Chapter 5 - Anja
The dress is sleek black silk that clings just enough to look expensive without screaming for attention.
It skims over my hips and falls in a soft column to the floor.
A stylist, Alexey, arranged to show up at the penthouse three hours ago with garment bags, makeup palettes, and strict instructions.
Now my long hair is swept up into an elegant twist, a few strategic strands left loose to frame my face, and the auburn highlights catching the light like embers whenever I move. Borrowed diamond studs, I assume, sparkle at my ears.
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror of the guest suite and barely recognize the woman looking back.
She looks poised. Polished. Like someone who belongs on the arm of a man like Alexey Sokolov instead of the broke, betrayed girl who was dragged out of a warehouse in the rain barely a week ago.
The transformation is remarkable.
My stomach twists with nerves and something sharper.
Anticipation.
A soft knock sounds on the door.
“Ready?” Alexey’s voice carries through the wood, calm as ever.
I smooth my hands down the silk one last time, draw in a breath that does nothing to settle the odd sensation in my chest, and go to open the door.
He stands in the hallway in a tailored black tuxedo that fits him as if it's cut for his body alone. The ebony fabric makes his shoulders look even broader, and the crisp white shirt a stark contrast against his olive skin.
His dark brown hair is combed back neatly, though one stubborn strand still falls across his forehead. Those eyes sweep over me once, a quick assessment, before settling on my face with that same detached professionalism he’s maintained since the morning after the deal.
“You look the part,” he says simply. No compliments that feel oily, no lingering stare that makes my skin crawl. Just facts.
“So do you.” I lift my chin, narrowing my eyes as I thought I saw a hint of smoldering in his gaze. But it was gone before I could be sure.
He offers his arm. I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid warmth of him through the layers of fabric. His touch is light, impersonal, exactly as promised. Still, the contact sends an unwelcome spark up my arm that I immediately shove down.
The ride to the gala is quiet. The black SUV glides through the city streets, rain from earlier in the day leaving the pavement glossy under streetlights. Alexey sits beside me in the back, checking something on his phone with one hand while the other rests loosely on his thigh.
Every few minutes, he glances at me, but never says anything unnecessary. The silence isn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it is heavy with purpose.
We both know what tonight is. It’s the first public strike in the slow war against Fadir.
I haven’t left the penthouse since the moment I entered it almost a week ago. Normally, I detest being confined, but for some reason, being in Alexey’s domain calms me, and I feel safe. The days flew by before I even realized it.
The venue is a historic downtown museum, with all-marble columns and soaring ceilings, transformed for the night into a glittering charity gala for a children’s hospital. Crystal chandeliers drip light over hundreds of elegantly dressed guests.
A string quartet plays softly in one corner while waiters in white jackets circulate with trays of champagne and tiny, artful appetizers.
Cameras flash discreetly from the press area near the entrance for society pages and business blogs.
It is the kind of coverage that reaches the circles Fadir cares about.
Alexey escorts me inside with the same measured calm he does everything. His hand rests lightly at the small of my back, only when we pass the photographers, the pressure steady and professional and guiding without possessing.
Heads turn as we enter the main ballroom. Whispers ripple through the crowd like wind over water. I feel the weight of curious stares and speculation.
Who is the young woman on Alexey Sokolov’s arm? The Bratva enforcer known for his quiet precision has never brought a date to one of these events before. At least not publicly.
I keep my spine straight, chin high, with a small, polite smile fixed on my lips, the way the stylist coached me. Inside, my pulse races.
Then I see him.
Fadir stands near the far side of the room beside a cluster of men in expensive suits, a glass of amber liquid forgotten in his hand. The moment his eyes land on us, his face drains of color. His jaw tightens so hard I can see the muscle jump from across the ballroom.
Disbelief flashes first, raw and unguarded, followed immediately by rage.
It's blanketed and seething. The kind that twists handsome features into something ugly. He stares at me like I’m a ghost who’s come back to haunt him.
As if I’m standing beside his enemy in a dress that cost more than my old rent, with my hand resting lightly on Alexey’s arm.
A vicious satisfaction blooms hot in my chest. It spreads through my veins like the first real breath I’ve taken since that night in his apartment when he threatened to keep me trapped forever.
