Page 70 of Cruel Demands

“I think he means Nikolai,” Viktoriya says with an instigating smile.

I go back to chewing. “No.”

His expression doesn’t change, but satisfaction passes through him anyway. I feel it. I see it in the slight relaxation of his shoulders, the tiny shift of his eyes. He smirks. “Better luck next time.”

My face burns. I put the pirozhok down because if I keep holding it, I might throw it at him. I stand, gathering my trash. “Right. Great talk.”

“Before you go.” He drops a stack of papers onto the table in front of me. It’s so thick, and the table is so shoddy, that the entire thing shudders. “I need you to look over this correspondence and return it to me after lunch.”

“Interns never handle correspondence,” Viktoriya blurts, then covers her mouth quickly when both Mikhail and I turn to stare at her.

I blink rapidly. “What is this?”

“A draft response to one of the international donors attending the regional education forum next week. I want your notes on the English phrasing. I need to know if it sounds…”

I read the first paragraph while he talks. It’s full of language about educational partnerships, economic cooperation, media optics, and public trust. I look up at him and raise my eyebrows. “You want to know if it sounds dishonest.”

He smiles flatly and points a thick finger at me. “Yes. Exactly.”

Viktoriya looks between us, failing to hide how entertained she is.

“Why is the Ministry of Education sending donor correspondence through your office?” I ask.

“Because Minister Dobrovaa and half her senior staff are working from this floor all week while we finalize the forum. You may have noticed the additional people.”

“I thought your office was just always full of terrifying women carrying folders.”

“Only during working hours.”

Viktoriya snorts into her coffee.

Mikhail taps the papers. “After lunch.”

I leave the break room before I can say something that gets me deported and before Viktoriya says something that makes me strangle her.

By Wednesday, I’m beginning to lose hope that Nikolai will ever call me and that I’ll ever have a shot at anything normal here. I hadn’t even known if I wanted him to call. If I really wanted that, I could have gone out with Petyr. But I wanted the option. I keep checking my phone like I might will a notification into existence, and I’m staring at it when Olga Dobrovaa stops beside my desk.

She has been on our floor since Monday, moving between Mikhail’s office and the large conference room with the assured impatience of someone who has no intention of waiting for doors to be opened for her. Today she is dressed in dark blue, her hair pinned neatly away from her face, a tablet held against her chest. “Governor Korolev wants you in the conference room,” she says.

I stare at her. “Why?”

“He did not invite me into his mind.”

Viktoriya coughs into her coffee.

Olga’s gaze shifts to her. Viktoriya studies her monitor with sudden, passionate interest.

The conference room is already full when I arrive. Men in suits. Two women with tablets. Olga seated halfway down the table beside a stack of forum schedules. Mikhail at the head, his expression unreadable, a pen turning slowly between his fingers.

Everyone looks at me. I stop just inside the door, and Mikhail gestures toward the table. “Sit.”

There is one empty chair. It is next to him. Of course it is.

I sit. For the next forty minutes, I take notes on a meeting I probably shouldn’t be attending. They discuss the public response to the education initiative, teacher recruitment, foreign funding, and an upcoming speech that apparently needs to sound “more human” without becoming “less disciplined.”

Olga argues that Mikhail’s remarks should lead with teacher salaries. One of the communications advisers wants to begin with infrastructure spending. Mikhail listens to both of them, says almost nothing, then asks me which one sounds more convincing in English.

The room goes quiet. I glance at Olga. She watches me with a calm expression that does nothing to reassure me. “Teacher salaries,” I say.