It unnerves me.
The way he anticipates my need for silence after long strategy sessions, disappearing into his office without a word so I can sit alone with my thoughts. The way he refills my tea without asking when he notices the mug growing cold. There’s no pity in it, no performance of kindness. Just keen thoughtfulness. It's his methodical care that chips away at the walls I’ve spent years building.
This afternoon, after another marathon session reviewing Fadir’s decomposing supplier network, I feel the cracks widening. My shoulders are tight, my mind spinning withnumbers and patterns and the ominous satisfaction of watching my ex’s world erode. I snap before I can stop myself, the sarcasm intense and defensive.
“You remind me of an older butler in one of those British drama shows?” I say, leaning against the island as he sets a fresh cup of ginger tea in front of me.
The words come out more sarcastically than I intend, and I expect irritation. Maybe a cold reminder of the professional boundaries we agreed on.
Instead, Alexey offers that small, knowing half-smile. The one that tugs at the corner of his mouth and does unwelcome things to my stomach. His brown eyes meet mine without flinching.
He doesn’t argue. He simply slides the steaming mug closer and says, voice low and even, “Drink it while it’s hot. It helps with the stress.”
Then he returns to his laptop as if nothing ever happened.
The steady presence of this man is starting to crack my walls in ways I don’t want to admit.
I wrap my hands around the warm mug, inhaling the ginger scent around me, and feel the exciting quiver again, warmer and more insistent. It’s not supposed to be like this. He’s supposed to be the dangerous Bratva enforcer who wired a building with explosives and dragged me out at gunpoint.
The older, colder man, I struck a deal with out of pure fury. Instead, he’s patient in a way that feels almost gentle, never raising his voice, never making demands beyond the original agreement.
When I deflect questions about my past, about back home, about the debts, about the night everything broke, hedoesn’t push. He simply nods once and says, “When you’re ready,” before returning to his ledgers with that same quiet competence.
That small respect makes something dangerous vibrate in my chest.
Later that evening, alone in the guest suite, the memories I try so hard to keep buried rise anyway. As images flash in my head, I shove them down again. Deeper and deeper.
Instead, I shift my thoughts to Alexey and how I came to be here. In this penthouse. In his custody, so to speak.
Alexey never raises his voice to me. He never makes demands beyond the deal we struck. He cooks when my stomach turns from stress. He gives me space when I need it. He treats me like a partner in the revenge we’re building, not a fragile victim or a bargaining chip.
The way they close ranks at Sunday dinner with Arina’s fierce warmth, Tikhon’s casual acceptance, and Katya’s gentle questions feels nothing like the terror I grew up with. These people. These Sokolovs are loyal and honorable in their own way.
It terrifies me how much I don’t hate it.
I remind myself that this is temporary. I’m still the same girl who lost everything because she trusted the wrong man. The dream marketing job that vanished overnight. The slow realization that Fadir’s “help” was just another lie.
I ran to the big city to escape the cycle of debt and shame, only to fall into a different kind of trap. Revenge against Fadir is progressing beautifully, including the frozen accounts, the leaked intel, and the public appearances where he watches me on Alexey’s arm, in rage and disbelief.
That’s all this is. A planned arrangement. A means to an end that ends with me walking away richer and free.
But late at night, alone in my suite, I catch myself wondering what it would feel like if the careful distance between us ever disappeared.
What if his hand on my back during public appearances isn't just for the cameras? What if the quiet patience that unnerves me turned into something warmer, something real? What if I stopped snapping about the age gap and let myself lean into the steady presence of the man who has never once crossed the line we drew?
The thoughts feel traitorous. I roll over, pressing my face onto the cool pillow, trying to smother them.
This is supposed to be about hurting Fadir. About justice. About proving I’m not the broken girl from back home who lets powerful men decide her worth.
Yet as sleep finally pulls me under, the image that lingers isn’t Fadir’s drained, furious face at the gala. It’s Alexey’s small half-smile when I called him ancient. The low rumble of his voice tells real stories about his scars. The quiet way he hasn't demanded answers.
The excitement in my chest and stomach refuses to die. For the first time, I’m not sure I want it to.
***
The rooftop terrace of Alexey’s penthouse is a secret I didn’t expect.
I step out through the sliding glass doors just after sunset, the city stretching out below like a glittering sea. The air is coolerup here, carrying the faint scent of a rich, green smell of living things.
