Chapter 12 #3
He sighed, ground out his cigarette on the railing, and took two steps closer. His expression changed, becoming that familiar look he used to placate me—eyes softening, brow furrowing slightly, mouth carrying a pitiful curve.
"These two years haven't been easy for me either," he said, voice low. "I have my own difficulties; I was forced into it, too. You know, that money wasn't something I wanted to borrow. It was my father—"
"I don't want to hear it," I stepped back. "Just pay me back. Nothing else matters."
"Pay you back?" The pitiful look vanished instantly, his mouth twisting into a shameless smile. "When you were hooking up with the CEO, why didn't you think about helping me pay it back? What, he got tired of you, stopped giving you money?"
I froze.
"Fuck you." The words squeezed through my teeth, my hands clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms. "There's nothing between Sergei and me. You think everyone's like you, brain full of that garbage?"
That retort stunned him for a second, then he laughed, amused.
"I'll pay you back," he said. "I have a way now. You just need to do me one small favor."
Later I'd think, if I'd walked away faster then, maybe I wouldn't have heard what came next.
"Help me get the contract between Volkov Group and Moscow Syndicate," he said, tone casual, like asking me to grab him coffee. "You've been in his office so long, you must've seen it, or you know where it is."
I froze.
What the fuck?!
A few seconds later, I laughed in disbelief.
This guy owed me two hundred thousand, disappeared for two years, and now he wanted me to steal documents from my boss to clear his debt?
Jesus Christ, this was an idea straight from his ass!
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I said, voice full of disbelief. "You want me to steal commercial secrets worth millions? Dmitri, are you insane, or do you think I am?"
"Ella, don't get so worked up," he said, still casual. "It's not hard. Don't you go to his office all the time? Just find an opportunity, take a few photos with your phone, that's it. You won't have any risk, I promise—"
"No risk?" I cut him off. "You know what this is? Corporate espionage! This is prison time!"
He didn't respond, just tilted his head, looked at me for two seconds, then smiled.
That smile sent chills down my spine.
"You won't get caught," he said, pulling out his phone, scrolling, then turning the screen toward me. "Besides, don't you have this advantage?"
The screen showed photos.
Several photos.
Photos of me and Sergei.
The first was me leaving his office, cheeks flushed, smiling.
The second was in the elevator, us standing close, him leaning down like whispering in my ear.
The third was in the parking garage, me pulling his arm, looking up at him.
More—outside the office building, by the coffee shop, next to his car.
Each one clear, angles calculated, making it look—making it look like we were dating.
"These..." my voice shook. "You took these?"
"Not me," he shrugged. "Someone provided them to me." He pocketed his phone. "Ella, stop pretending. The whole company knows you and Volkov have something special. You're just a junior assistant—how else could you keep going to his office? How else could you get assigned such an important project?"
"I got that through my own ability—"
"Come on," he cut me off, sneering. "You think I don't know? If you really had that much ability, why couldn't you find a decent job two years ago?"
"That was because you—"
"Because I took out a loan in your name, right?" He picked up my words. "But Ella, if not for that loan, how would you have worked so hard to find a job? How would you have gotten into Volkov Group? How would you have met him?"
He took a step closer, voice dropping lower.
"When you think about it, you should be thanking me."
My hands trembled, not from fear but from rage.
That rage burned so hot I wanted to explode, wanted to rush forward and tear that hypocritical face apart.
"Dmitri," I said, enunciating each word, "you're—you're the most shameless person I've ever met."
"Say what you want," he said. "But the fact is, you're next to him now. You have the chance to get that contract. Do me this favor, I'll clear all the debt, you can start fresh—isn't that win-win?"
"Shut the fuck up," my voice rose, echoing in the narrow space. "That's my business, you don't get to judge. My answer is one thing. No way. Find another way to pay your debt. Get lost!"
I turned and pushed open the stairwell door.
"Ella." He called after me, voice switching back to that familiar, light tone carrying something meaningful.
I stopped but didn't turn around.
"Do you know who Volkov is?" he said. "Oh, wait, I should call him—Uncle Sergei."
What?
My brain went completely blank in that instant.
"What did you say?" I slowly turned, feeling blood freeze in my veins.
He leaned against the wall, hands in pockets, head tilted, that disgusting smile on his face.
"Sergei Volkov," he said, word by word. "My uncle. What's my last name again? Volkov. Quite a coincidence, right?"
The stairwell suddenly felt freezing cold.
That cold crept up from my feet, along my calves to my thighs, to my stomach, to my heart.
Dmitri Volkov.
The Dmitri Volkov who took out a loan in my name then vanished—he was named Volkov because he was Sergei Volkov's nephew.
How the fuck had I never thought of this?
"Bit of a surprise?" His tone carried amusement, clearly satisfied seeing my pale face. "Makes sense, you probably never thought of it. I avoided him for those two years because of... some family matters, won't say more. But don't worry, he doesn't know about you and me, at least not yet."
He pulled out a fresh cigarette and lit it slowly.
"So, Ella," he took a drag, smoke curling between us, "now you understand, right? You're caught between me and my uncle. This relationship's a bit complicated. What do you think he'd think if he found out?"
