Chapter Five - Jessa
My pen moves in neat, even lines across the page.
Legal English, then Russian, then English again.
It’s all clauses about exclusivity, penalties, delivery windows, force majeure.
I write, translate, document, eyes never straying from my notepad unless someone asks me to read a line aloud.
I keep my head down, shoulders stiff, making myself small and forgettable.
But the words from the party keep slamming into me, sharp and unwelcome. The memory is clearer now than it was that night: the sound of Russian spoken low and urgent, the hard glint of ice-blue eyes, the shape of a threat hanging in the air.
I’d tried to convince myself it was nothing, just business talk or the kind of bravado men use to make themselves feel powerful. But now, trapped in this glass-walled conference room, I know better.
Blood. Disposal. Before sunrise. The voices from the garden crawl under my skin. My heart thuds so loudly I’m sure someone will hear it. Every word that passes between the Russians sends another chill along my spine.
I let my gaze shift, slow and careful, toward Chris Jenkins.
He’s the loudest man at the table, the one who seems sure he’s always the smartest person in the room.
He pushes back on every point, voice booming as he argues about percentage points and control.
He’s the American investor I read about in the pre-meeting briefings.
A rainmaker, a risk-taker, someone whose presence can make or break a deal.
He’s also the man they were talking about at the party. I know it. I remember the Russian words, the way the man with the cold eyes—the same man sitting at the head of this table now—spoke about making something disappear before sunrise.
They said the name—Jenkins.
It’s not business. Not some faceless warning or vague intimidation. They were planning. Plotting. Not just to push Jenkins out of a deal, but to end him.
A wave of nausea washes through me. I keep writing, keep translating, but my fingers tremble faintly on the page. I hope no one notices. I breathe in and out, slow, careful, willing myself to look as unremarkable as I did an hour ago.
The meaning behind every phrase is different now. I see the way the Russians barely look at Jenkins, how they pass quick glances between each other, silent agreements flickering in the tension between words. They’re waiting. Watching. Biding their time.
I’m sitting in this room, pen in hand, pretending I don’t know. Pretending I’m just a contractor, that I haven’t already heard the beginning of a murder.
I want to look at Jenkins, to warn him. What would I say?
I can’t risk a note, a whisper, not with so many eyes—especially not with that Russian at the head of the table watching me, his gaze too cold, too knowing.
He’s seen me now, knows that I know him from somewhere, even if he doesn’t remember the details.
Maybe he remembers exactly. Maybe that’s worse.
I keep my face blank. I translate the next clause—something about dispute resolution, the kind of phrase that normally means lawsuits and arbitration.
Now, every word feels like a countdown. Jenkins doesn’t see it. He keeps talking, arguing, fighting for his contract, never once suspecting that the people across the table are writing his death sentence behind every polite smile.
When the meeting ends, there’s a flood of relief from the Americans.
Laughter, backslaps, the click of pens as contracts are closed.
Jenkins rises first, already on his phone, talking about dinner plans, his future, the next big move.
He has no idea. He stands in the center of the storm, unaware of the knives that have already been drawn.
I gather my notes with careful fingers, forcing myself to keep breathing, to look calm.
I am professional. I am neutral. I am invisible.
I pack my laptop, stacking the folders just as I’ve done a dozen times before.
All the while, my mind spins: How do I warn him?
How do I save a man who would laugh in my face if I tried to tell him the truth?
If I try, what will that Russian from the party do to me?
I risk a glance up, searching for the Russian’s face, but he’s watching me already, unreadable. My stomach twists. I wonder how long I have before I’m part of this, before the fact that I know too much turns me from a witness to a liability.
I can’t breathe. For a moment I think I might faint, right here, between the empty water glasses and the heavy stack of signed papers. I force myself to swallow, to blink, to go on as if nothing has changed.
I can feel his eyes burning into my skin before I ever look up. I don’t need to see him to know he’s watching. Every nerve in my body is screaming, tense as piano wire, even as my pen moves dutifully across the page. Legal English, Russian, English again.
Translate, record, disappear.
The Americans and Russians volley words across the table, all sharp smiles and practiced composure.
Jenkins leans back and jokes, “If you guys squeeze us any harder, you’ll have to marry into the family.
At least let me pick the daughter.” He laughs at his own wit, his voice booming off the glass, but the Russians don’t crack a smile.
One of the Russian men murmurs something in their language. I catch the words: patience, soon. I don’t dare translate unless asked.
My fingers grip the pen tighter. My chest aches. The Russian from the party doesn’t say anything, but his presence is a pressure behind my right shoulder. I imagine him reading my mind, seeing all the connections click into place—the party, the threats, the name Jenkins.
