That didn’t look like manipulation.
I’ve seen fake grief before. I’ve seen people cry to buy time, to disarm, to distract. There’s always something off—a delay, a glance, a calculation behind the tears.
She didn’t have that.
She didn’t know I was there.
And that changes things.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face. I hadn’t planned to step into that room. I hadn’t planned to see her like that. And I definitely hadn’t planned to…stay.
But I did.
I didn’t question her. Didn’t press. Didn’t use the moment to break her down further and see what she’d reveal.
Instead…I let her breathe.
Let her pull herself back together.
Offered stability instead of pressure.
I don’t know why.
That’s the part that irritates me the most.
My eyes snap open, the faint burn behind them reminding me how long I’ve been sitting here. The clock on the wall ticks past midnight. The city outside is quieter now, lights scattered like distant warnings.
I should be sleeping.
Instead, I’m here.
Digging.
Files spread across my desk, screens glowing with information I’ve already gone through twice. Financial trails. Known associates. Movement patterns from Moscow before the coup. Names, dates, connections.
I go through it all again.
Because something isn’t sitting right.
The initial reports are consistent. A violent internal coup within the Petrov organization. High-ranking members either missing or confirmed dead within forty-eight hours. That kind of collapse doesn’t happen quietly. It’s fast. Brutal. Decisive.
Efficient.
Control didn’t just slip. It was taken.
My eyes narrow slightly as I scroll further.
The name attached to the new leadership is exactly what I expected.
Anton.
Her cousin.
I lean back slowly, the chair creaking under my weight as I process it. So that part of her story holds. The takeover is real. The bloodshed is real. The shift in power is real.
But that still doesn’t make her safe.
If anything, it makes her more dangerous.
