Chapter Seven - Janice
My life looks nothing like the one I planned at nineteen.
Journalism died the day I published that exposé.
Not literally—ProPublica still exists, investigative reporting still happens—but my faith in it as a viable career evaporated somewhere between my phone blowing up with threats and realizing that powerful men don’t face real consequences.
They just weather storms until public attention moves on.
Dimitri Rudenko’s empire took a hit. Federal investigations launched, projects stalled, his name became synonymous with gentrification and corruption for about six months.
Then the news cycle moved on. Memories are short. Money is long.
Within a year, everything was back to normal. Maybe better than normal.
I watched it happen from a safe distance, finishing my degree in a small college town where no one knew my name or cared about New York real estate drama. I told myself I’d made a difference. That exposing the truth mattered even if nothing fundamentally changed.
I was lying to myself then too.
Marketing and strategy came later, after I accepted that idealism doesn’t pay rent.
The work is safer, quieter, controlled. I help companies craft narratives that make them look good while hiding everything that doesn’t.
It’s cynical. It pays well. It doesn’t keep me up at night the way journalism did.
Most nights, anyway.
I’ve been back in New York for eight months now.
Long enough to remember why I left, short enough that the city still feels like borrowed time.
My apartment is bigger than the shoebox I had during my internship, my wardrobe actually fits the rooms I walk into, and my bank account doesn’t give me anxiety every time I check it.
I should feel successful. Mostly I feel tired.
Diana meets me for coffee before the morning meeting, sliding into the chair across from me with her usual effortless grace. Four years and she hasn’t changed—still sharp, still ambitious, still the only person from that time who knows the whole story.
“Big day,” she says, wrapping her hands around an Americano. “Rudenko Industries finally agreed to meet. Marcus has been chasing this account for six months.”
My stomach drops. “Rudenko Industries?”
“Yeah. Real estate development, property management, commercial acquisitions. Huge portfolio. If we land them, it’s a seven-figure contract.” Diana studies me over the rim of her cup. “You okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Janice?”
“It’s fine. It’s been four years. I’m a professional. I can handle one meeting.”
Diana’s expression says she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. She knows better.
We finish our coffee in relative silence, then head to the office together.
The entire walk, my mind is racing. Rudenko Industries.
It has to be a coincidence. Dimitri’s empire is massive—he probably has entire departments he never interacts with.
There’s no reason he’d be at a preliminary marketing meeting with a mid-tier firm.
No reason at all.
I repeat this to myself all the way to the conference room.
***
The boardroom is already full when I arrive.
Marcus, my boss, sits at the head of the table looking pleased with himself. The rest of our team is arranged strategically—senior strategist, creative director, account manager. I take my seat near the middle, tablet open, professional mask firmly in place.
The Rudenko representatives are running late. Marcus checks his watch twice, then his phone, then smooths his tie in a way that broadcasts nerves he’s trying to hide.
“They’re particular about these things,” he murmurs to no one in particular. “Want to make sure we’re the right fit before committing resources.”
Diana catches my eye from across the table and raises one eyebrow. I ignore her.
Then the door opens.
Three men enter. The first two I don’t recognize—business suits, leather portfolios, the kind of polished professionalism that comes from expensive educations and family connections.
They introduce themselves as senior vice presidents of something or other.
I stop listening the second I see who’s behind them.
Dimitri Rudenko.
The air changes the second he steps into the room.
He’s different than I remember. Older, yes—four years shows in the lines around his eyes, the sharper edge to his jaw.
His hair is shorter now, more controlled, though still longer than traditional business standards.
The suit he wears probably costs more than I make in a month, tailored so precisely it could be a second skin.
It’s his eyes that stop my heart.
Steel-gray, sharp as a blade, and locked directly on me.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even glance at Marcus, who’s already on his feet extending his hand for a greeting that Dimitri ignores completely.
“Mr. Rudenko,” Marcus says, faltering slightly. “Thank you for making time. We’re excited to discuss how we can support—”
“Where should I sit?” Dimitri’s voice cuts through Marcus’s pitch like ice through water. His accent is exactly as I remember.
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Marcus gestures to the chair directly across from me. “Please.”
Dimitri moves with the same predatory grace I remember, settling into the seat without breaking eye contact. One of his associates sits beside him, opening a laptop. The other remains standing near the door.
This is deliberate. He’s making a point.
I force myself to breathe normally, to keep my expression neutral, to treat this like any other client meeting.
Marcus launches into his presentation. Company history, client portfolio, case studies demonstrating our strategic approach to brand management and public perception. It’s polished, professional, exactly the kind of pitch that’s landed us major accounts before.
Dimitri doesn’t look at the slides. Doesn’t look at Marcus. He doesn’t even acknowledge anyone else in the room.
