By the time we break for dinner, I’ve contributed to three separate strategic initiatives and fundamentally restructured how Felix’s team approaches public perception management.
It feels good. Not just useful, but genuinely satisfying in ways I haven’t experienced since before Ethan died and my work became about survival rather than purpose.
***
The shift becomes more apparent over the following days. Felix starts routing certain files to me directly, asking for analysis or recommendations before making decisions. We fall into a rhythm—mornings spent independently, afternoons working together in his office, evenings that blend strategic discussion with increasingly personal conversation.
Tonight we’re reviewing intelligence on Sartore shipping operations when Felix mentions something about his childhood in St. Petersburg. The comment is casual, barely relevant to the file we’re examining, but it opens a door neither of us has walked through before.
“How old were you when your family moved to New York?” I ask, setting aside the tablet.
“Twelve. My father wanted to expand operations beyond Russia, saw opportunities in American port cities that justified relocating.” Felix leans back in his chair, gaze distant with memory. “I hated it initially. Different language, different social structures, constant awareness that we didn’t belong in ways that mattered.”
“Did you learn English before moving or after?”
“After. Immersion through necessity rather than formal education.” His mouth curves slightly. “Pavel and I spent the first year communicating primarily in Russian, refusing to fully integrate. Our fathers eventually forced the issue by conducting all business discussions in English and expecting us to keep up.”
I try to imagine Felix as a twelve-year-old immigrant, displaced and resistant, and can’t quite reconcile that image with the controlled man sitting across from me.
“What about you?” he asks, redirecting focus. “You grew up in Hartford?”
“Until I was sixteen. Then Mom and Ethan and I moved to a smaller town outside the city after the divorce finalized.” The memories surface easily, unthreatening. “Ethan hated the move initially. He’d built a whole social circle in Hartford that got disrupted. He adapted by throwing himself into the school newspaper, turned displacement into journalistic purpose.”
“That’s where the investigation skills started.”
“High school journalism and a natural tendency toward questioning authority.” I smile despite myself. “He got suspended twice for publishing articles the administration didn’t approve—one about budget mismanagement, another about discriminatory dress code enforcement. Both were factually accurate and thoroughly documented, which made the suspensions harder to justify.”
Felix’s expression softens incrementally. “He sounds like he was good at what he did.”
“He was brilliant.” The ache resurfaces, but it’s manageable now, grief that’s become familiar rather than overwhelming. “Persistent, methodical, and totally unwilling to accept surface explanations when deeper investigation revealed contradictions. Those skills made him an excellent journalist and eventually got him killed.”
“I’m sorry.” The apology is quiet, genuine in ways I’ve learned to recognize. “Not just that he died, but that my inaction contributed to it happening.”
“I know.” I reach across the desk and catch his hand, fingers lacing together. “I’m still angry about that, probably will be angry about it indefinitely. I’m also choosing to stay despite the anger, which means accepting that you’re capable of calculations I find monstrous while also being capable of—” I pause, searching for the right words. “—of this. Partnership and honesty and caring about my input on strategic decisions.”
Felix’s grip tightens slightly. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not simple. It’s deliberately complicated in ways I’m choosing to navigate rather than avoid.” I pull my hand back, needing the distance to continue the thought. “I’ve realized something over the past few weeks. I enjoy working with you.”
“I enjoy it too.” His admission carries weight, vulnerability he rarely shows. “You’re good at this work, Diana. Better than people who’ve been doing it for years. You challenge me in ways that make the outcomes stronger rather than just different.”
The respect in his voice settles warmly in my chest. Felix isn’t praising me to manipulate or placate—he’s genuinely acknowledging contribution that matters to him professionally and strategically.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“For what?”
“For asking my input.”
Felix stands and moves around the desk, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “You were never a liability. Complicated, certainly. Dangerous to organizational stability, absolutely, but never something I was just managing.”
“What was I, then?”
“Something I wanted despite every rational reason not to.” His hand comes up to brush hair back from my face, the gesture tender and familiar. “You still are.”
The intimacy of the moment has nothing to do with physical attraction or sexual tension. It’s deeper than that—connection built through hours of working together, through conversations that blend strategic planning with personal history, through the gradual recognition that we function better unified than separate.
I reach up and catch his wrist gently, holding his hand against my cheek. “I should let you get back to work. You have the council briefing in the morning and—”
