Chapter 21 Eva
EVA
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, and I twist the lock with shaking hands.
My reflection in the mirror is a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, makeup smudged where tears have carved tracks through the foundation I applied so carefully this morning.
I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles white, and try to remember how to breathe.
I never cry at work. Never.
But today, I broke.
The memory crashes over me again—glass shattering, the sharp crack of gunfire, Roman's body covering mine as bullets tore through his office.
The body on the carpet, blood pooling on expensive Persian rugs.
The cleaners arriving with their plastic sheeting and industrial chemicals, working with the kind of practiced efficiency that said they'd done this before. Many times before.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the images, but they won't leave. They replay constantly, a horror film on an endless loop. Every time the elevator chimes, I jump. Every sudden sound makes my heart race. I'm fraying at the edges, coming apart, and I don't know how to stop it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with trembling fingers, already knowing what I'll see.
Another email from the hospital in Russia.
Babushka Sasha's condition has worsened.
The surgery she needs costs more than I make in six months, even with Roman's generous salary.
I've been sending every spare dollar home, skipping meals, walking everywhere instead of taking the subway.
My credit cards are maxed out. My savings account is empty. And it's still not enough.
The weight of it crushes my chest, making it hard to breathe. My grandmother is dying, and I can't save her. Alexei is alone with her, sixteen years old and trying to be strong, and I'm here in America, drowning in my own problems, useless to the people who need me most.
I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face.
The shock helps, clears my head slightly.
I need to pull myself together. Need to fix my makeup, straighten my spine, and walk back into Roman's office like nothing happened.
Like I'm not falling apart. Like I'm still the competent, composed secretary he hired.
But my hands won't stop shaking as I reapply concealer, trying to hide the evidence of my breakdown. The woman in the mirror looks fragile, breakable. Everything I've sworn never to be.
Home isn't any better. Megan knows something is wrong.
She's not stupid. I catch her watching me with worried brown eyes, see the questions she's biting back.
She's stopped asking directly what's going on, but the hurt in her expression is worse than anger.
I'm lying to my best friend, the person who's been my anchor since I came to America, and the guilt is suffocating.
But what can I tell her? That my boss is a Russian Mob boss?
That I witnessed a murder? That his world is violence and blood and bodies wrapped in plastic?
Telling the truth would put her in danger, make her a target.
So I smile and deflect and watch the distance grow between us, hating myself a little more each day.
I take a deep breath and check my reflection one more time. Professional. Composed. Unbreakable. The mask slides back into place, even if it feels thinner than before.
When I return to Roman's office, he's standing at his windows, his back to me, hands clasped behind him.
The afternoon light catches the edge of his profile—strong jaw, the mustache he keeps so precisely trimmed, and those broad shoulders that fill out his tailored suit in ways that still make my breath catch despite everything.
"I apologize, Mr. Sokolov." My voice is steady, professional. "I'm not feeling well. Stress and exhaustion. It won't happen again."
He turns, and those piercing blue eyes pin me in place. He's studying me with the same intensity he brings to everything, seeing too much, calculating. I force myself to meet his gaze without flinching, even though my heart is pounding.
"Sit," he says, his accent thicker than usual.
I settle into the chair across from his desk, my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling.
The tension between us is suffocating. We haven't touched since that night.
Haven't spoken about what happened, about the desperate sex against his door before bullets shattered his windows.
The memory hangs between us like smoke, impossible to ignore but too dangerous to acknowledge.
Roman leans against his desk, close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne—something expensive and masculine that makes my body respond despite my exhaustion. His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, and I see heat flicker in those cold blue eyes before he banks it.
"You're not well," he says, and it's not a question.
"I'm fine."
"You're lying." His voice is low, controlled, but I hear the edge beneath it. "You've been jumping at shadows for weeks. You look like you haven't slept. And today you cried in my office, something I've never seen you do."
I press my thumbnail into my index finger, that nervous tell I can't quite break. "I said I'm fine."
Roman's jaw tightens, but before he can push further, Natasha's voice crackles over the intercom. "Mr. Sokolov, Daria Borisova is here to see you."
