Chapter 6
Vanya
Night presses in around Paige’s apartment building, blanketing the small city in thick, velvety black. I sit in my Bentley across the street in the parking lot of a mom-and-pop laundromat.
As far as stakeouts go, I’ve waited in much worse conditions. At least in my own vehicle, I’m comfortable.
Gloomy rain clouds gather overhead. The swollen, restless sky symbolizes a night of bad decisions and regret.
In the dark, Paige’s window glows in a rectangle of yellow. Is she pacing? Lining up books on the windowsill? Ordering her world back into place? Or has she found a little battery-operated friend to finish what we started?
Oh, I can picture that.
Hours later, I can still taste her. Sweet and sharp, lingering on my tongue. Her mouth opened for me, hungrier and more desperate than I ever could’ve imagined.
For a pulse or two, she belonged to me.
We both recognized the game, and in that heartbeat, we played on the same side.
Then she broke free.
I’ve always known how to weaponize charm. Most people want to be wanted. They’ll believe every lie if you lather on admiration and make them feel seen and special.
She should’ve been easy, but I misjudged her. I went in too fast and didn’t bother with the groundwork.
Too much heat, not enough slow burn.
A rookie mistake.
Years of grinding secrets out of people who’d rather slit their own throats than cave to my demands, and an archivist outmaneuvered me because I got impatient and believed she’d shatter just like everyone else.
The kiss did what I planned. She would’ve let me have her, right there, if I’d acted a little smarter.
She held back a part of her I couldn’t touch, and she didn’t do so with charisma or raw desire.
Principle? Fear? Some other shield I couldn’t see?
How she resisted doesn’t matter.
Only my failure does.
In my line of work, failure comes with a death sentence, and Roman Kozlov rarely forgives errors, especially now with his paranoia choking every order. He’s convinced the past is a tightening noose, that old enemies are crawling out of the dark to finish what they started.
The island tragedy has returned to haunt us all.
Aside from all that… The last time I misread a situation, I lost everything.
Alina—my sweet baby sister—died because of me.
So I never allow myself to fail. Not anymore.
I’ve spent the better part of a week chipping away at Paige’s resolve. When I finally swooped in, everything went as expected. I had her in the palm of my hand. One more stroke, and she’d have been mine. A woman like that, once she falls, does so completely.
But I wanted to witness her crack, to see her lose that ironclad composure. Watch her lips moan my name and beg for more.
That attempt to indulge myself afforded her the opportunity to retreat. Now she’s probably even more irritated with me, which will taint every future interaction.
I breathe out the frustration before it builds and drives me to act the fool by knocking on her door and picking up where we left off between the stacks.
I don’t fully understand why Paige resisted me, but I’ll find a way to break her.
If seduction’s not quite right, I’ll use another tool. Nothing fancy or elegant, just simple, direct pressure. Everyone has a bruise that hurts when you press.
Find the leverage, and you own them.
Emil should get back to me any day now. And once he does…
Checkmate.
Early the next morning, I stay close to Paige’s building. Even though the library’s closed on Sundays, she still leaves her apartment at the same time, getting in her car and heading to town for errands. I follow from a distance, near enough to track her without her noticing me.
She shops for groceries, picks up dry cleaning, and buys a new cardigan from an outlet store. She eats lunch at a small deli in the center of town, sipping tap water and flipping through a book.
All day, the sky remains leaden and heavy with rain. The muggy air thickens every thought, blurring restraint and want.
By dinnertime, when Paige parks her dull little Camry in the lot of her complex, I’m itching for a little excitement.
Instead, I sit in my Bentley and try to keep my boredom in check.
On nights like this, mistakes are easy, and I’ve learned from past jobs the importance of constant vigilance. I can’t afford to lower my guard.
Paige walks toward her door with her head down and shoulders drooping. She reaches the steps and halts.
I straighten for a better view, drinking in the fear in her body language. With her spine locked, she glances over her shoulder, scanning for threats. When Paige reaches her front door, her jaw drops. Then she kneels. After a beat, she darts upright, unlocks the door, and rushes inside.
What spooked her? A mouse? It’s the perfect weather for critters.
Not two minutes later, Paige comes outside wearing yellow latex gloves and wielding a trash bag.
She crouches as she huffs in disgust, gingerly picks up the dead rodent—or whatever—and deposits it in the bag.
Holding the sack at arm’s length, she practically sprints to the dumpster, disposes of the mystery item, and hurries back into her apartment.
After a few hours, her lights go off, and I return to my hotel to sleep and dream.
Monday is colorless from the start, but I have one bright star on the horizon. Emil sent an email overnight.
My key has finally arrived.
I sit on the bed of my greige hotel room, sipping on weak black coffee as I click through the message.
At the beginning of her career, Paige made a simple—but costly—mistake.
Two years back, early in her position at St. Augustine, she’d miscatalogued and undervalued a medieval religious manuscript, missing some key details that don’t mean anything to me but resulted in the book going to auction and the library losing millions.
That could’ve ended her career. I’m sure the misstep still haunts her.
But that’s not the true diamond that Emil discovered.
I tab to the next document and nearly choke on my bitter caffeine.
Paige Kisner, with her immaculate memory and bulletproof rules, is a fraud. She never finished graduate school. In fact, she forged the degree that launched her career.
Why would she do that? Why would she go through all the effort—through her entire undergrad and some of her post-grad courses—only to quit halfway through?
Despite my curiosity, the reason bears no real importance. This uncovered lie affords me the ability to take her down.
For someone anchored in control, in perfection, this is nuclear.
The senior archivist isn’t truly an archivist at all.
With this new information, my case cracks wide open, no violence necessary. I won’t even need to try seducing her again.
