Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Charlotte
The buzzing of the intercom interrupted my train of thought. I sighed, glancing at the half-completed memo on my desk. My secretary’s voice followed.
“Ambassador, Mr. Walker needs to see you immediately.”
I straightened in my chair, already sensing trouble. “Send him in.”
The door opened, and Jamie strode in, his posture as stiff and proper as his perfectly tailored suit. I didn’t bother hiding my irritation. “Mr. Walker.”
He smiled, faintly amused, as if we’d rehearsed this routine a thousand times. “Charlotte, please, call me Jamie.”
I shrugged, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. “Fine, Jamie. Sit.”
He placed a slim folder in front of me and took his seat. His face was unreadable, but the folder itself radiated trouble. I flipped it open, scanning the first few lines.
Ekaterina Vladimirovna Romanova.
The name alone sent a spike of tension shooting through my head.
I rubbed my temple, praying it wasn’t the beginning of a migraine.
The accompanying photograph caught my eye—a striking young woman with piercing blue eyes and jet-black hair.
Beneath the photo were the words currently en route to the United States.
“She’s on a plane?” I asked, looking up at Jamie.
“Yes,” he said, his tone grim. “Headed to New York as we speak.”
I shut the folder and folded my hands on top of it. “And the Russians? Have we heard from their delegation?”
“Not yet,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair. “But it’s only a matter of time. This is going to ruffle a lot of feathers, Charlotte.”
I pressed my lips together, trying to ignore the dull throb behind my eyes. “Walk me through it.”
Jamie’s expression tightened, and I could tell he was choosing his words carefully.
“Ekaterina Romanova is a political lightning rod. Authorities have imprisoned her multiple times for her activism—pro-democracy protests, LGBTQ rights, and more. The Kremlin sees her as a threat, and frankly, they’re not wrong.
Her message has a way of resonating, especially with younger audiences.
They have harassed, threatened, and beaten her, but she keeps coming back swinging. ”
“And now she’s here,” I said, more to myself than to him.
He nodded. “Exactly. If this were any other administration, we’d handle it quietly, take her in, and give her the protection she needs. But with the current president...” Jamie trailed off, his meaning clear.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “The president wants to play nice with Putin.”
“More than nice,” Jamie said dryly. “He’ll bend over backwards to keep the Kremlin happy. This puts us in a tough spot. The Russians are going to demand her extradition, and we’ll be stuck in the middle of an international PR nightmare. Not to mention what happens if the press gets wind of this.”
I glanced at the folder again, her name practically glaring at me. Ekaterina Romanova. “She must have known the risks when she defected.”
“She did,” Jamie agreed. “But here’s the kicker: did you know she’s a Romanov?”
I froze, the words sinking in. “As in those Romanovs?”
Jamie smirked. “The very same. She’s a direct descendant, though, from a lesser branch of the family. Apparently, her great-grandparents survived the revolution by staying under the radar.”
I stared at him, trying to process the implications. A Romanov in America. A political dissident with ties to one of the most infamous dynasties in history.
“Jesus,” I muttered, leaning back in my chair. “What are we supposed to do with her?”
Jamie raised an eyebrow. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”
The intercom buzzed again, and I resisted the urge to groan.
“What is it now?” I asked, forcing my voice to remain even.
My secretary’s reply came brisk and efficient. “The Russian ambassador and his secretary are here. They insist on seeing you immediately.”
My vision blurred, and I rubbed my temple, where the dull ache was threatening to bloom into a full-blown migraine. Of course, Karpov wouldn’t waste any time.
“Send them in,” I said with a sigh, motioning for Jamie to remain seated.
The door opened, and in walked Ambassador Karpov, exuding self-importance. Trailing behind him was a younger man—his secretary, no doubt—with a briefcase tucked under one arm and a sneer permanently etched onto his face.
Karpov didn’t bother with pleasantries. His sharp, hawk-like eyes landed on Jamie and he scowled. “Your assistant will leave us. This matter doesn’t concern him.”
“Mr. Walker stays,” I said firmly, folding my hands on the desk. “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of him.”
Karpov’s glare flicked between us, his displeasure palpable. He eventually lowered himself into the chair across from me, his secretary standing stiffly at his side. Karpov adjusted his tie with deliberate slowness, as if asserting dominance through sheer patience.
“I am here,” he began, his tone icy, “to demand the immediate return of the traitor who fled my country. Her actions violate international norms, and her presence in the United States is an insult to the Russian Federation.”
I tilted my head slightly, feigning confusion. “Traitor? I’m not sure I understand, Ambassador. Who exactly are you referring to?”
His thin lips twitched in irritation, then his gaze shifted to the folder on my desk. When his eyes met mine again, they gleamed with satisfaction.
“Ekaterina Romanova,” he said, pronouncing her name slowly, deliberately, as if savoring each syllable. “You know exactly who I mean, Madam Ambassador.”
I leaned back in my chair, giving him a placid smile. “Ah, yes. Ekaterina Romanova. As I understand it, she’s currently under the care of the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. The United States government has no involvement in the matter.”
Karpov’s face darkened, and he shot to his feet. “Do not insult my intelligence, Madam Ambassador! This is a blatant interference in the internal affairs of the Russian Federation. You Americans, always meddling where you do not belong!”
