Chapter 14 – Anya
I’d been noticing it for weeks now—the way the air seemed to crackle whenever Sasha and Trev occupied the same space.
Little glances that lingered too long, conversations that stopped abruptly when I entered the room, and a tension that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with the kind of attraction that made smart people do stupid things.
Walking out of the conference room with my tablet clutched against my chest, I found myself frowning at the quarterly numbers displayed on the screen.
Our profit margins were solid, orders were up fifteen percent from last quarter, but something about the distribution costs wasn’t adding up.
I made a mental note to have Milo review the shipping contracts when movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention.
Through the glass partition of Sasha’s office, I could see Trev standing close to her desk. Too close. His tall frame was angled toward her in that predatory way all Antonov men seemed to master, while Sasha’s hand brushed against his jacket as she laughed at something he’d whispered.
I watched as he leaned down to murmur something near her ear, his breath stirring the pale strands of hair that had escaped from her usually perfect braid.
Whatever he said made her smack his shoulder with a shy grin, her cheeks flushing that particular shade of pink that meant she was either embarrassed or aroused. Possibly both.
I shook my head and forced myself to keep walking toward my office. It wasn’t my business what Sasha did in her personal time, or who she chose to flirt with during work hours. She was twenty-two, intelligent, and perfectly capable of making her own decisions about men.
But that didn’t stop the knot of worry from forming in my stomach.
I was happy for her, truly. Sasha deserved someone who looked at her like she was the answer to questions he hadn’t known he was asking. She deserved laughter and romance and all the messy, beautiful complications that came with falling for someone who made your heart race.
What she didn’t deserve was to get caught in the crossfire of a world that had a tendency to turn tenderness into ruin.
Trev might be Lev’s twin brother, might be a police officer with what seemed like genuine feelings for my assistant, but he was still surrounded by the sharp-edged shadows of the Bratva world. Still connected to a family that solved problems with bullets and buried secrets in shallow graves.
And Sasha, with her German discipline and American optimism, her knit sweaters and gentle questions, was too sweet for that darkness. Too soft for the kind of life that came with loving an Antonov.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, worried about Sasha getting involved with dangerous men, when I’d married the most dangerous one of all.
The difference was that I’d known exactly what I was walking into. I’d grown up in Maxim’s shadow, had seen firsthand what this world could do to the people caught in its gravity. Sasha had no idea what she was flirting with.
Over the past few weeks, as the hunt for Petro Kozak intensified, Lev and I had barely seen each other.
He left before dawn and returned long after I’d fallen asleep, his side of the bed cold when I woke in the mornings.
Our conversations had been reduced to hastily exchanged texts and brief phone calls that always seemed to be interrupted by more urgent matters.
I understood the necessity. Understood that tracking down a fanatical crime boss and his assassin daughter required the kind of focus that didn’t leave room for domestic concerns. But understanding didn’t make the loneliness any easier to bear.
Saturday morning found me arriving at the office earlier than usual, hoping to get a head start on reviewing fabric samples for the spring collection. The building was quiet, peaceful in the way that only empty spaces could be, and I was looking forward to a few hours of uninterrupted work.
That peace shattered the moment I spotted Trev leaning against Sasha’s car in the parking garage.
He was dressed casually—jeans and a black T-shirt that showed off the muscled build that ran in his family—with his arms folded across his chest and sunglasses perched on his nose despite the underground lighting. Everything about his posture screamed predator at rest, dangerous even in repose.
I ducked behind a concrete pillar, feeling ridiculous for hiding but unable to look away as Sasha emerged from her car.
She was wearing one of her typical weekend outfits—fitted jeans, boots, and a cream-colored sweater that made her look like she should be modeling for a cozy autumn catalog rather than getting involved with men who carried guns as accessories.
They talked for a few minutes, their voices too low for me to make out words, but their body language spoke volumes. The way she tilted her head up to look at him, the way he stepped closer until there was barely space between them, the way her hand came up to rest against his chest.
Then he kissed her.
It was brief, almost chaste by comparison to some of the public displays of affection I’d witnessed, but there was something intimate about it that made me feel like I was intruding on a private moment.
Sasha’s cheeks were flushed when they broke apart, and she hurried toward the building entrance with the kind of quick steps that suggested she was either embarrassed or eager to get somewhere more private.
