I make very impressive messes when I do it.”
A small smile tugs at his lips, and I count that as progress.
Behind me, Roman clears his throat.
“You have said more to her in five minutes than to anyone else in weeks.”
Sasha’s shoulders tense slightly, and I glance back at Roman.
“It’s easier when you talk about what they love,” I say.
Our eyes meet, and something shifts, something charged and impossible to ignore.
“He has an eye for it,” Roman says. “But art is not my expertise.”
“You’re encouraging it,” I reply, gesturing toward the walls. “That’s what matters.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“That was his mother’s idea.”
The room falls quiet.
“She was right,” I say softly.
A knock breaks the moment, and another man steps inside, blonde and sharp-featured, carrying a slim black folder.
“You must be Andrei,” I say.
He tilts his head slightly.
“I am.”
“I recognized you from Sasha’s drawing.”
Roman nods once.
“It will be framed.”
Andrei hands him the folder.
“Full background check.”
My stomach twists.
Roman flips through the pages, calm and methodical, his expression unreadable as he scans each line.
“You’re clear,” he says finally.
The relief that rushes out of me is immediate and impossible to hide.
