Chapter 13 - Anja
Living with Alexey Sokolov feels more surreal with every passing day. It's as if I’ve stepped into someone else’s carefully constructed life, and I can’t find the exit.
The penthouse has started to feel less like a temporary safe house and more like a strange kind of home.
The morning light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the island and kitchen countertops into bright slabs where we eat breakfast and prepare other meals in near silence most days.
Alexey moves around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, sleeves rolled up, brown hair still slightly damp from his shower. He doesn’t ask if I’m hungry. He simply cooks something simple. Nourishing meals that settle my stomach when stress turns it into knots.
Scrambled eggs with fresh herbs one morning. Grilled chicken and rice with ginger when the nausea from anxiety hits hardest. He never makes a show of it, never waits for thanks. He just slides the plate across the island like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It unnerves me.
The way he anticipates my need for silence after long strategy sessions, disappearing into his office without a word so I can sit alone with my thoughts.
The way he refills my tea without asking when he notices the mug growing cold.
There’s no pity in it, no performance of kindness.
Just keen thoughtfulness. It's his methodical care that chips away at the walls I’ve spent years building.
This afternoon, after another marathon session reviewing Fadir’s decomposing supplier network, I feel the cracks widening.
My shoulders are tight, my mind spinning with numbers and patterns and the ominous satisfaction of watching my ex’s world erode.
I snap before I can stop myself, the sarcasm intense and defensive.
“You remind me of an older butler in one of those British drama shows?” I say, leaning against the island as he sets a fresh cup of ginger tea in front of me.
The words come out more sarcastically than I intend, and I expect irritation. Maybe a cold reminder of the professional boundaries we agreed on.
Instead, Alexey offers that small, knowing half-smile. The one that tugs at the corner of his mouth and does unwelcome things to my stomach. His brown eyes meet mine without flinching.
He doesn’t argue. He simply slides the steaming mug closer and says, voice low and even, “Drink it while it’s hot. It helps with the stress.”
Then he returns to his laptop as if nothing ever happened.
The steady presence of this man is starting to crack my walls in ways I don’t want to admit.
I wrap my hands around the warm mug, inhaling the ginger scent around me, and feel the exciting quiver again, warmer and more insistent. It’s not supposed to be like this. He’s supposed to be the dangerous Bratva enforcer who wired a building with explosives and dragged me out at gunpoint.
The older, colder man, I struck a deal with out of pure fury. Instead, he’s patient in a way that feels almost gentle, never raising his voice, never making demands beyond the original agreement.
When I deflect questions about my past, about back home, about the debts, about the night everything broke, he doesn’t push. He simply nods once and says, “When you’re ready,” before returning to his ledgers with that same quiet competence.
That small respect makes something dangerous vibrate in my chest.
Later that evening, alone in the guest suite, the memories I try so hard to keep buried rise anyway. As images flash in my head, I shove them down again. Deeper and deeper.
Instead, I shift my thoughts to Alexey and how I came to be here. In this penthouse. In his custody, so to speak.
Alexey never raises his voice to me. He never makes demands beyond the deal we struck. He cooks when my stomach turns from stress. He gives me space when I need it. He treats me like a partner in the revenge we’re building, not a fragile victim or a bargaining chip.
The way they close ranks at Sunday dinner with Arina’s fierce warmth, Tikhon’s casual acceptance, and Katya’s gentle questions feels nothing like the terror I grew up with. These people. These Sokolovs are loyal and honorable in their own way.
It terrifies me how much I don’t hate it.
I remind myself that this is temporary. I’m still the same girl who lost everything because she trusted the wrong man. The dream marketing job that vanished overnight. The slow realization that Fadir’s “help” was just another lie.
I ran to the big city to escape the cycle of debt and shame, only to fall into a different kind of trap. Revenge against Fadir is progressing beautifully, including the frozen accounts, the leaked intel, and the public appearances where he watches me on Alexey’s arm, in rage and disbelief.
That’s all this is. A planned arrangement. A means to an end that ends with me walking away richer and free.
But late at night, alone in my suite, I catch myself wondering what it would feel like if the careful distance between us ever disappeared.
What if his hand on my back during public appearances isn't just for the cameras?
What if the quiet patience that unnerves me turned into something warmer, something real?
