He reaches out. For a second, I think he’s going to strike me. Or kiss me. Instead, his knuckles brush my cheek. The touch is tempting.
"You want to know who your father is?" he whispers. "He’s the man who left you here with me. That’s all you need to know."
He drops his hand, and the warmth vanishes.
"Get dressed," he repeats. "We leave in ten minutes. And fix your face. You look like a ghost."
With that, he walks away.
So, I do what I do best: I obey.
I change into the fresh black suit hanging on the wardrobe door, buttoning the new blouse to my chin to hide the bruises.
The drive to the tower is silent.
Konstantin sits beside me in the back of the armored SUV, typing on his phone. He ignores me as usual.
I take in the world passing by through the window. The city looks the same, busy, but the pane of glass between us feels like it’s slowly thickening, leaving me more and more separated from the world.
When we pull up to the Blackwood Tower, the unease in my stomach twists into a knot.
There are two black sedans parked in the loading zone. Not Bratva cars. These are American imports. Official.
"Who is that?" I ask, pointing at the cars.
Konstantin doesn't look up. "Ignore them."
We walk into the lobby.
Usually, my assistant, Sarah, smiles at me. Today, she doesn't look up. She’s typing furiously, her shoulders hunched.
The security guards, Konstantin’s men, stand at rigid attention by the elevators.
We ride up to the executive floor in silence.
When the doors open, the atmosphere hits me. The office is usually a hive of activity, phones ringing, traders shouting. Today, it’s quiet.
My staff is there, huddled in small groups, whispering. When they see me, they scatter, burying their heads in files and screens.
"Why are they looking at me like that?" I whisper, pulling my blazer tighter.
Konstantin places a hand on the small of my back. "Keep walking."
He steers me toward my office.
We’re halfway across the floor when the main doors burst open.
"Helena Blackwood!"
The voice is loud and authoritative. It cuts through the quiet office like a whip.
I spin around. Four men in suits are marching across the bullpen. They aren't clients or investors. They’re wearing badges on their belts.
Federal Agents.
My heart stops.
"Helena Blackwood?" the lead agent barks, stopping in front of me. He’s holding a piece of paper. "I’m Agent Miller with Homeland Security Investigations."