Seeing his pain feels better than revenge has any right to. It feels like justice. Like the prison he tried to build around me is cracking open, and I’m the one holding the hammer.
Alexey’s hand presses lightly on my back as we move deeper into the room. While I enjoy his closeness, I know the touch is calculated for the nearby cameras. He leans in just enough to murmur near my ear, his voice low and even,
“Breathe. You’re doing fine.”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy drinking in the way Fadir’s knuckles whiten around his glass. The way his gaze darts between Alexey and me like he’s calculating how fast he can cross the room and drag me away.
He doesn’t move. He can’t. Not here. Not with half the city’s elite watching.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of polite conversation and strategic positioning. Alexey introduces me to a few people, his business associates, a city council member, and the hostess of the gala.
His hand never strays from the small of my back except when protocol demands otherwise. Every touch is impersonal, professional, exactly as he promised. Yet each time his palm settles against the thin silk of my dress, I feel the steady warmth of him seep through.
He fields questions about me with smooth attachment that two lovers share. Words like “Anja is a friend who’s recently joined me for a few events”. He never elaborates or allows anyone to dig too deep. He is the picture of cool control, the perfect gentleman playing a role he is born to master.
I play mine too. I smile when expected, laugh softly at appropriate moments, let my gaze linger on Alexey’s face just long enough to sell the illusion. All the while, I feel Fadir’s eyes burning into us from across the room.
Every time I catch him staring, that shrouded satisfaction coils tighter in my belly. He thought he could trap me. Isolate me. Use me as leverage against the Sokolovs. Now he’s watching the woman he tried to break stand beside his biggest enemy, appearing as if she belongs there.
By the time we leave, my cheeks ache from the forced smile and my feet throb in the strappy heels.
The car waits at the curb with the engine running.
Alexey helps me inside with the same courteous efficiency, then slides in beside me.
The door closes with a soft thud, sealing us into the quiet leather interior.
The SUV pulls away from the museum. The city lights streak past the tinted windows in ribbons of gold and red.
I exhale slowly, the tension of the night finally cracking.
“It felt good,” I admit out loud, voice barely above a whisper. My fingers twist in the silk of my dress. “Seeing his face. The way he looked like someone had punched him in the gut. It felt… really good.”
“That's the point.” Alexey nods once, his profile calm in the shifting light. His voice stays level, almost gentle in its aloofness. “But remember, this is still purely strategic. The appearances, the optics… everything is to make him watch while his world erodes. Don’t let the satisfaction cloud the goal.”
I turn my head to look at him. The passing streetlights catch the sharp line of his jaw and the faint hint of stubble he hasn’t shaved since this morning. He sits relaxed against the seat, one arm resting along the back, but there’s nothing casual about the way he carries himself.
Quiet competence radiates from him, the kind that makes powerful men in the ballroom step aside without him ever raising his voice. Nothing like Fadir’s chaotic manipulation, the constant shifting of stories, and sudden rages.
“I know,” I say, but the words feel thin even to my own ears.
Just moments ago, I was the belle of the ball, so to speak, with a handsome, yet dangerous man on my arm, and now I've been reminded this is all for show. Twisting my lips, I closed my eyes and rested my head in the window to my right.
I'm transported back to the charity event, but in my fantasy I'm there because Alexey Sokolov wants me there. I am his date. We are in love... What? Wait!
My eyes snap open.
Shaking my head, I need to get rid of that notion. Any given day, aside from being a bartering tool in this mess of the Bratva revenge, Alexey wouldn't glance at me a second time.
Back at the penthouse, the quiet feels louder after the noise of the gala. Alexey keys in the code, and the elevator opens directly into the foyer. I kick off the heels the moment we’re inside, sighing in relief as my bare feet meet the cool oak hardwood.
The gas fireplace flickers to life automatically, casting soft orange light across the black leather sectional and the marble island.
I should go straight to the guest suite. Shower off the makeup, crawl into bed, and let the exhaustion pull me under. Instead, I find myself pacing the living room, my black silk gown whispering around my legs with every turn.
I can’t stop replaying the night.