Chapter 3
EVA
My feet find the worn floorboards, and I navigate the cramped space with practiced silence.
The bathroom door creaks slightly when I open it, and I wince, freezing until I'm certain Megan hasn't stirred.
Inside, I flip on the light and confront my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror.
Dark circles shadow my eyes despite the concealer I'll apply in a few minutes.
My blonde hair is a mess from tossing and turning all night, replaying my encounter with Roman Sokolov on an endless loop.
In my organization, mistakes have consequences.
The way he'd said it, the emphasis on "organization" rather than "company" or "firm", had sent ice through my veins.
But it's the other memory that kept me awake, the one I'm trying desperately not to examine too closely.
The way his blue eyes had lingered on my face, the heat of his body when he'd stood close to correct my filing error, the rough timbre of his accented voice that had made my pulse quicken for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
I turn on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up.
The pressure is terrible, as always, but at least it's hot.
I step under the weak spray and let it wash away the night's anxieties, focusing instead on the day ahead.
My first real day. I need to be perfect. No mistakes. No questions. No weakness.
By 6:15, I'm standing before my narrow wardrobe, wrapped in a towel, studying my limited options.
I select a tailored navy sheath dress that cost more than I should have spent but photographs well and projects competence.
A structured blazer in charcoal gray. Classic black pumps with a modest heel that I've already broken in.
I dress with careful precision, each piece of clothing like armor I'm strapping on before battle.
The mirror reflects back a woman who looks put-together, professional, capable.
I practice my expression—calm, composed, unreadable.
My hand drifts to my side, and I catch myself pressing my thumbnail into my index finger.
I force my hands to still, take a deep breath, and meet my own eyes in the mirror.
"You need this job," I whisper to my reflection. "Don't fuck it up."
The commute passes in a blur of subway cars and crowded platforms. I arrive at the gleaming glass tower at 7:30, earlier than necessary, but I want time to prepare before Roman arrives. The security guard recognizes me this time, waves me through with a nod.
The floor is empty when I arrive, just as I'd hoped.
I set my purse in my office, then move to the kitchen to prepare Roman's coffee.
Black, two sugars, heated to precisely 185 degrees.
I've memorized the specifications, practiced the routine in my mind.
The espresso machine is intimidating and expensive, but I manage to coax it into cooperation.
I test the temperature with the thermometer left on the counter, adjust, test again. Perfect.
I'm organizing files at my desk when I hear the elevator chime. My spine straightens automatically, my hands stilling on the papers. Through the glass wall, I watch Roman Sokolov step onto the floor, and my breath catches the same way it did yesterday.
He's wearing another perfectly tailored suit, this one charcoal with subtle pinstripes, and he moves with that same controlled power that makes the space feel smaller.
His short black hair is immaculate, his mustache precisely trimmed, and when his blue eyes sweep the floor and land on me through the glass, I feel the impact like a physical touch.
I stand, smoothing my dress, and walk to his office with his coffee. My heels click against the marble floor, each step measured and professional. He's already at his desk when I enter, reviewing something on his laptop, but he looks up as I approach.
"Good morning, Mr. Sokolov." I set the coffee on his desk, careful to place it exactly where his previous assistant had indicated. "Your coffee."
"Miss Markova." His voice is low, that accent making my name sound different, almost intimate. "You're early."
"I wanted to ensure everything was prepared for the day."
His blue eyes study me for a moment longer than necessary, and I feel heat creep up my neck. There's something in his gaze I can't quite read, something calculating and intense that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"Efficient," he finally says. "Good."
I nod and retreat to my office, acutely aware of his eyes following me until I'm seated at my desk. Through the glass wall, I can see him take a sip of the coffee, and I hold my breath, waiting for criticism. But he simply returns his attention to his laptop, and I exhale slowly.
The morning passes in a flurry of activity.
Phones ring constantly, and I field calls with careful professionalism, taking messages, screening requests for Roman's time.
I organize files according to the color-coded system I'm still memorizing, double-checking each placement.
And through it all, I'm aware of Roman watching me.
Not constantly. Not obviously. But I feel his gaze like a weight, his blue eyes tracking my movements whenever I stand, whenever I walk past his office or bring him documents that require his signature.
It's different from yesterday's assessment.
This feels more deliberate, more focused, like he's looking for something specific.
Around two in the afternoon, I prepare his coffee again and bring it to his office. He's on the phone, speaking rapid Russian, but he gestures for me to enter. I set the coffee on his desk and turn to leave, but his voice stops me.