He began pacing, gesturing wildly as he launched into a tirade about sovereignty, respect, and the hypocrisy of the West. I sat silently, letting him vent, while Jamie leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
When Karpov finally paused, perhaps to catch his breath, Jamie seized the moment.
“Ambassador Karpov,” Jamie said smoothly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
“With all due respect, you don’t have a legal leg to stand on.
Ms. Romanova has requested asylum under international law, and her case falls squarely within the jurisdiction of the United Nations.
The United States is simply respecting those protocols. ”
Karpov whirled to face Jamie, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You dare lecture me on international law? Do you think Russia is blind to what this really is? A provocation! A calculated insult!”
Jamie didn’t flinch. “What this is, Ambassador, is an individual exercising her human rights. If Russia has an issue with the UNHCR, I suggest you take it up with them.”
Karpov’s secretary muttered something in Russian, too low for me to catch, but it was enough to make Karpov’s scowl deepen. He turned back to me, his voice low and menacing.
“This is not over, Madam Ambassador. Not by a long shot.”
I met his gaze head-on. “Good day, Ambassador.”
With a sharp nod, Karpov spun on his heel and stormed out, his secretary scrambling to follow. As the door slammed shut behind them, I exhaled slowly, the tension in the room dissipating like air from a punctured balloon.
“Well,” Jamie said, leaning forward with a faint smile, “that went about as well as could be expected.”
I rubbed my temple again, the ache behind my eyes threatening to flare up once more. “It’s only the beginning, Jamie. And something tells me it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”
The intercom broke the stillness of my office, pulling my attention from the mountain of paperwork I’d been sorting through.
Outside, the windows framed a darkened skyline, pinpricks of light glimmering across the city as night settled in.
I pressed the button, and my secretary’s voice came through, and I heard her exhaustion.
“Ambassador Tyler, is there anything else you need before I head out for the evening?”
I glanced at the clock. Nearly 8:30. “No, go home and get some rest. Thank you for staying late.”
“Of course. Have a good night,” she replied, and the line clicked off.
I sighed, sitting back in my chair as silence reclaimed the room.
The day had been long—brutally so—but I’d made it a habit to end each evening the same way.
Clearing my desk wasn’t just about order; it was a ritual, a minor act of control in a chaotic world.
One by one, I stacked the papers, slid files into drawers, and aligned my pens.
When the surface was finally bare, save for a single folder, I felt a tiny flicker of satisfaction.
The folder. Romanova, Ekaterina.
I reached for it hesitantly, my fingertips brushing the edge before I pulled it closer. The weight of it felt significant, though it wasn’t much thicker than the others I’d reviewed today. Still, this one was intriguing.
Flipping it open, I scanned the first page.
Thirty-four years old. A rock star, albeit a controversial one.
The words leapt out at me. Once a bubblegum pop sensation, the darling of the Russian media, Ekaterina Romanova, had transformed into something altogether more…
incendiary. By her mid-twenties, she’d come out publicly as a lesbian and begun speaking out against the Russian government.
I tried to picture it: a vibrant young woman with a microphone in hand, captivating audiences with catchy tunes—only to trade it all for the high-risk role of activist. According to the file, her timing couldn’t have been worse for the Kremlin.
The Russian government, embroiled in the early days of their war with Ukraine and desperate to control public opinion, found their once-beloved pop star turning against them. It was almost inconceivable.
What happened to her? I wondered. What pushed someone from glittering stages to political dissent?
I flipped through a few more pages until I reached the photos.
One, in particular, caught my attention.
Ekaterina’s piercing blue eyes stared back at me, framed by choppy black hair.
She was striking. Beautiful, in fact, but there was something more—a sharpness, an intensity that practically leapt off the page.
It had been years since I felt drawn to anyone, but there was no denying it: I felt something.
Perhaps it was her strength. Or her intelligence.
Or that she’d upended her life for what she believed in.
I traced the outline of her face in the photo with my eyes, captivated by her expression—part defiance, part vulnerability.
What must it have been like to make those choices?
To trade fame and fortune for a cause that could destroy you?
I glanced at the summary of her early career.
Television appearances, chart-topping hits, sold-out arenas.
Her fans adored her; she was untouchable.
And then, with a few public statements and a declaration of her truth, she’d become a pariah.
I couldn’t help but admire her courage, but I also wondered: Did she regret it?
Would she have done the same if she’d known the cost?
That thought lingered as I held her photo between my fingers.
My own choices flashed briefly in my mind—the sacrifices I’d made for this career, the relationships I’d let slip away.
I was 42 now, and while I had no regrets, there was an undeniable emptiness to this life. Success didn’t fill every void.
In the coming days, I’d have the chance to meet her.
She’d be in New York soon, her arrival likely to ignite a media circus.
The tabloids would feast on a rock-star Romanov.
I could already see the headlines on trashy websites, and splashed across airport newsstands.
But beyond the noise, I wanted to know the woman herself. What was she really like?
I set the photo back into the folder and closed it gently, as though I’d just sealed away something precious. Whatever the answer, I suspected Ekaterina Romanova was far more complicated than the file suggested.