Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Charlotte
Aweek had passed since Ekaterina Romanova—Katya, as she preferred—arrived in the U.S.
, and, according to my research, she lived in a tiny Queens studio apartment procured for her by the UNHCR.
Her handlers were doing everything possible to keep her out of sight, a task made easier by Katya’s own fear of being poisoned by Russian agents.
The paranoia was warranted. There were enough stories about defector poisonings and mysterious disappearances to make anyone look twice at their coffee.
And yet, I couldn’t help but feel pity for her.
Brave though she was, she had traded the life of a star—adored, envied—for this shadowy existence, hiding away in a shoebox of an apartment with the curtains drawn.
Most celebrities I’d met would rather face a firing squad than give up the limelight. Even those from other countries seemed to revel in the attention, courting every camera and headline like a moth to flame. But not Katya. Her actions spoke volumes. This wasn’t about ego or self-promotion.
This was survival.
I leaned back in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose, and reached for my phone. “Mary Ellen,” I called through the intercom, “could you send me the latest news coverage on Ekaterina Romanova? I’d like to get a sense of the public chatter.”
“Of course, Ambassador,” she replied briskly.
Within minutes, my inbox pinged. I opened the email and scanned the attached headlines.
? “From Pop Star to Pariah: Romanov Royalty or Russian Reject?”
? “Romanova Defects! A Bold Stand for LGBTQ Rights or Just Another Attention Grab?”
? “Putin’s Public Enemy No. 1: The Dangerous Life of Katya Romanova.”
? “From Moscow’s Stages to New York Cages: The Fall of Katya Romanova.”
The speculation ranged from cruel to outright ludicrous.
Some painted her as a hero, others as a coward.
A few even suggested the entire defection was a publicity stunt orchestrated to revive a flagging career.
The photos accompanying the stories were no better—one showed her from years ago, radiant on stage, drenched in glitter and light.
Another, far grainier, captured her being escorted through La Guardia, looking pale and drawn, her eyes darting like a cornered animal’s.
I shook my head and closed the email, my chest tightening. Would I have the strength to do what she’d done? To risk everything for a chance at freedom and safety?
I didn’t have time to dwell on the question because my secretary, Mary Ellen, knocked softly on my office door.
She pushed it open, balancing a thick stack of files.
“Sorry to interrupt, Ambassador,” she said, setting the papers on the corner of my desk, “but the Secretary of State has scheduled a video conference with you in twenty minutes. I just wanted to make sure you’re ready. ”
I forced a smile and nodded. “Thank you, Mary Ellen. I’ll be prepared.”
She smiled back, giving me that knowing look she reserved for when she sensed the weight of the world on my shoulders but didn’t dare comment. Then she left, closing the door softly behind her.
I stared at the files for a moment, then out the window at the city skyline. In twenty minutes, I’d be face to face—virtually, at least—with Charles Whitaker. No doubt he’d have his opinions about Katya Romanova and her situation. Everyone seemed to.
I just hoped mine would be the one that mattered.
I dabbed a light dusting of powder across my face, scrutinizing my reflection in the small mirror perched on my desk.
The faint lines at the corners of my eyes betrayed the long hours, but the makeup did its part to smooth them over.
I touched up my lipstick, a soft rose shade that felt professional.
It wasn’t for my benefit, though. I had no illusions about impressing Charles Whitaker.
The man didn’t give a damn about appearances unless they involved his narrow version of decorum.
Still, I knew better than to let my guard down. Whitaker was the kind of man who found fault in the way you so much as blinked. A former Navy man turned politician, he carried himself with the air of someone who believed women in power were a necessary evil—tolerable only if they knew their place.
I stood back and straightened my blazer, smoothing the lapels before glancing around my office.
It reflected my style: clean, classic, and deliberate.
A soft cream rug stretched beneath the walnut desk.
Bookshelves flanked the room, lined with volumes on international relations, history, and a handful of first editions.
A vase of fresh lilies, their scent subtle but sweet, sat by the window overlooking the East River.
A sleek monitor hung on the wall, directly opposite my desk. It powered on with a faint hum as the Secretary of State’s call connected. I sat down, folding my hands on the polished surface and squaring my shoulders as the screen lit up.
“Ah, Ambassador Tyler,” Whitaker greeted me, his Southern drawl as smooth as honey over gravel.
His graying beard and piercing blue eyes were as commanding as ever, and his tailored suit looked impeccable, as though he’d just stepped off a recruitment poster for government service.
“Always a pleasure to see a Tyler in service of this great nation.”
