The ghosts she carries from that rural town she fled years ago, her dad's debts, her mother’s abandonment, and the shame of a father who tried to trade her away, have damaged her.
Any warmth I feel is a liability. Keeping our personal attachment in place is the only safe path.
“The crumbling has officially begun. You’re a willing participant now. Use that. Rest when you need to. The next moves will come faster.” I push off the island.
She nods, but her eyes linger on me a moment longer, thoughtful. The tea mug rests between her hands like an anchor, as her lips twist, and I almost groan.
I turn toward the hallway that leads to my office, needing the distance to reset. The slow erosion of Fadir Klem is underway, with suppliers doubting him, rivals circling, and his polished public image about to tarnish under the weight of his own hypocrisy.
Anja’s insight has nicely accelerated one thread.
Yet as I walk away, I feel the unwelcome pull again. The quiet satisfaction that she’s no longer just leverage. She’s becoming an asset with a mind that surprises me.
I shut the door to the office behind me and exhale slowly.
Nothing beyond tactical is allowed.
The line remains.
For both our sakes.
***
I stand on the penthouse terrace, the cool night air brushing against my skin as I sip from a glass of chilled vodka. The city sprawls below like a glittering circuit board. The lights stretch to the horizon, the distant hum of traffic a constant undercurrent.
Up here, the wind carries the faint scent of rain from earlier and the metallic tang of the river. I lean against the railing, the cold glass smooth in my hand, and let my thoughts drift where they rarely do.
My life has changed since Anja became a mainstay.
It started subtly, the way good strategies often do. The small adjustments that compound over time until the entire operation looks different. I used to wake up with a single focus on the next move against Fadir, the next thread to pull, and the next weakness to exploit.
Now, the first conscious thought each morning is simpler, warmer. It's her, and she is here. Anja is under this roof. Seeping in the guest suite across the hall, sitting across from me when we strategize. The knowledge settles in my chest like a quiet anchor, making the day feel less like a series of calculated strikes and more like something worth waking up for.
I take another slow sip of vodka, the burn clean and familiar. I spend more time at home than I used to. Before Anja, the penthouse was a functional space. The place to review reports, make secure calls, and occasionally sleep.
Now I find excuses to stay. A late-night strategy session that could have ended at ten stretches until midnight because her insights are sharp and her presence makes the work feel collaborative instead of solitary.
I linger over coffee in the mornings, watching her move around the kitchen with that quiet resolution, observing herevery move, and loving when the sunlight catches her natural beauty as she prepares tea.
Even the Sunday dinners at the estate feel different. I no longer attend out of obligation. I look forward to them because I know she will be there, laughing at Arina’s teasing or listening intently to Katya’s gentle advice.
There are other instances, smaller but no less telling.
I have started noticing details I once would have dismissed as irrelevant.
The way she relaxes fractionally when I treat her as a true partner during our calls with Andrei. The quiet steel beneath her fear when she offers an observation about Fadir’s patterns. The way her emerald eyes light up when she thinks she has found a clever angle.
I catch myself cataloging these moments the way I once cataloged weaknesses in an enemy’s supply chain. Not to exploit them, but to protect them. To nurture them.
I swirl the vodka in my glass, watching the liquid catch the terrace lights. Our agreement sits between us like a line drawn in stone.
Her recent betrayal by Fadir makes every interaction delicate. The way Fadir used her when she was most vulnerable, and made her almost his captive, really struck a chord within me. The truth is undeniable.
Anja Kuzmin has become more than leverage. She has become a mainstay. The penthouse feels less empty when she is in it. The days feel fuller. Even the war against Fadir has taken on new weight because she is part of it.
I finish the vodka and set the glass on the wide stone railing. The night air is cooler now, carrying the promise ofmore rain. I should go inside and sleep. Prepare for tomorrow’s moves, but instead, I linger a moment longer, letting the city’s distant pulse remind me of the world still turning outside these walls.
Before turning into my own bedroom suite, I stop at Anja’s door.