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Roman's expression hardens into something cold and dangerous. "Tell her I'm unavailable."
But it's too late. I hear the click of designer heels on marble, moving fast, and then Daria Borisova sweeps past my office toward Roman's door.
She's stunning in a way that makes my stomach clench.
Tall, elegant, wearing a dress that probably costs more than my monthly rent.
Her ice-blue eyes land on me with pure contempt, dismissing me as insignificant.
I stand, moving to intercept her. "Ms. Borisova, Mr. Sokolov is in a meeting—"
"Get out of my way." Her accent is thick, her voice dripping with disdain. "I don't need permission from a secretary to see my fiancé."
The word hits like a slap, even though I know it's not real, know Roman doesn't want her. But before I can respond, Roman is there, his presence filling the doorway, his expression thunderous.
"Daria." His voice is ice. "Leave. Now."
Her beautiful face twists with rage. "How dare you speak to me like that? After everything my father has done for you, after our agreement—"
"There is no agreement." Roman's words are clipped, precise, each one a blade. "I've told you repeatedly not to come to my office without permission. You're embarrassing yourself."
Daria's composure shatters completely. She starts screaming about disrespect, about her father's alliance, about how Roman is humiliating her in front of his staff. Her voice echoes through the office, shrill and furious, and I watch Roman's security team materialize from the shadows.
"Escort Ms. Borisova out," Roman orders, his voice deadly calm. "And make sure she understands that she's not welcome here again."
The guards move with professional efficiency, but Daria fights them, her designer heels scraping against marble as she hurls threats and insults. "You'll regret this! My father will hear about this! You're nothing without our alliance!"
Her voice fades as they force her into the elevator, but the damage is done. Everyone on the floor witnessed the scene. Roman's expression is carved from stone as he turns back to his office, and I follow, closing the door behind us.
"I'm sorry you had to deal with that," he says, his accent thick with barely controlled anger.
"It's fine." But my hands are shaking again, the confrontation pushing me closer to the edge I've been teetering on for weeks.
Roman moves closer, and I'm acutely aware of his size, his presence, the controlled violence coiled beneath his expensive suit. His gaze drops to my trembling hands, then back to my face.
"Go home, Eva." His voice is softer now, almost gentle. "You need rest."
I want to argue, to insist I'm fine, but I'm so tired. Tired of pretending, tired of holding myself together, and tired of carrying weight that's crushing me. So I just nod and gather my things, feeling his eyes on me the entire time.
The security detail follows me home as always, their black SUVs a constant reminder of the world I've fallen into. When I finally climb the six flights to my apartment, I find Megan waiting with Thai food and wine, her usual sunshine dimmed by worry.
"Don't." I hold up a hand before she can speak. "Please don't ask. I can't… I just can't."
Megan's face crumples slightly, but she nods. She pulls me into a hug, and I let myself lean into her warmth for a moment, this person who's been my anchor, my family. "I won't ask," she whispers against my hair. "But I'm here. Whatever you need, whenever you need it. I'm here."
We eat Pad Thai and watch terrible reality TV, and for a few hours, I pretend my life is normal. That I'm just a regular girl with a regular job, not someone who witnessed murder, not someone trapped in a world of violence and blood.
But when I finally crawl into my narrow bed, exhaustion pulling me under, the nightmares are waiting. Glass shattering. Gunfire. Bodies wrapped in plastic. Roman's cold blue eyes as he killed without hesitation.
I wake before dawn, my stomach churning with familiar nausea. At first, I think it's just stress, just my body's response to everything I've been through. But then I remember my period is three weeks late.
Three weeks.
My hands shake as I dig through my closet, finding the drugstore bag I've been hiding behind my winter coats. The pregnancy test feels impossibly heavy as I carry it to the bathroom, my heart pounding so hard, I can hear it in my ears.
I follow the instructions with mechanical precision, then set the test on the edge of the sink. The box says to wait three minutes, but I can't look. Can't breathe. Can't think about what this means if it's positive.
When I finally force myself to check, two pink lines stare back at me. Clear. Undeniable.
I'm pregnant with Roman Sokolov's baby.