Chapter 5 - Anja #3
I run my fingers along the spines, feeling the texture of embossed titles. This is a room meant for thinking, for planning, for someone who values knowledge as much as power. It feels so much like him. Alexey is all those things… strategic, layered, and quietly impressive.
I pull out a worn copy of The Art of War and flip through the pages, smiling faintly at the marginal notes written in neat, slanted script.
Eventually, hunger and restlessness pull me toward the kitchen.
I’ve always dreamed of having a fully stocked chef’s kitchen. Growing up, our kitchen was tiny and chaotic with mismatched pots, a stove that only worked half the time, and whatever cheap ingredients Dad managed to bring home between gambling losses.
Here, the kitchen is a dream realized. Matte-black cabinetry, gleaming white Calacatta marble counters, a six-burner gas range with a professional hood, and an enormous island with a built-in wine fridge.
I’ve noticed that every drawer is organized. Every appliance looks brand new, as if untouched.
I lose myself in the simple joy of it.
I decide on beef stroganoff. A comforting, hearty dish that feels like a real meal rather than the takeout we’ve been surviving on during late strategy nights.
I pull out tender strips of beef from the perfectly stocked fridge, along with fresh mushrooms, onions, and a carton of sour cream. The knife is sharp and balanced in my hand as I slice the onions into thin half-moons. I’m amazed at how satisfying the rhythm of chopping grounds me.
While the beef sears in a heavy cast-iron pan, filling the kitchen with a rich, savory aroma, I start the sauce. I sauté the mushrooms and onions until they’re golden and soft, then deglaze the pan with a splash of brandy I find in the liquor cabinet.
The flame flares briefly, making me laugh under my breath. I stir in beef broth, mustard, and finally the sour cream, watching the sauce thicken into a silky, creamy gravy that smells like heaven.
For dessert, I make Vatruschka, a Russian cheesecake tart I remember from one of the few happy memories of my childhood, when a neighbor lady would bring one over during holidays.
I mix farmer’s cheese with sugar, eggs, and vanilla until it’s smooth and creamy, then spoon it into a simple shortcrust pastry shell I roll out on the marble counter.
I top it with a lattice of dough and slide it into the preheated oven.
The sweet, tangy scent soon mingles with the savory aroma of the stroganoff, making the entire penthouse feel warmer. More like a home.
I’m humming softly to myself, stirring the stroganoff one last time and tasting for seasoning, when I feel eyes on me.
I turn, spoon still in hand, and freeze.
Alexey is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with brown eyes that have gone soft around the edges.
He’s still in his suit from the gala, jacket discarded somewhere, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. His hair is slightly tousled, as if he’d run his fingers through it.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, cheeks heating.
“Long enough to realize I’ve been missing this,” he says, voice low and warm. “You, in my kitchen. Cooking like you belong here.”
I set the spoon down, suddenly self-conscious.
“I… I wanted to do something normal. After the gala. After everything...” I lower my head. “I’ve always dreamed of a kitchen like this. One where I could just… make dinner without worrying about the electric bill or whether the stove would work.”
He pushes off the doorway and crosses the kitchen slowly, stopping on the other side of the island. The scent of the stroganoff and the baking vatruschka fills the space between us.
“It smells incredible,” he says. His gaze drops to the tart cooling on the counter, then back to me. “Vatruschka?”
“My neighbor used to make it when I was little. Before everything got bad, I thought… maybe it would be nice,” I nod, not surprised he recognizes it.
“It is nice. More than nice. Thank you.” Alexey reaches across the island and takes my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles
The simple gratitude in his voice makes something tight in my chest loosen. For a moment, the penthouse doesn’t feel like a luxurious cage or a strategic headquarters. It feels like a home. our home.
Somewhere, a former marketing assistant can cook dinner for the dangerous man who saved her, and he can stand in the doorway watching her like she’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
He rounds the island, pulls me gently against him, and kisses the top of my head.
“Dinner can wait five minutes,” he murmurs. “Let me just… look at you like this a little longer.”
I laugh softly and lean into his chest, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the warm aromas filling the kitchen.
I'm not sure where this scene plays into our agreement, but I am not going to remind Alexey. I decide to just continue in the moment.
For the first time since I stormed into Fadir’s apartment screaming about another woman, the future doesn’t feel like something I have to survive.
It feels like something I might actually get to enjoy.