What if I stopped snapping about the age gap and let myself lean into the steady presence of the man who has never once crossed the line we drew?
The thoughts feel traitorous. I roll over, pressing my face onto the cool pillow, trying to smother them.
This is supposed to be about hurting Fadir. About justice. About proving I’m not the broken girl from back home who lets powerful men decide her worth.
Yet as sleep finally pulls me under, the image that lingers isn’t Fadir’s drained, furious face at the gala. It’s Alexey’s small half-smile when I called him ancient. The low rumble of his voice tells real stories about his scars. The quiet way he hasn't demanded answers.
The excitement in my chest and stomach refuses to die. For the first time, I’m not sure I want it to.
***
The rooftop terrace of Alexey’s penthouse is a secret I didn’t expect.
I step out through the sliding glass doors just after sunset, the city stretching out below like a glittering sea. The air is cooler up here, carrying the faint scent of a rich, green smell of living things.
Planters line the edges in neat rows, vibrant flowers in deep purples and soft whites, fresh herbs in clay pots that brush against my fingers as I walk past. Basil, rosemary, thyme. A small lemon tree in one corner, its leaves glossy under the soft string lights strung overhead.
Someone clearly tends to all of it with care. I suspect it’s Alexey himself, though he’s never mentioned it. But I've never encountered hired staff in the penthouse. No maid. No gardener. No one.
Just me and Alexey.
I trail my fingertips over the soft petals of a white rose; the texture is velvet against my skin.
The city hums far below, distant and unimportant.
Up here, it feels like another world, quiet and contained.
Beautiful in its simplicity. My long hair lifts slightly in the evening breeze, and my mind drifts.
What would it be like to be Alexey’s girlfriend for real? Not the pretend version we perform for cameras and Fadir’s jealous eyes. Not the arrangement we agreed on that first night. But actually his.
The thought should feel ridiculous. He’s much older than me and steeped in a world I once swore I’d never touch. Yet the image settles in my chest with surprising warmth. I picture waking up to the smell of ginger tea he somehow knows I need on stressful mornings.
Sunday dinners at the Sokolov estate, where Tikhon claps me on the shoulder like family and Arina teases us both without mercy. The quiet safety of knowing he would never raise his voice, never make demands beyond what I’m willing to give.
He’s been such a gentleman to me from the very beginning. Every touch during public appearances is calculated and respectful as his hand is light on my back, never lingering too long, never crossing into possession.
He anticipates my silences without making them feel like pity.
I hate to admit it, but I wonder how it would be to kiss him.
The thought sends heat rushing to my cheeks. I pluck a small sprig of rosemary and twist it between my fingers, inhaling the sharp, clean scent.
What would it feel like if the careful distance between us disappeared? If instead of releasing my hand after that brief, tender moment over his scar, he pulled me closer?
If those brown eyes lost their business-only sense, and looked at me with something warmer, something real? His mouth on mine, but patient at first, then deeper. The same quiet competence that defines everything he does translates into a kiss that would probably ruin me for anyone else.
My stomach wavers dangerously at the image. Tall, broad-shouldered man with that steady presence that makes powerful men measure their words around him. He’s nothing like Fadir’s chaotic manipulation or the loud, brutal cohorts from my childhood.
Alexey is honorable in his own way. The kind of man who would do anything to protect what matters, but never raises his voice to the woman under his roof.
I lean against the terrace railing, staring out at the glittering skyline. Revenge is still burning inside me as I watch firsthand his empire crumble piece by piece, and it has been more satisfying than I ever imagined.
But these quiet moments are becoming harder to ignore. The way my walls crack a little more every day. The way I catch myself wondering what it would feel like to belong here, not as a business partner in a revenge plot, but as someone he actually chooses.
The wind picks up, carrying the scent of the herbs and flowers around me. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the fantasy linger just a little longer.
Then I push it down hard, crushing the rosemary sprig between my fingers.
This is temporary. I lost everything because she trusted the wrong man. The deal is clear: business only. When Fadir is destroyed, I walk away with enough money to start over anywhere but here.
Yet as I turn back toward the sliding doors, the excitement in my chest refuses to die completely. It lingers like the scent of rosemary on my fingertips. It’s sharp, clean, and stubbornly persistent.
The thought about not being sure I want it to disappear takes over my mind.