“It means I look at who has access,” he says. “Where people slip. Which routines fall apart when pressure is applied, and how to keep them intact.”
“And why you?” I ask.
“The council can bring me back without admitting they need me,” he says. “That’s useful.”
I turn toward him. “With me beside you.”
“Yes. Married looks stable.”
“They’ll watch,” I say. “The council, the rival factions, and anyone who still feels tied to Markov.”
“They need to,” he says. “I want them looking.”
The car rolls forward with the traffic, and for the first time, I understand he's using marriage. I nod once.
“What am I?” I ask.
He glances at me. “My wife. Legally married six weeks. You handle private money tied to healthcare projects. Small foundations. Medical supply groups. Cultural funds. The kind of money that stays quiet and keeps things running.”
“So I’m the clean face,” I say.
“You’re the stable one,” he answers. “You look legitimate. No one has to question why you’re there.”
This isn’t about romance. It’s about position.
I sit back and think it through. If that’s the role, I’ll play it right. I straighten my shoulders and fold my hands in my lap. When we walk into that room, I won’t look unsure. If I’m standing beside him, I’ll stand like I belong there.
The building used to be an administrative block near the river. The stone looks new, like it was scrubbed clean. The old windows have been replaced with heavy glass.
There are three men at the entrance. Two stand outside in dark suits that cost more than most guards make in a year. Another stands just inside with a tablet in his hand. He barely looks at the screen. He watches the room.
Dominik hands over his credentials. I keep my eyes on the men. One of them pauses when he sees him. It lasts less than a second. Then his face smooths out.
“Mr. Sokolov,” he says, then turns. “Mrs. Sokolova.” He nods to me, like it’s settled.
I signedMarkova. They prefer amendments.
He does not hesitate over the name. He does not question it.
We are expected.
Inside, the room hums with controlled conversation. Men stand in tight groups, bodies angled away from one another, and their voices blend into a muted din, each thread of speech swallowed by the next. The smell is leather, cologne, and money that hasn’t moved in a while.
People notice us, but not in a rush. It moves through the room in stages. One head turns, then another. A conversation trails off. Someone stops speaking altogether. Women like me don’t usually walk into rooms like this on their own. When they do, they don’t stay long. Wives come in beside men who carry weight.
I stay close to Dominik and keep my pace even. I don’t slow, and I don’t look around for permission as I walk through the men.
I’m in a dark coat cut clean at the shoulders and flat boots, nothing that catches light or asks for comment. My makeup is minimal and careful, skin evened out, eyes defined just enough to hold a gaze, mouth bare. I meet the eyes that meet mine and hold them a second too long. Then I look away first, not because I have to, but because I choose to.
Viktor is near the center, broad-shouldered, silver at his temples, his smile practiced and thin. He survives by never being the loudest voice.
When his eyes land on me, something flickers there before he masks it.
Mikhail Orlov stands a few feet away, speaking with two men in dark suits. His suit fits close through the shoulders, his hands loose at his sides. When he sees Dominik, he pauses mid-sentence, then keeps talking, his eyes still on him.
Sergei is there.
He leans back against a table near the windows. There’s a cigar between his fingers even with the no-smoking signs posted on the walls. Smoke drifts up toward the lights. His suit catches the light more than the others in the room. His eyes move over me slowly, starting at my face and dropping lower before lifting again. Then he looks at Dominik and smiles without showing teeth.