"Miss Markova. A moment."
I turn back, my heart rate picking up. "Yes, Mr. Sokolov?"
He ends his call and leans back in his chair, those piercing eyes fixed on me. "Sit."
I settle into the chair across from his desk, my hands folded in my lap, my spine straight. Professional. Composed. Even though my pulse is hammering.
"Tell me about your family," he says, his tone conversational but his gaze sharp. "You mentioned a brother and grandmother in Russia?"
The question catches me off-guard. "Yes. My brother, Alexei, is sixteen. He lives with my grandmother in our hometown."
"And your mother?"
My throat tightens. "She passed away two years ago. Cancer."
Something flickers in his expression, too quick to identify. "I'm sorry for your loss. The medical expenses must have been significant."
It's not really a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes. Very significant."
"How did you manage the financing?"
The question feels loaded somehow, though I can't understand why. "The hospital arranged it. I don't remember the name of the company. I just… I signed whatever they put in front of me. I would have signed anything to help her."
Roman's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "And you're still paying off this debt?"
"Yes." My voice is steady despite the shame burning in my chest. "It will take years."
He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. I want to ask why he's asking these questions, what any of this has to do with my job, but I remember his warning about questions. No questions. No excuses.
"Thank you for your honesty," he finally says. "You may return to work."
I stand on shaking legs and walk back to my office, feeling his eyes on me the entire way. Something about that conversation felt like an interrogation, like he was comparing my answers to information he already possessed. But why would Roman Sokolov care about my mother's medical debt?
Mid-afternoon, the elevator chimes, and a man in an expensive suit steps onto the floor. He's maybe thirty-five, with sandy brown hair and sharp green eyes behind titanium-framed glasses. He walks past my desk without acknowledging me and enters Roman's office without knocking.
I watch through the glass wall as they speak in low tones. The stranger's body language is professional but tense, and whatever he's saying makes Roman's expression harden. They talk for perhaps ten minutes, and then the stranger leaves, his expensive leather briefcase in hand.
He pauses at my desk, and I look up to find those green eyes assessing me with the same suspicious intensity I've been feeling from Roman all day.
"David Brennan," he says, extending his hand. "Roman's attorney."
His handshake is firm, his smile professional but not warm. "Eva Markova. Mr. Sokolov's secretary."
"I know." He releases my hand. "Welcome to Sokolov Financial Group, Miss Markova."
Then he's gone, the elevator doors closing on his carefully neutral expression, and I'm left wondering what the hell just happened. An attorney visiting in the middle of the afternoon, delivering news that clearly displeased Roman, looking at me like I'm a problem to be solved.
The rest of the day passes in a haze of unease. I complete my tasks with mechanical efficiency, but my mind keeps circling back to Roman's questions, David Brennan's assessing gaze, the feeling that I'm missing something crucial about this job, this company, this man I'm working for.
When five o'clock arrives, I gather my things and prepare to leave. Through the glass wall, I see Roman still at his desk, his focus absolute as he reviews documents. He doesn't look up as I walk past his office toward the elevator, but I feel his awareness of my departure like a physical touch.
The subway ride home is crowded and uncomfortable, but I barely notice. My mind is too full of questions I can't ask, observations I don't know how to interpret.
Megan is already home when I arrive, her usual sunshine filling our cramped apartment as she bounces around the tiny kitchen. "Eva! Perfect timing! I'm making pasta, and Tyler's bringing wine to celebrate your new job!"
I force a smile, hanging my coat on the hook by the door. "That's sweet, but you didn't have to—"
"Of course we did!" Megan pulls me into a hug, and I let myself lean into her warmth for a moment. "This is huge! That salary is going to change everything for you."
Tyler, Megan's brother, arrives twenty minutes later, his hopeful smile making my chest ache with guilt I have no right to feel. He's sweet and earnest in his wire-rimmed glasses, presenting the wine like an offering, his brown eyes lighting up when I thank him.
We eat pasta at our tiny table, Megan chattering about her social media campaigns, Tyler asking careful questions about my new job. I try to be present, to enjoy this moment of normalcy with the people who care about me. But I can't shake the feeling that's been building all day.
Roman Sokolov sees something in me that I don't understand. He's evaluating me for a test I didn't know I was taking. And whatever he's looking for, whatever he suspects, it has something to do with my mother's debt and the company that financed it.
I smile and nod at something Megan says, take another sip of wine, and try to ignore the cold dread settling in my stomach.
Because I'm starting to suspect that this job, this opportunity that seemed too good to be true, might be exactly that.