I blinked, processing what I’d just witnessed, then forced myself to walk normally toward the elevator. It wasn’t my place to say anything. Sasha was an adult who could make her own choices about romance and relationships.
But part of me—the part that remembered what it felt like to be young and naive about the true cost of loving dangerous men—still wanted to warn her.
***
Hours later, I was still in my office as the sun set over Chicago’s skyline. The building had long since emptied of other employees, leaving me alone with sketches that seemed to blur together no matter how many times I blinked to refocus my eyes.
I rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the headache that had been building all afternoon.
My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for my teacup, and I frowned at the involuntary movement.
This was the second time this week my hands had developed an inexplicable shakiness, usually when I was tired or stressed.
Fatigue clung to my bones like a heavy blanket, making even simple tasks feel overwhelming.
I glanced at my phone, noting that Lev hadn’t responded to the message I’d sent him that morning.
The text had been simple—just asking if he’d be home for dinner—but the silence stretched longer with each passing hour.
I checked the time again. Eight-thirty. Lev should have called by now, should have at least sent a quick text to let me know he was alive and unharmed.
Since the investigation into Petro Kozak had begun in earnest, he’d become increasingly shadowy and silent, retreating into the cold professionalism that had defined him before we’d admitted our feelings for each other.
My phone lit up with a notification, and my heart jumped hopefully until I saw it was just Milo confirming a fabric order. I cursed under my breath, my irritation flaring out of all proportion to the minor disappointment.
Everything seemed to be setting me on edge lately.
Tiny inconveniences that I would normally brush off—loud voices in the hallway, wrong stitching on sample garments, missing buttons on prototype pieces—made my skin prickle with annoyance.
Even the sound of traffic outside my office window felt like nails on a chalkboard.
I tried to focus on the sketches spread across my desk, designs for cocktail dresses that would hopefully capture the attention of buyers at next month’s fashion week. But the lines seemed to swim before my eyes, and my hand shook as I tried to add details to a sleeve design.
Setting down my pencil with more force than necessary, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. Maybe what I needed was food. I’d been surviving on coffee and the occasional protein bar for most of the week, too distracted by work and worry to maintain proper eating habits.
Or maybe what I needed was my husband to remember that he had a wife who worried about him when he disappeared for eighteen hours at a time.
The rational part of my mind understood that Lev was dealing with threats that could get us all killed if not handled properly. I understood that tracking down trained assassins required a level of focus and dedication that didn’t leave room for romantic dinners and pillow talk.
But the emotional part of me—the part that had finally admitted to loving him and had expected that confession to change something fundamental between us—felt abandoned.
Forgotten. Like I was just another responsibility on his ever-growing list of things to protect rather than the woman he claimed to care about.
I picked up my phone again, thumb hovering over Lev’s contact information.
I could call him, demand to know where he was and when he planned to come home.
I could insist that he take five minutes out of his manhunt to assure his wife that their marriage meant more to him than just a convenient way to keep me safe.
But I didn’t.
Because deep down, I was afraid of what his answer might be.
Afraid that the man who’d held me like I was precious just weeks ago was already slipping back into the cold, emotionally distant stranger who’d dropped me off at my mansion after our first night together and walked away without looking back.
The fashion sketches blurred again as tears I refused to acknowledge threatened to spill over. I blinked them away and reached for my tea, ignoring the way my hand shook as I lifted the cup to my lips.
Everything was fine. Lev was fine. We were fine.
I just needed to be patient while he dealt with the ghosts from his family’s past. Once Petro Kozak was no longer a threat, once the immediate danger had passed, things would go back to normal.
We could have lazy Saturday mornings and dinner conversations and all the ordinary intimacies that I’d never realized I wanted until I’d gotten a taste of them.
My phone buzzed again, and this time I didn’t even feel the flutter of hope. Just weary resignation as I glanced at another message that wasn’t from my husband.
Eleanor, asking if I wanted to have lunch tomorrow.
I typed back a quick agreement, already looking forward to spending time with someone who wouldn’t disappear for hours without explanation or make me question whether I’d imagined the depth of feeling in our most intimate moments.
At least some relationships in my life were reliable.