But the smile dies fast.
Three o'clock. Lev's office.
Two hours to prepare for whatever comes next.
At 2:58, I stand outside Lev's office door, trying to remember how breathing works.
The east wing is different from the rest of the house. Quieter. Heavier. Like the air itself carries more weight here. Fewer cameras, but I can feel eyes on me anyway. I hate the sensation of being watched, even when I can't see who's watching.
I raise my hand to knock, but the door opens before I make contact, and I freeze in place.
Lev stands there, filling the space, and my breath stops.
He's in black today—shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing those tattooed forearms covered in prison ink and scars. No jacket. No tie. Just lethal elegance and controlled violence wrapped in expensive fabric.
"You're early." His pale gray eyes track over me slowly as I move to step in. "I didn't say enter yet."
"I'm sorry, I thought—"
"Come in."
He gestures, and I'm left with no option but to walk past him into his office.
The space is exactly what I expected—dark wood, steel accents, windows overlooking grounds where armed men patrol. Everything designed for function and intimidation. The desk is massive, the chair behind it more throne than furniture.
The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds like a cell locking.
"So," he starts to speak, and I move with shaky legs toward a chair across his desk.
But his hand wraps around my wrist before I can reach it, and suddenly I'm being pulled in a different direction, toward the center of the room, away from the desk, into open space where there's nothing to hide behind.
His voice is low and scratchy. "Stand here."
He lets me go of my wrist and steps back before he starts circling. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a predator assessing prey before the kill.
I feel his eyes tracking every detail, my hands trembling at my sides, the way I can't quite meet his gaze, how my breath comes too fast. The scent of his cologne hits me as he passes behind, something dark and expensive mixed with gunpowder that makes my head spin.
"Sofia tells me you've accepted the nanny position." He stops behind me, close enough that I feel his body heat. "Full-time care for my daughter. Correct?"
"Yes." My voice comes out thin.
"Why?"
"Because… because I like working with Mila. She's a good kid."
"That's not what I asked." His breath ghosts across the back of my neck, raising goosebumps. "I askedwhy. What do you gain from this?"
Money. Access. Information Patrick can use to murder you.
"A stable job. Good pay. A chance to help a child who—"
"Careful." He's in front of me now, suddenly, and I didn't hear him move. "We've discussed lying and how I feel about it."
His hand comes up to my face, and I flinch, but I have nowhere to go.
His fingers dig into my jaw, not gently, not carefully, rough skin catching on mine, forcing my head up so I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
"If you hurt my daughter," his voice drops to something cold and lethal, "I will make you beg for death. Do you understand?"
