Chapter 17 – Eleanor
The smell of coffee and fabric softener hit me the moment I stepped into my office building, a combination that usually meant home and productivity and everything good about my fucked-up life.
But today it felt different. Today, it felt like stepping back into a world that existed before bullets and blood and the realization that someone wanted me dead.
It was hard to convince Maxim to let me come in with the looming threat, but my security detail was even larger, and we figured another attack wouldn’t be sprung so soon.
“Eleanor!” Zara’s voice cut through my thoughts like a blade through silk, and suddenly she was there, arms around me, squeezing tight enough to crack ribs. “Jesus Christ, I was so fucking worried. When Anya called and said there’d been an incident….”
“I’m fine,” I said, pulling back to look at her. Zara’s usually perfect makeup was slightly smudged, her designer blazer wrinkled, and her honey-blonde hair was escaping its ponytail in ways that screamed stress and sleepless nights. “How bad was the media coverage?”
“Bad enough. Your husband’s people are fucking scary good at damage control, though. The official story is that you were caught in the crossfire of a gang-related shooting. Random violence, wrong place at the wrong time.”
I almost laughed. Random violence. If only it were that simple.
“What about the show? Please tell me we didn’t lose everything.”
Zara’s expression shifted, and for the first time since I’d known her, she looked almost shy. “About that. You might want to sit down.”
“Zara.”
“Eleanor, I swear to God, we had it under control. When you disappeared for that week after the wedding, and then with the shooting, we thought maybe we should postpone, but then Anya showed up and….”
“Anya?” I turned toward my office, where I could hear the sound of rapid-fire Russian mixed with what sounded like someone coordinating a military operation. “What the hell is Anya doing here?”
“Managing your life better than you do, apparently.” Zara grabbed my arm, steering me toward the chaos. “She’s been here every day since the shooting. Coordinating with vendors, managing model fittings, dealing with venue logistics. Eleanor, she’s fucking brilliant at this.”
I pushed through the doors to find my office transformed into something that looked like mission control for Fashion Week.
Anya stood in the center of it all, phone pressed to her ear, speaking rapid Russian while simultaneously gesturing at three different assistants holding fabric samples, scheduling tablets, and what appeared to be architectural plans.
She looked up when I entered, her hazel eyes bright with something that might have been excitement or caffeine overdose.
“Hold on,” she said into the phone, then covered the mouthpiece.
“Eleanor! Perfect timing. I need you to approve the final lighting design, and we have a problem with the model lineup that requires your immediate attention.”
“Anya, what…?”
“I know what you’re thinking. Why is Maxim’s sister running your fashion show?
Valid question. Short answer: because I’m good at it and you were indisposed with nearly getting murdered.
” She went back to her phone call. “ Da, da , I understand. But if the flowers aren’t there by tomorrow morning, you’ll be explaining to my brother why his wife’s event was ruined. Do you want to have that conversation?”
Zara leaned close to my ear. “She’s been like this for three days. I’m pretty sure she hasn’t slept. Also, I think she threatened to have the lighting technician’s family deported if he didn’t get the angles right.”
“She threatened deportation?”
“In three languages. It was beautiful and terrifying.”
Anya finished her call and immediately started walking toward us, moving with the kind of focused energy that reminded me uncomfortably of Maxim when he was planning something violent.
“Okay,” she said, clapping her hands together.
“Crisis update. The good news is everything’s on schedule.
The bad news is three of our models got poached by Milan Fashion Week, the venue’s sound system is apparently held together with prayer and electrical tape, and someone leaked photos of your designs to a competitor. ”
“Someone leaked what ?”
“Handled,” Anya said quickly. “Rafael made some phone calls. The photos disappeared from the internet, and the competitor decided to completely redesign their collection. Something about suddenly remembering they had other priorities.”
I stared at her. “Rafael made phone calls.”
“Our family takes business very seriously. Both kinds of business.” She grabbed a tablet from one of the assistants and shoved it toward me.
“But right now, I need you to look at these alterations and tell me if they’re acceptable, because we have fittings in two hours, and if we need to make changes, it has to happen now. ”
The designs on the screen were perfect. Better than perfect. They were my vision, but refined, enhanced, elevated in ways that made my chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to gratitude.