"You—" my voice stuck in my throat.
"If Uncle found out his beloved little songbird was in his nephew's bed two years ago, how do you think he'd see you?" He continued, tone carrying a chilling pleasure. "A whore? Or a planted spy?"
"You're lying!" My voice shook. "I got into the company through my own application; it has nothing to do with you—"
"But would he believe you?" Dmitri cut me off, smiling wider. "Ella, you know what kind of man my uncle is? He's very suspicious, especially—" he paused, looking at me meaningfully, "especially of sex buddies."
My hands clenched tighter, nails digging into my palms, the pain sharp.
"So," he flicked ash, "you'd better think carefully. Either you help me get that document, we're even, I promise I'll never appear in front of you again. Or—"
He shrugged.
"Or I go to Uncle and have a nice chat about our past. Like how you got into the company, why you owe that debt, and—" his smile turned more malicious, "and those skills you learned in bed, who taught you those."
My face flushed instantly, not from embarrassment but rage.
"You bastard—"
"I am a bastard," he admitted readily. "But I'm a bastard with leverage."
He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his foot.
"Three days," he said, holding up three fingers. "I'm giving you three days to think about it. Before Christmas, give me your answer."
"I can give you my answer right now," I said. "Impossible."
"Don't refuse so quickly," he said, walking down a few steps, stopping at the landing and looking back. "Think it over carefully. Are you really willing to risk letting him find out? What if he believes me? Do you think he'll still—"
He made an ambiguous gesture.
"Still want you?"
Then he turned and disappeared around the stairwell corner.
I stood there, gripping my heels, feeling completely hollowed out.
The stairwell lights flickered, buzzing.
Dmitri is Sergei's nephew.
That sentence circled in my head over and over.
I leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, trying to calm myself.
No.
This isn't right.
Sergei, he should know, right?
Dmitri is his nephew. He should know Dmitri had an ex-girlfriend, should know about that loan.
Unless...
Unless he didn't know at all.
Unless Dmitri had been hiding from him these two years, just like he said, because of "family matters."
My fingers pressed against my temples, pressing hard.
My head hurt.
My heart raced.
I needed to go back.
Needed to see Sergei, needed to look into his eyes, needed to confirm.
Confirm what?
Confirm he didn't know?
Or confirm how he'd react once he found out?
I took a deep breath and put my heels back on.
The buckle took two tries because my hands shook.
Then I pushed open the stairwell door and walked into the hallway.
The hallway lights still shone bright, string music and laughter drifting from the distant ballroom.
Everything looked the same as before.
But everything was different now.
I walked back to the ballroom and stood at the entrance, looking through the glass.
Sergei was talking with a white-haired old man, his profile clear in the candlelight, gaze focused, mouth carrying that subtle curve that only appeared when he relaxed.
He looked so composed, so calm.
Completely unaware of what just happened.
Completely unaware his nephew just threatened me.
His peripheral vision caught me. He glanced over, a question in his eyes.
I forced a smile, signaling I was fine.
He watched me for two seconds, then turned back to continue talking with the white-haired man.
I walked to the bar, ordered a soda water, gripped it in my hand, staring at bubbles rising one by one.
What was I thinking?
I was thinking about why Dmitri came back now.
I was thinking about that loan, that two hundred thousand. He said he had a way now, said it depended on me stealing documents for him.
But where did that debt come from two years ago before he disappeared?
My fingers tightened around the glass.
Sergei once told me it wasn't safe around him and that he had enemies. He had Bogdan follow me, had people protect me, that room he always kept locked—
I wasn't really ignorant about what kind of man he was.
I'd just chosen not to think about those things.
But now Dmitri had appeared, bringing all those questions I never asked, dragging out all the doubts I'd pushed down and spreading them in front of me.
Did he know about me and Dmitri?
If he knew...
"Miss Collins."
I snapped back, nearly spilling the soda water.
Sergei stood beside me—when had he come over?—looking down at me, brow slightly furrowed.
"Are you feeling unwell?" he asked.
"No," I said. "Just a little tired."
He looked at me, something in those gray eyes—I didn't know if it was my imagination—that gaze seemed to be discerning something, gently, carefully.
"Then let me take you—"
"No need," I cut him off, faster than expected. "You're hosting clients. I can manage myself. I'll head out. Tonight... thank you."
He froze.
I smiled at him, set the soda water back on the bar, and headed for the door.
The hallway was quiet, the string music muffled through the door, like drifting from somewhere far away.
I pressed the elevator button, watching the numbers jump, my mind chaos.
The elevator doors opened. I walked in, stood there, watched the doors close, sealing away the ballroom's lights and music and that silver-haired man's figure.
Then I closed my eyes.
Dmitri is Sergei's nephew.
How could I be this unlucky?
The elevator descended, numbers decreasing one by one. I leaned against the cold wall, pulled out my phone, stared at the screen for a long time without moving.
In the end, I didn't send anything, just clutched my phone and walked out of the building.
Manhattan in December—the wind cut cold, stinging my face, and I'd forgotten to get my coat.
I stood at the building entrance, looked up once at the still-lit top floor, took a deep breath, pulled my coat tight, and headed toward the subway.