By the fourth, she was already seated when I entered and didn’t look at me as if her being there was completely natural. But she didn’t leave either. Anya placed plates between us andretreated discreetly while we ate in silence. It was neither hostile nor peaceful, but it was still present. When I was delayed in the study, because a call with a contact in Moscow ran longer than expected, she was sitting at the table when I entered. Her food untouched while her fingers tapped lightly against the glass surface.
Waiting. She noticed me immediately and stilled.
“I wasn’t waiting,” she had said quickly.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I was hungry.”
“You could have eaten.”
“I didn’t want to eat alone.”
There were a dozen retorts available, but I used none of them and quietly sat across from her. Anya reappeared as if summoned by instinct and reheated the plates, after which we ate without speaking to one another. But we were not alone. It had started feeling wrong to eat without her present, and I hadn’t realized that until that night. Domesticity was not something I indulged in, but routine was operational, not personal.
And yet, the way she moved through the space changed its atmosphere. She left books on the coffee table and shifted flowers slightly when they were too symmetrical. I noticed how she opened windows I usually kept closed, and due to her, the penthouse no longer felt sterile. It felt inhabited and alive.
That was dangerous.
I had become aware of her in ways that had nothing to do with strategy, like the sound of her footsteps or the cadence of her breathing when she slept. The way she paused beforeentering a room if she knew I was already inside, and how she watched me when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I let her.
She pretended not to care about the security adjustments, but she noticed everything from the extra camera installed near the elevator to the new faces rotating in the hallway. She had even commented on the subtle repositioning of vehicles below.
“You’re preparing for something,” she said as she continued to stand before me.
“Yes.”
“But you’re confident you will win.”
“Also, yes.”
“Do you seriously think you can outmaneuver my brothers?”
“Yes.”
A slow, dangerous smile touched her mouth.
“They don’t lose.”
“Neither do I.”
The tension between us had shifted, but it was no longer just anger. It was awareness, constant and heavy. When she brushed past me in the hallway, neither of us pretended it was accidental, and when she stood too close at the kitchen island, she didn’t move away immediately. When she caught me watching her, she held my gaze for a fraction longer than necessary. The attraction had not faded. It had deepened even if it was less explosive. It was more consuming.
“You’re restless,” I observed, still looking at her.
“You’re observant,” she said, tilting her head slightly.
“Why haven’t you touched me again?”
The question was sharp and unexpected, and I whipped my head to look at her.
“Because you told me not to.”
“And that’s enough?”
“Yes.”
