26. The Knife Between Them
The Knife Between Them
Vera
Iknow something is wrong before Roman says a word.
He’s quieter than usual.
Not calm.
Contained.
Like something inside him is coiled too tight to move without breaking.
I find him in the data room.
Screens glow blue across his face, reflecting numbers and movement patterns I don’t fully understand—but I recognize tension when I see it.
“You’re hiding something,” I say.
He doesn’t turn.
“I’m working.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Now he looks at me.
Slowly.
Carefully.
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
“I shouldn’t be a target either,” I reply. “But here we are.”
Silence.
The kind that fills a room instead of emptying it.
“You’re managing me,” I continue. “Moving me around, deciding what I know, what I don’t. ‘For my safety.’”
“That’s not inaccurate.”
“It’s not honest either.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I don’t lie to you.”
“You omit,” I say. “You control information.”
“That’s strategy.”
“That’s control.”
He steps away from the screens.
“Those are the same thing in my world.”
“I’m not your world,” I snap.
His eyes flash.
“You married into it.”
“I didn’t surrender my autonomy when I did.”
Silence stretches again.
I take a step closer.
“What’s going on?”
He studies me for a long moment.
Measuring.
Deciding.
Then—
“I suspect Orlov.”
The name lands like a dropped glass.
“What?”
“I don’t have proof,” he continues. “But the leaks, the escalation, the push toward war—it aligns with his influence.”
I stare at him.
“Your consigliere?”
“Yes.”
“The man you trust most?”
“I trust no one,” he says quietly.
That’s not entirely true.
But it’s close enough.
“Then why is he still alive?” I demand.
“Because suspicion isn’t enough.”
His voice sharpens slightly now.
“One wrong move, and I fracture my own house. Civil war inside Koval.”
The words settle heavy.
“How bad would that be?” I ask.
“Worse than anything you’ve seen so far.”
My stomach tightens.
“And you think he’s working with your enemies.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re just… waiting?”
“I’m watching.”
“For what.”
“For him to make a mistake.”
I let out a sharp breath.
“That’s not good enough.”
“It’s the only option that doesn’t burn everything down.”
I shake my head.
“No. It’s the option that keeps you in control.”
“It keeps the city from collapsing.”
“And keeps me in the dark.”
His expression hardens.
“That’s intentional.”
Anger flares hot in my chest.
“I’m not a child.”
“No,” he says. “You’re a target.”
“I’m also your wife.”
The word hangs between us.
Complicated.
Heavy.
“And that makes you more vulnerable, not less.”
I step closer.
“I’m tired of being managed.”
“I’m tired of you being in danger,” he snaps.
Silence crashes into the room.
We stare at each other.
Both right.
Both wrong.
Both trapped in the same war.
“You don’t get to decide everything,” I say more quietly now.
“I decide what keeps you alive.”
“And what if I want more than survival?”
His jaw tightens.
“Then you don’t understand the stakes.”
“I understand them better than you think.”
His gaze searches mine.
For weakness.
For hesitation.
He doesn’t find it.
“Then act like it,” he says.
“I am.”
“No,” he replies. “You’re pushing.”
“Yes,” I say. “Because I refuse to be powerless.”
Something shifts in his expression.
Not approval.
Not quite.
Recognition.
“You’re not powerless,” he says.
“Then stop treating me like I am.”
Silence settles again.
This time heavier.
Final.
“I have work to do,” he says at last.
Dismissal.
Clean.
Controlled.
I hate it.
I turn before he can say anything else.
The hallway outside feels colder.
Sharper.
Like the penthouse itself is watching.
I walk past the security desk.
One of the guards is distracted—head bent over a screen, earpiece crackling softly.
His phone sits on the edge of the desk.
Unlocked.
Careless.
My pulse quickens.
I slow my steps.
Not obvious.
Not rushed.
Just another woman walking past.
My fingers move without hesitation.
The phone disappears into my palm.
I keep walking.
Don’t look back.
Don’t hesitate.
Inside the bathroom, I lock the door behind me.
My hands shake slightly as I pull the phone out.
Burner.
Untraceable.
Disposable.
Power.
For the first time since this started, something belongs to me.
Not Roman.
Not the war.
Mine.
The screen lights up.
No contacts.
No history.
Good.
I slip it into my pocket.
My heart is pounding now.
Fast.
Loud.
Alive.
And then—
It vibrates.
Once.
Sharp.
Sudden.
Like a pulse.
Like a warning.
Like a heartbeat.