Chapter 11 - Anja #3
Yet every time my phone rings and I don’t answer, I see the weariness and mistrust flicker across his face.
It happens in small, quiet moments. During our late-night strategy sessions, when the phone vibrates on the table, I silence it without looking. In the kitchen, when an unknown number flashes on the screen, I slip the phone into my pocket as if it burns my fingers.
Alexey never asks outright, but I catch the raised eyebrow, the slight tightening of his jaw, and the way his brown eyes linger on me a second too long… as if he’s calculating, assessing, and wondering.
I know I need to tell him about the calls. About the people behind them.
My father’s debts, and those who still hunt for Viktor Kuzmin’s daughter because they believe she can pay what he owes.
The bookies and sketchy friends who somehow always find my number, no matter how many times I change it.
The voicemails filled with threats, guilt trips, and desperate pleas for money that make my stomach twist with shame.
I need to tell Alexey.
But every time the words rise in my throat, fear chokes them back down.
What if he considers me a problem? A weakness? What if the steady patience he has shown me, the quiet respect when I offer intel, the way he says, “When you’re ready,” and actually means it, finally cracks under the weight of my messy past?
I am already the disheveled woman who brought nothing but baggage into his world. The girl whose father’s gambling almost got her sold off at eighteen. The woman who once lived with the enemy he is trying to destroy.
Adding these constant calls feels like handing him another reason to question whether keeping me here is worth the risk.
So I stay silent.
Tonight, after the Sunday dinner at the Sokolov estate, the guilt sits heavier than usual. The drive back to the penthouse is quiet, Alexey’s hand resting lightly on my knee in that professional yet comforting way of his.
He hasn't done that before, and while it raised my eyebrows, I wasn't going to ask about it. With my luck, he'd remove his hand and never do it again.
I liked it too much to have it snatched away.
When we stepped inside, he disappeared into his office to make a few calls, and I retreated to the living room, curling up on the sectional with a cup of ginger tea.
My phone sits on the coffee table like a live wire.
It has rung twice since we got home. Both times, unknown numbers.
Both times, I let it go to voicemail without answering.
I can feel Alexey’s suspicion growing in the way he glanced at the phone when it buzzed earlier, the subtle tension in his shoulders when I silenced it without explanation.
I need to tell him.
But how? And when?
The words play on repeat in my mind as I stare at the flickering gas fireplace.
Alexey, there’s something I haven’t told you.
My father’s debts… They’re still following me.
The calls keep coming. I block the numbers, but they find new ones.
I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. I am embarrassed.
I am scared you’d see me as a liability.
I imagine his reaction… the calm and measured way he would listen. The way his skeptical eyes would study me, searching for any sign I’m holding something back.
Would he pull me into his arms and comfort me? Or would that professional distance he maintains so carefully finally widen into something colder?
The fear of the second possibility keeps my mouth shut.
I set the tea down and press my hands to my face, breathing slowly. The penthouse is quiet, and for once I invite its serenity. Across the hall, Alexey is in his suite, doors closed, and I’m sure asleep.
He has never pushed me to share more than I’m ready for. He has never made me feel like my past is a burden he resents carrying.
But I know the mistrust is there. I see it in the way he watches me when the phone rings. I feel it in the careful way he maintains distance even as our connection deepens.
I need to tell him.
Tomorrow, maybe. Or the next time we sit together at the island reviewing Fadir’s fractured supply lines. I’ll find the right moment. I’ll find the courage.
For now, I pick up the phone again, delete the new voicemails without listening to them, and block the latest number. The screen goes dark.
The shame burns hot in my chest, but so does a fragile thread of hope.
Alexey has shown me, again and again, that he is not like the men from my past. He is patient. He is protective. He chooses me even when it would be easier not to.
Maybe, just maybe, when I finally tell him about the calls, he won’t see me as a problem or a weakness.
Maybe he’ll see me as someone worth protecting.
And maybe that will be enough.
I curl deeper into the sectional, pulling the throw blanket tighter around my shoulders. The gas fireplace flickers softly, casting warm light across the room. Across the hall, Alexey is only a few doors away—steady, present, waiting.
I close my eyes and let the quiet of the penthouse wrap around me.
Tomorrow, I tell myself.
Tomorrow, I’ll find the words.