Still, a little voice in my head says, Why stop when the fun’s just starting?
I won’t go to the library today. I’ll let Paige think she’s won.
Instead, I print out the files in wide, double-spaced font so the facts take up more paper than absolutely necessary. A thick pile of them to destroy her will.
Hours before her shift ends, I drive to her apartment and stroll up the path to her front steps with a confident swagger.
The lock on her door is child’s play, allowing me to break in within seconds and slip inside. No alarm, no chain, nothing but faith in a world that never earned it.
The door opens to a one-bedroom, one-bath.
Faint afternoon light trickles in through the windows.
I stride into a small living room furnished with a small couch, an armchair with a reading lamp, and a coffee table.
Three rows of bookcases line the cream walls.
She doesn’t even have a television in this room.
To the left, a doorway leads to a minuscule kitchen with basic builder-grade cabinets. No dining room. No eat-in. No table.
I glide through the space, learning even more about the not-so-stodgy, not-so-rule following acquisitions curator.
The compulsively perfect apartment screams order.
The furniture’s classic, brown, and dense, a bunker of tradition. The tiny kitchen’s immaculate, everything white on white. A washcloth hangs from the barrier between the empty sinks. Labeled canisters on the countertop line up with military precision. Tea. Coffee. Sugar.
No photos hang from the walls or grace the end tables. No faces. No threads linking her to anyone else. Just a copy of her forged degree on the wall by the window.
Interesting.
At the end of a short hall, I spy the closed bedroom door. I venture inside and glance around, finding a queen bed with navy sheets and a white comforter against the far wall, the frame crafted from white particleboard and featuring basic minimalist shapes.
Same as the rest. Nothing’s out of place, and nothing’s in the open.
Heading back to the living room, I set the file on the coffee table. I take a seat next to the reading lamp, leaving it off. If I twist slightly, I have a clear view of the front door, and the position showcases my body as well.
Holding steady, I wait with the patience I’ve forged through many hours of self-discipline. The sun sinks lower and lower beyond the single window until I’m shrouded in the pale lavender glow of night.
At eight seventeen, keys scrape and the door swings open.
Anticipation ripples through me, but I force my muscles to stay completely still.
Is this the same thrill some kids feel on Christmas? I can’t decide what expression I should wear.
Paige enters and stands in the gleam of a streetlight, humming some tuneless melody as she turns to hang her keys on a little hook.
Then she freezes, just like she did by her door last night.
She reminds me of a helpless rabbit sensing peril.
I hold my breath, savoring the moment before the trap snaps shut.
She knows I’m here, even if she can’t see me. That’s the point.
I’m not worried she’ll flee. That’s not who she is. “Welcome home, Paige.”
“Get out, or I’m calling the police.”
She maintains a surprisingly steady voice. I expected a glimmer of fear, but I sense only cold, contained anger. She’s furious that I’ve violated her sanctuary. Or maybe she’s using rage to hide terror, like she’s done most of the week.
That would be the wiser reaction.
I flick the lamp switch. “Patience, Paige. I think you should listen to what I have to say first.”
Light floods the room, chasing shadows into the corners.
She blinks in the sudden brightness. When her eyes find mine, her squint becomes a glare. “You can’t just come into my home. This is breaking and entering.”
I shrug. “Among my lesser sins. Close the door, Paige. Wouldn’t want the neighbors to think you’re in trouble.”
The click of the door latching echoes in the quiet apartment. “What do you want, Vanya?” Her voice curls around my name like a boa.
Here comes the fear.
Surely, she must recognize that I’m the poisonous snake, not her.
I nod toward the coffee table, where the folder waits on the wood. “Take a look. It’s quite the page-turner.”
“Does this have anything to do with that book you were searching for?” Despite the cubbies and hooks by the door, she leaves her coat and shoes on.
Smart girl, recognizing me as the predator I am.
She grabs the folder and flips it open.
I wait for the dawning realization.
The first three pages lay out her cataloguing error and include the draft of an anonymous email ready to torch her reputation, her job, and the donors’ trust by proving her mistake. Millions lost due to her careless hands.
She peers up in raw disbelief. “You broke into my house for this? Anyone could miss an evaluation. It’s a risk you take with antiquities, and it’s over and done with. No one’s going to care.”
“Oh, that’s just the icing on the cake.” I gesture to the rest of the file. “Keep going.”
She flips to the page that details the fake degree. The proof that Paige Kisner, Senior Archivist, is a fraud. Her life story with a giant missing middle. The core of her identity, based on a falsehood.
Her shoulders stiffen, her eyes widen, and her lips part.
The horror bleeds into her like a slow-acting poison, leeching color and hope from her expression in increments as she keeps turning pages.
I struggle to keep my smile from growing.
I’ve got her.
“How did you…” She swallows hard and flips to another page that contains a copy of the résumé she used to get hired, along with another damning email draft explaining all of that.
“Does it matter?” I lean forward, my elbows resting on my knees. “I know what you did. That’s the point. The lie big enough to warp your whole life around.”
She slumps onto the arm of the couch, clutching the folder with enough force to crumple the edges. Somehow, she still has the sense to stay out of my reach.
Except the fight’s gone, replaced by a body-shaking emptiness that hollows her out.
“You’re not as perfect as you want the world to believe, Paige.” I keep my voice soft, almost kind, but with a menacing edge. “Not as straitlaced as you’d like to think. Of course, I already proved that Saturday.”
Her eyes fly up, blazing with old anger and fresh humiliation, and I know she’s recalling the memory. The stacks. The kiss. How fast she gave in, and how much she desired me before pulling away.
Personally, those are memories I’ll never forget.