“Anya, these are….”
“Don’t you dare get emotional on me. I’ve been running on espresso and spite for seventy-two hours, and if you start crying, I might actually murder someone.”
“I was going to say they’re brilliant.”
“Oh.” She looked almost embarrassed. “Well. Good. Because I may have taken some liberties with the execution, but I thought….”
“They’re perfect.”
Zara cleared her throat. “Not to interrupt this moment of artistic appreciation, but we do have some actual problems that need addressing.”
“Such as?”
“Media requests. Lots of them. Apparently, the wife of a Bratva facilitator launching a fashion line is considered newsworthy.”
“Fuck.”
“My thoughts exactly. Also, security. Your husband’s people want to sweep the venue again, install additional cameras, and basically turn your fashion show into Fort Knox with better lighting.”
I rubbed my temples, feeling the familiar pressure that came with trying to balance two worlds that were never meant to intersect. “What did you tell them?”
“I told them to coordinate with Anya, since she seems to be running this operation now.”
“I told them they could have their security measures as long as they stayed invisible,” Anya said. “Your guests are coming to see fashion, not to feel like they’re entering a war zone.”
“Even though we technically are entering a war zone?”
“Especially because we’re entering a war zone. The whole point of this show is to prove that you’re not going to be intimidated, that you’re not hiding, that you’re stronger than whatever forces are trying to tear you down.”
The conviction in her voice hit me like a physical blow. This wasn’t just about fashion for her. This was about something deeper, something that had to do with the way her family had learned to survive in a world that was constantly trying to destroy them.
“Anya,” I said quietly. “Why are you doing this?”
She looked at me for a long moment, and I saw something in her expression that reminded me of Maxim. Something fierce and protective and absolutely uncompromising.
“Because you’re family now,” she said simply. “And family doesn’t let family face their battles alone.”
“Even when those battles involve people shooting at me?”
“ Especially when those battles involve people shooting at you.” She smiled, and it was sharp enough to cut glass. “Besides, I’ve been wanting to prove that I can run a business better than my brother. My own clothing line is more limited, so this seemed like a good opportunity.”
Zara snorted. “Competitive much?”
“You have no idea. Maxim thinks that because he’s older and male and involved in the family business, he’s automatically better at everything. I’ve been waiting years for a chance to show him up.”
“Using my fashion show as a sibling rivalry battleground?”
“Using your fashion show as proof that Voronov women are just as capable as Voronov men. Maybe more capable.”
The way she said it made something warm unfurl in my chest. Voronov women. Like I actually belonged to something, like I was part of something bigger than just myself and my stubborn refusal to be broken.
“Okay,” I said. “What do you need from me?”
“I need you to approve the final guest list, review the media strategy Zara’s developed, and try on the dress I had designed for you to wear.”
“You had a dress designed for me?”
“By me. I had a dress designed by me, for you.” She gestured toward the back room. “Something that says, ‘I’m Eleanor Voronov, I survived an assassination attempt, and I look fucking spectacular doing it.’”
Zara grinned. “I need to see this dress.”
The dress was hanging in the back room like a piece of liquid midnight, all sharp angles and flowing lines that somehow managed to be both elegant and dangerous. It was the kind of dress that would photograph beautifully but also looked like it could conceal weapons if necessary.
“Anya, this is—”
“Try it on before you decide if you love it or hate it.”
I slipped into the bathroom and pulled the dress over my head, immediately understanding why Anya had insisted on this particular design.
The fabric moved like water, but the cut was structured enough to give me the kind of silhouette that commanded attention.
When I glanced in the mirror, I saw someone who looked like she belonged in Maxim’s world without losing herself in the process.
“Holy shit,” Zara said when I emerged. “Eleanor, you look like you could murder someone and make it look fashionable.”
“That was the goal,” Anya said, circling me with critical eyes. “In our world, perception is everything. You need to look like someone who can’t be intimidated, someone who’s more dangerous than the people trying to hurt her.”
“Do I look dangerous?”
“You look like you could smile while cutting someone’s throat and then host a dinner party afterward.” She made a few adjustments to the neckline. “Perfect.”