Chapter 28An Invitation
An Invitation
Isabella
In my sleep I have nightmares, awake I have my thoughts, I am not sure which one is worse.
Ada stands in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuffs of her tailored black suit.
The sharp lines of the blazer frame her shoulders perfectly, exuding a quiet power.
Her white blouse is crisp, buttoned high at the collar, a stark contrast against the dark fabric.
The outfit is simple, elegant, but most importantly, it’s armor.
I stand behind her, fingers carefully twisting her thick hair into a sleek updo. “Hold still,” I murmur as I secure the last pin. “You want this to look effortless, but not like you tried too hard.”
Ada smirks at our reflection. “So, calculated indifference?”
I meet her gaze in the mirror. “Exactly.”
Her makeup is minimal, just enough to enhance her sharp cheekbones and keen eyes.
A touch of mascara, a hint of nude lipstick.
She doesn’t need much, her presence is enough.
The Ada I know rarely dresses up, but when she does, it’s with precision.
She knows the effect she has, and today, she’s using it to her advantage.
“You clean up well,” I admit, stepping back to assess my work.
Ada tilts her head, admiring the transformation. “I almost look like I belong in a high-rise corner office.”
I press my lips together, thinking. “You do. But don’t forget; you’re not just there to look the part. Tsepov is going to pick you apart the moment you step into that room.”
She exhales. “I know, if he even wants to see us.”
A car horn blares outside, short and impatient.
“That’s our cue,” she mutters, grabbing her phone from the dresser.
I follow her to the door, where Sawyer waits on the curb, leaning against the sleek black sedan.
He’s traded his usual rugged look for something sharper; a navy suit, fitted and pressed, the top buttons of his shirt undone just enough to toe the line between business and intimidation. He looks good, I have to admit.
He gives Ada a once-over, then lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You’re going to make Tsepov rethink his whole operation.”
Ada smirks. “That’s the idea.”
Sawyer opens the passenger door for her, his expression turning serious for a brief second. “You sure about this?”
She slides into the seat, adjusting the hem of her blazer. “No. But we’re doing it anyway.”
I watch them from the doorway, arms crossed tightly over my chest. A part of me still wants to call this off, to find another way. But it’s too late for second-guessing now.
I meet Ada’s eyes through the window. “Be careful.”
She nods. “Always.”
Sawyer steps into the driver’s seat, starts the engine, and without another word, they pull away from the curb.
I don’t realize I’m gripping my glass too tightly until I hear a knock at the door. My pulse jumps. I set the glass down and move quickly, unlocking it without hesitation.
Ada steps in first, her face unreadable, eyes sharper than usual. Sawyer follows, his jaw tight, shoulders tense. Neither of them speaks right away, and that silence is enough to tell me everything I need to know.
I close the door behind them. “Well?”
Ada exhales and unfastens her updo, dragging a hand through her hair before she speaks.
“The building alone told us everything. It’s power wrapped in glass and steel, a fortress pretending to be an office.
Mirrored windows and a receptionist who looked like she could kill someone with a stapler.
” She shakes her head slightly. “But it wasn’t the place that got me. It was him.”
Sawyer lets out a low breath. “Tsepov is… something else. I have seen a lot of soldiers in my life, and he sure has a character like one.”
I motion for them to sit, but neither of them does. Ada crosses her arms, her weight shifting slightly like she’s still trying to shake something off.
“He didn’t talk to us,” she says. “He dismissed us.”
A chill moves down my spine. “Dismissed?”
Ada nods, her lips pressing together before she continues.
“We got through the lobby easily enough, but the second the elevator doors opened, we weren’t alone.
Two men. Armed, but subtle about it. They walked us straight into his office, if you can even call it that.
It was more like a private club hidden behind corporate walls.
Dim lighting, expensive whiskey on the bar cart, a fireplace even though it’s February and the building has central heating. And him.”
I swallow. “Describe him.”
Ada meets my gaze. “Tall. Built like someone who doesn’t need security but keeps it anyway.
Russian, obviously, but not as polished as the rest. He’s got a military edge to him, like he was trained to kill before he learned to make money.
Smokes constantly, cigarettes laced with something stronger, because the whole room smelled like spice and ash.
And his eyes…” She hesitates for a fraction of a second.
“Dark. Calculating. Like he already knows the end of a conversation before you’ve even started it. ”
My stomach twists. “Then what happened?”
Ada hesitates, then looks up at me. “He asked for you.”
I blink. “What?”
“Not by name,” Sawyer clarifies. His voice is quiet but edged with something I can’t place. “But he asked for the nurse with the red hair.”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
Ada doesn’t blink as she says it. “He invited you.”
I hear the words, but they feel distant, like I’m watching them happen to someone else. He invited you. Like it’s a dinner party, like it’s an honor. Like it isn’t laced with a thousand threats left unsaid.
Sawyer exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Not demanded. Not threatened. Invited.” His voice is edged with something I can’t quite name. Frustration? Worry? Disgust? Maybe all three.
I force my mouth to work. “For what?”
Ada shrugs, but there’s tension in her shoulders. “That’s the part we don’t know. But he was clear; he won’t talk to us. He’ll talk to you.”
I nervously twirl a strand of hair through my fingers, bringing it to my nose, an old habit. “So if I don’t go, we get nothing.”
Silence.
We all know the answer.
Ada watches me carefully. “You don’t have to do this.”
We both know that’s a lie.
I lift my chin. “Yes. I do.”
Sawyer swears under his breath and shoves off the wall, pacing again. “This is a bad idea.”
“Do you have a better one?” I snap.
He stops pacing, turns to me, jaw tight. “Yeah. How about we don’t hand you over to a Bratva operative like a fucking offering?”
“That’s not what this is,” I say, even though I don’t even know what this is anymore.
He gives me a sharp look. “Feels like it.”
I close my eyes for a second, forcing myself to steady. The air feels heavier now, the weight of the choice pressing down. But the answer isn’t a choice at all. It never was.
I exhale sharply. “This isn’t about what any of us think. Tsepov set the terms. We either play his game or we walk away empty-handed.”
He swears again, dragging a hand down his face, then finally nods.
It’s settled.
I’m going to see Roman Tsepov.