12. Maksim
MAKSIM
R olan is waiting for me when I arrive at the estate. He's already poured two glasses of vodka and set them on his desk, which means he's been expecting this conversation.
"You look like a man with a plan," he says, gesturing to the chair across from him.
I take the seat but don't touch the vodka. "I am," I say, loosening my tie. "I have a proposal."
Now he turns, raising an eyebrow. "About the Mirova girl?"
"An engagement. Public announcement." Claiming Grisha's idea as my own is nothing.
Rolan won't question me, and I get all the credit for it.
Besides, if I bring it up, I get to control the narrative from this point on and maybe, just maybe, it means I can spin this so Zoya stays mine, long after Damir is dead.
As he tips his glass up to his lips, the crystal catches the afternoon light, throwing rainbows across the mahogany desk. "She's agreed to this?"
"She will."
"You sound confident."
I take the glass he offers. The vodka burns, clean, familiar. "She's already halfway there emotionally. Pushing the idea will trigger Damir if he's watching."
Rolan settles into his chair and studies me across the desk. "And if he doesn't surface?"
"Then we have her locked down. Either way, we win."
"You're certain she'll go along with it?"
I think about last night. The way she looked at me afterward, vulnerable and wanting. The way she didn't pull away when I touched her face. "She's already made her choice. She just doesn't know it yet."
Rolan nods slowly. "Do it. But Maksim..." He leans forward. "Don't get sloppy. This is strategy, not romance."
"I know what it is."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a man who's forgetting the difference."
I drain my glass and set it down. "I never forget." His words are a mild threat because he knows me, and he's probably read me like a book to know that something more is going on beneath the surface.
"Good. Because if you do, if you let emotions cloud your judgment, I'll handle the girl myself. And you won't like my methods."
The threat is unspoken but understood. I nod once and leave him to his paperwork.
Outside, the afternoon air carries the scent of rain. I sit in my car for a moment, letting the engine idle, thinking about what comes next. The announcement will change everything. It will make her mine in ways that go beyond the physical. It will also paint a target on her back.
I pull out my phone and dial her number. She answers on the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Zoya. I want to see you."
There's a pause on the line before she says, "When?"
"Now. I'll pick you up," I suggest, and I'm already buckling up to drive.
"I'm at work."
"Leave."
Another pause, longer this time. "Maksim?—"
"Please."
The word surprises us both. I don't ask for things. I take them. But with her, everything feels different. More fragile. More important.
"All right," she says finally. "I'll be outside in ten minutes."
I drive to the track and find her waiting by the employee entrance. She's wearing a pair of black jeans that fit her perfectly, her hair pulled back in a simple bun. She looks professional, untouchable. But I know better now. I know what she sounds like when she comes apart.
She slides into the passenger seat without a word. I pull away from the curb and head east, toward the lake house.
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"Somewhere quiet."
She doesn't ask for details. She watches the city pass outside her window, her hands folded in her lap. I want to reach for her, to touch her, but I force myself to wait. Patience is a weapon I've learned to use.
The lake house sits forty minutes outside the city, hidden behind a screen of birch trees. It's smaller than the estate, more intimate. A place for privacy rather than display. I park near the front door and kill the engine.
"What is this place?" she asks.
"Family property. Somewhere we can talk without interruption."
She follows me inside. The main room is simple, comfortable. A stone fireplace dominates one wall and bookshelves line another. I light a fire and pour two glasses of wine from the bottle I keep here for occasions that require softer edges.
She accepts the glass but doesn't drink. "You wanted to talk."
"I do. After what we discussed, I feel like you're right. We don't know each other well enough for marriage, so I'm going to tell you about my childhood."
She blinks, surprised. "Why?" she asks, studying me with curiosity, like this is so different from what she expects me to be like. Hell, it shocks me too.
"Because I've never told anyone. And I think you should know."
I settle into the chair across from her, studying her face. "I was eight when my father first took me to see a man die. He said it was necessary. That I needed to understand what we were, what we did."
Her face remains neutral, but I see the slight tension in her shoulders.
"I threw up afterward. My father was disappointed. He said weakness was a luxury we couldn't afford. He was right."
"That's a terrible thing to do to a child."
