The hallway is dimly lit, the pale oak floor cool under my bare feet. Her door is closed, as it always is at night. It’s a clear boundary we both respect.
I stand there, hand hovering near the handle, hesitating. I can picture her inside: curled up in the big bed, her hair fanned across the pillow, eyes closed in whatever restless sleep the day’s events have left her.
Part of me wants to open the door. Just a crack. Just to see that she is safe, that the fire in her hasn’t dimmed, that the woman who has quietly upended my carefully ordered life is still breathing under my roof.
But I don’t.
I let my hand fall back to my side.
Opening that door would blur the line we both agreed upon. It would turn a tactical alliance into something more dangerous. Her trust is still fragile, and still growing. My need to keep my distance from Anja on a personal level is the only thing keeping the walls intact.
I turn away and go to my own suite. The door clicks shut behind me with a quiet that echoes. The room is gloomy but orderly. I undress methodically, folding my clothes with the same precision I apply to every plan. When I lie down, the sheets are cool against my skin.
Sleep does not come easily.
I stare at the ceiling, the city lights painting faint patterns across the plaster, and think about the woman sleeping across the hall. The way her hair falls over one shoulder when she leans over the laptop during our late-night sessions. The quiet steel beneath her fear. The unexpected gentleness when she reached out to touch the scar on my jaw.
Closing my eyes, I recall how she had raised her hand to my face the other day. The day before the charity gala. We'd been standing in the hallway, outside our rooms. We had both exited our suites and almost bumped into one another. Anja lost her balance, I reached out to steady her, and she laid her hands on my chest.
I felt her warm breath on my cheek, and I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn't. Anja raised her hand, and as it hovered near my face, her eyes traveled to the scar on my jaw.
Her hand lowered, and her fingers graced over the permanent blemish I'd gained one day many years ago during an altercation.
Groaning, I slipped my hands behind my head and thought about Anja, a mere fifty feet from me.
She is far more than the terrified girl I pulled out of that warehouse, and that truth is becoming harder to ignore with every passing day.
I close my eyes and force my mind toward tomorrow’s moves against Fadir. But as sleep finally claims me, the last image in my mind is not of supply lines or frozen accounts.
It's of Anja, standing in my kitchen with flour on her cheek, humming softly while she cooks, looking like she belongs here.
Like she's always belonged here.
Chapter 7 - Anja
The black SUV glides through the iron gates of the Sokolov estate like it owns the place. I lean my forehead against the cool glass, watching manicured lawns roll past under the late afternoon sun.
Tall oaks line the long driveway, their branches forming a tunnel of leafy foliage that opens onto a sprawling stone mansion and estate that looks like it stepped out of an old-world painting. The gray stone walls softened by ivy, wide terraces filled with outdoor furniture, and the windows that gleam like they’ve been polished every morning for a century.
It’s nothing like the cramped rental houses I grew up in back home. Nothing like Fadir’s sleek glass-and-steel apartment that always felt one wrong word away from turning into a trap.
My stomach knots tighter the closer we get.
Sunday dinner with the Sokolovs.
Alexey mentioned it casually over breakfast yesterday, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Family expects you,” he’d said, voice level, eyes on his coffee. “It’s not optional, but it’s not a performance either.”
Now, as the car stops in the circular drive, I smooth my hands down the simple navy sweater and faded jeans I chose after staring at the guest suite closet for twenty minutes. Nothing too fancy. Nothing that screams I’m trying too hard.
My hair hangs loose across my shoulders, and I’ve kept my makeup light. Just enough to hide the lingering gray circles under my eyes.
Alexey opens my door before the driver can, offering his hand. His touch is brief, but steady. “They don’t bite,” hemurmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching in that rare half-smile. “Much.”
I manage a weak laugh as we climb the wide stone steps. The heavy oak door swings open before we reach it, revealing a woman who can only be Arina Sokolov.
She’s in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, with sharp cheekbones, her ebony hair pulled into a practical braid, and eyes that sparkle with something fierce and warm at the same time. She wears a simple black blouse and jeans, but carries herself like she could run a boardroom or a battlefield without missing a step.
“You must be Anja,” she says, pulling me into a hug before I can brace for it. Her arms are strong, her scent a mix of something citrusy and warm bread. “Welcome. Ignore the testosterone. We outnumber them tonight anyway.”