Chris Jenkins just keeps talking, thinking he’s winning. “You want our market share and our contacts. How about you give us season tickets at the Bolshoi? We can call it even,” he says, grinning.
A Russian, older, with silver at his temples, replies flatly in accented English, “We do not come here for theater, Mr. Jenkins. Only business.” His eyes flick toward me, just a second, then away.
The room tightens, the laughter fading to nothing. Jenkins doesn’t seem to notice, but I do.
I look at my watch, willing time to move faster. The conversation drones on, legal clauses stacking up. The Russian from the party finally speaks, his voice low and smooth.
“Ms. Whitaker, translate this section again for Mr. Ivanov. Ensure the language is clear.” There’s nothing in his tone, but when I look up to meet his gaze, my heart nearly stops. His eyes are the same as that night: glacier, cold, seeing straight through me.
I swallow. “Yes, of course.” My voice sounds steady, but my throat is raw. I repeat the clause in Russian, careful with every syllable, hands pressed hard to my notes so they won’t shake.
Ivanov nods once, satisfied. Jenkins rolls his eyes. “Jesus, can we get a drink in here? Feels like we’re negotiating with statues.”
One of the Americans, his tie askew, leans over to whisper, “Relax, Chris. We’re almost through.” I catch the Russian word for “idiot” tossed between two men on the other side.
I keep my head down, but my vision swims. I focus on the details: pages of contracts, the soft tick of the clock, the sharp sound of that Russian’s pen tapping against the table. I hear another Russian say quietly, “He talks too much.” Another grunts in agreement.
Jenkins barrels ahead, voice brash. “Tell your boss I expect him at the afterparty. I want to see if Russians can drink as hard as they negotiate.” He looks around for laughter, finds none.
A Russian leans in, murmuring something I know he thinks I won’t hear: “Better not expect him at breakfast.”
I nearly drop my pen.
I shove my notes into my bag, trying to breathe. I glance at the clock again. “Excuse me,” I say quietly, finding a gap as the lawyers bicker over a clause about indemnity. “I need to check something with our legal counsel.” My voice sounds small, but no one objects. They barely register me.
I stand, legs stiff. That Russian’s gaze follows me, heavy and silent. I keep my chin up, my steps measured, crossing the room like I belong here, even as my heart feels ready to burst out of my chest.
At the door, Jenkins calls after me, “Hey, Ms. Whitaker, bring me a real drink, will you?” He laughs at his own joke. “Kidding. Don’t tell HR.”
One of the Americans mutters, “Don’t mind him, Jessa.”
I force a polite smile and slip into the hallway. My hands are clammy on my bag, knees wobbly. I hit the elevator button three times before it lights up. The corridor feels endless.
A security guard strolls past, nodding at me. “Long meeting?” he asks.
I try to breathe. “Long day,” I answer, and somehow my voice sounds normal. The elevator doors open and I step inside, alone. The mirrored walls show a woman I barely recognize—hair tight, eyes huge, mouth set in a determined line.
The ride down is silent. My brain won’t stop replaying the words from that night in the garden, fitting them now around the cold professionalism of this room.
Blood. Jenkins. Before sunrise.
Sunrise when?
When the doors open, I hurry through the marble lobby. Outside, the city rush swallows me up. The cold hits my face, but it doesn’t help. I gulp air, desperate for calm, but there’s none to be found.
I turn down the street, pulling my coat tight around me. I walk fast, faster, passing shops and strangers. My phone buzzes, but it’s just a calendar alert.
I keep going, head down, weaving through crowds. My thoughts spiral—that party wasn’t a mistake. This meeting wasn’t coincidence. I’m not just a bystander; I’m a thread unraveling something they want to keep buried. Someone is going to notice soon.
Maybe they already have.
The wind slices through my coat, sharp and real, but nothing settles the panic buzzing in my veins. My heels click faster along the sidewalk as I put block after block between me and that building.
Every time I check over my shoulder, I half expect to see the Russian from the party—or one of his men—emerging from the crowd, eyes cold and unblinking.
I force myself to slow down, blending with the lunch rush. I need to look ordinary, invisible, just another anonymous face swallowed by the city. I can’t shake the certainty that I’m marked, that I’ve seen too much, that some invisible thread is already pulling me back into danger.
A cab screeches past. Someone shouts into their phone. Life goes on, indifferent, as if I’m not carrying a secret that could get me killed. My phone buzzes again.
This time it’s a message from Vivienne.
Drinks tonight? Tell me you survived the corporate sharks!
I nearly laugh, the sound brittle. I keep walking, heart hammering, every sense straining for a warning. Whatever happens next, I know this: I’m in deeper than I ever meant to go, and getting out won’t be as simple as just going home.