"It was necessary. We don't live in a world where innocence survives."
She sips her wine and watches the fire. "No. We don't."
"I learned to bury the part of me that flinched. To become what was needed. But sometimes, late at night, I wonder what I might have been if I were different."
"Different how?"
I lean forward. "Quieter. Normal. The kind of man who comes home to the same woman every night, who builds a life instead of tearing them down."
"You think about that?"
"I think about what it would be like to live a life where violence wasn't the answer to every problem. Where trust wasn't a weakness."
She sets down her glass. "That's not who you are." Her tone is sardonic and her expression grim. She avoids eye contact, which tells me she doesn’t hold out hope that I could be different, and neither do I, really, but I really have had these thoughts at times.
"No. But it's who I could be. With the right person."
"What kind of person?"
I turn her head by her chin and hold her gaze. "Someone loyal. Someone sharp enough to see past the surface. Someone who understands that men like me don't change for many people, but when we do, it's permanent."
She looks away, but I see the color rise in her cheeks.
"I've been thinking about you," I continue. "About what you said last night. About not being able to trust anyone."
"I shouldn't have said that."
"Why not? It's true."
She stands and moves to the window, looking out at the lake. "Because it makes me vulnerable."
"Good. Vulnerability is honesty."
I rise and move to stand behind her. Close enough to smell her perfume, far enough to give her space to run if she chooses.
"I've never felt like this before," I say, and I'm surprised to realize it's true. "I've never wanted to protect someone the way I want to protect you."
She turns to face me. "Maksim."
I reach for her hand. She doesn't pull away. "I want to make an announcement. About us."
"What kind of announcement?"
"That we're going to wed."
She doesn't correct me or say no this time, and I feel something shift inside my chest. It feels sickening, like I'm winning something I'm ashamed to have competed for but desperately want anyway. I lean down and kiss her softly, and she returns the kiss.
"Would you like to walk?" I ask. "The lake is beautiful at sunset."
Zoya nods, and we make our way outside and down the gravel path that circles the water. The sun hangs low in the sky, painting everything gold and orange. She walks beside me, close enough that our arms brush occasionally.
"It's peaceful here," she says.
"It's the only place I can think clearly. The only place that feels real."
"And the rest of it? Your life in the city?"
"Necessary. But not real. Not like this."
I let my hand brush her hip as we walk. She doesn't move away. "I want to build a life with you, Zoya. Not just an arrangement. Not just a convenience. I want to wake up next to you every morning and know that you're mine."
She stops walking and turns to face me. "What if I can't be what you need?"
"You already are."
I move closer, close enough to see the apprehension in her eyes. "I want to kiss you."
She looks up at me, her lips parted. I lean down, and she moves to meet me halfway. But at the last moment, she pulls back, her face suddenly pale.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I feel… I need to…"
She turns and walks quickly back toward the house. I follow, concerned. "Zoya, are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just dizzy. Too much wine, maybe."
She disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running, the sound of her being sick. When she emerges, she's pale but composed.
"I'm sorry," she says again. "I should probably go home."
"Of course," I tell her, but I feel saddened that this is how the evening is ending.
I drive her back to the city in comfortable silence. She leans her head against the window and closes her eyes. I want to touch her, to comfort her, but I sense she needs space.
When I drop her off at her apartment, she turns to me before getting out.
"Thank you," she says. "For today. For telling me about your childhood."
"Thank you for listening."
She disappears into her building. I sit in my car for a moment, thinking about the way she looked at me when I mentioned the announcement. The way she didn't say no.
I pull out my phone and send a message to Rolan.
Maksim 9:12 PM: Plan is working. She's almost ready.
His response comes quickly.
Rolan 9:13PM: Good. Don't rush it.
I sit staring at my phone for a few moments, thinking. The announcement will force Damir's hand. It will also lock Zoya to me in ways that go beyond physical attraction.
But as I replay the evening in my mind, I realize that somewhere between strategy and execution, the lines have blurred. The way she looked at me when I talked about building a life together. The way she didn't pull away when I touched her hand.
I tell myself it's all part of the plan. But late at night, alone in my bedroom, I'm not entirely sure I believe it anymore.