I forced a polite smile. “Mr. Secretary.”
His charm didn’t fool me. He liked to play the role of the affable gentleman, but beneath that veneer was a sharp and calculating man. He wasted no time moving past pleasantries.
“What’s the latest out of Venezuela? Anything I should be worried about?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair as if proximity to the camera might force me to spill some secret.
“Yesterday, Chavez’s ambassador stopped by,” I replied, keeping my tone measured. “He was quick to dismiss the election tampering rumors, calling them baseless Western propaganda. He claimed their elections are free and fair.”
Whitaker snorted. “Free and fair, my ass. Keep pressing them. The president wants a clear stance on this. None of that diplomatic fence-sitting.”
I nodded, though the task was easier said than done. The Venezuelan situation was a powder keg, but I’d learned from my prior postings to navigate Whitaker’s blunt orders with a touch of finesse.
The conversation shifted abruptly. Whitaker leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now, let’s talk about that Russian girl. What’s her name? The pop star?”
“Ekaterina Romanova,” I said evenly.
“That’s the one. What the hell were you thinking, letting her step foot in this country?”
I blinked, caught off guard by his tone. “With respect, sir, the UNHCR managed the situation. I wasn’t involved in her asylum process.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. It’s a goddamn circus. A queer Russian celebrity defecting here? It’s like inviting a bull into a china shop.”
The word hung in the air like a slap. I tightened my jaw and resisted the urge to respond. Did he know about me? If he did, he didn’t seem to care—or maybe he thought I was useful enough to tolerate.
“Here’s the deal, Charlotte,” he continued, leaning forward again. “I need you to meet with her personally. Make it clear we expect her to stay out of the press. The president’s serious about resetting relations with Moscow, and we can’t have this little stunt derailing things.”
I nodded slowly, though my mind churned.
Reset relations with Moscow? It was a ridiculous notion.
Russia was a shadow of its former self, and our allies were growing increasingly frustrated with the administration’s soft stance.
Strength mattered now, not placating a regime that thrived on intimidation and propaganda.
“I’ll handle it,” I said finally, keeping my tone neutral.
“Good. I knew I could count on you.” He gave me one of his wolfish grins, the kind that always felt more threatening than reassuring. The screen flickered as Whitaker leaned in closer. His smile was thin, eyes narrowing as though he were sizing me up for sport.
“And one more thing,” he drawled, his tone syrupy with false camaraderie. “You might want to keep an eye on the girl. You know how those kinds of people are—always looking for attention, even when they’re pretending not to.”
The words hit like a slap, and I felt my lips press into a thin line before I could stop them.
Those kinds of people?
Of course, Whitaker noticed. His grin widened, a good old boy’s smugness shining through, as if he’d just told a crude joke to a room full of his drinking buddies.
“You’ll handle it, though,” he muttered. “Meet with her. Make it clear what’s expected. That’s an order.”
The screen went black before I could muster a response.
I turned in my chair, letting the tension in my shoulders ease as I gazed out the wide window behind my desk.
The East River shimmered faintly in the afternoon light, boats gliding lazily beneath the pale sky.
For a moment, I let the familiar calm of the view ground me, but my anger simmered just beneath the surface.
For years, I’d perfected the art of diplomacy, the delicate dance of neutrality.
Publicly, I’d always maintained my non-partisan stance, a necessity for someone in my position.
But in private moments like this, I couldn’t help but think it: Charlie Whitaker—and by extension his boss, the President—were lowlife scum.
My family wouldn’t let them within fifty miles of Sherwood Forest, let alone across the threshold.
Perhaps that made me a Virginia snob, but at least I had standards. I believed in respecting people, regardless of what they could or couldn’t do for me. Men like Whitaker couldn’t fathom such a thing.
I turned back to my desk, my jaw set with renewed focus. Pressing the intercom button, I buzzed Mary Ellen.
“Yes, Ambassador?”
“I need you to set up a meeting with Ekaterina Romanova. Discreet, off-site. It can’t be at the UN or her apartment. Use her handlers at the UNHCR to coordinate.”
“Understood,” Mary Ellen replied without missing a beat. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you.”
I released the button and leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly. My gaze drifted to the vase of lilies on the windowsill, their fragile petals a stark contrast to the steeliness I had to maintain. A strange thought flitted through my mind, unbidden.
What was Ekaterina Romanova really like?
The woman was an enigma—a defector, a dissident, an artist who’d risked everything for freedom. And yet, beyond the headlines and the reports, she remained an unknown. What drove her to take such a monumental leap? What kind of strength did it take to stand against a repressive regime?