He watches me.
I feel it everywhere—the weight of his attention, the deliberate focus, the message underneath. I see you. I know you’re here. This isn’t over.
My pulse hammers against my ribs, but I keep my face blank. Take notes on my tablet that I won’t remember later. Nod when Marcus glances my way for confirmation on some strategic point.
I refuse to give Dimitri the reaction he’s clearly waiting for.
“Ms. Woods.” His voice stops me mid-sentence, and everyone turns to look at me. “You’ve been quiet. What’s your assessment of our brand position?”
The question is professional. The tone is anything but.
I meet his gaze directly. “Your brand position is strong in terms of market share and project completion rates. The challenge is perception management around community impact and displacement concerns. Recent media coverage has created associations that may not align with your strategic goals.”
Something flickers in his expression. Amusement, maybe. Or appreciation for the careful way I’ve just referenced the exposé without naming it.
“How would you address that?” he asks.
“Proactive community engagement. Transparent development processes. Strategic partnerships with local organizations to demonstrate investment in existing communities, not just replacement of them.” I keep my voice level, professional.
“Essentially, change the narrative from displacement to enhancement.”
“Change the narrative,” he repeats slowly. “Interesting choice of words.”
“It’s what we do. We help clients tell their story in ways that resonate with target audiences.”
“Even when the story isn’t true?”
The room goes very quiet.
Marcus clears his throat. “Mr. Rudenko, I assure you our firm operates with complete integrity. We would never suggest misrepresenting you.”
“I wasn’t talking to you.” Dimitri’s gaze hasn’t left mine. “I’m asking Ms. Woods if she’s comfortable selling narratives that don’t match reality.”
I could back down. Should back down. This is my boss’s client, my job, my career on the line.
“Every brand has a gap between perception and reality,” I say instead. “Our job is to close that gap either by changing the perception or changing the reality. Preferably both.”
His mouth curves slightly. Not quite a smile. “Which would you recommend for us?”
“That depends on whether you’re willing to change the reality.”
Diana makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. Marcus looks like he’s having a heart attack. The Rudenko associates are stone-faced, giving nothing away.
Dimitri leans back in his chair, still watching me with that unnerving focus. “Noted.”
The meeting continues for another thirty minutes. Marcus recovers from my insubordination enough to present budget proposals and timeline estimates. One of Dimitri’s associates asks technical questions about deliverables and metrics. The conversation becomes almost normal.
Dimitri doesn’t stop watching me. Not when others are talking, not when attention shifts elsewhere, not even when his phone buzzes twice and he ignores it completely.
It feels deliberate.
Finally, Marcus winds down the presentation. “We’re confident we can provide the strategic support you need. Do you have any final questions?”
“No.” Dimitri stands, and everyone else follows suit. “We’ll be in touch about next steps.”
“Excellent. Thank you for your time, Mr. Rudenko. We’re excited about the possibility of—”
Dimitri is already walking toward the door, his associates following. He pauses in the doorway, glances back one more time.
His eyes find mine across the room, and something passes between us. Not forgiveness. Not reconciliation. Just recognition.
Then he’s gone. The silence that follows is deafening.
Marcus sinks into his chair, exhaling sharply. “Well. That was… intense.”
“Understatement,” Diana mutters.
“Janice.” Marcus turns to me, expression unreadable. “That was either brilliant or career suicide. I haven’t decided which yet.”
“I apologize if I overstepped.”
“Don’t. He responded to you. The entire meeting he barely acknowledged anyone else, but you got his attention.” Marcus shakes his head. “I don’t know what that was, but if it lands us this account, I don’t care.”
I don’t respond. Can’t respond. My hands are shaking under the table, adrenaline finally catching up now that Dimitri’s presence isn’t filling the room.
The team disperses, already discussing strategy and deliverables and budget allocation. Diana hangs back, waiting until we’re alone.
“Want to tell me what the hell that was?” she asks quietly.
“No idea.”
“Liar. That man looked at you like—” She stops, eyes widening. “Oh my God. That’s him. That’s him. Dimitri Rudenko. The one who got you fired, the one you wrote the exposé about, the one you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist for four years.”
“Diana, someone could hear!”
“He knows, doesn’t he? He knows you were behind it.”
“I don’t know what he knows. We didn’t exactly part on terms that would lead to friendly reunions.”
“Friendly? Janice, he looked at you like he wanted to either kill you or—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “This is bad. This is really bad.”
“It’s fine. It’s a business meeting. He probably won’t even accept the contract.”
I’m wrong.
The acceptance comes through three hours later.
Marcus forwards me the email with a subject line in all caps: WE GOT IT.
I open the message with hands that won’t stay steady.
Rudenko Industries has accepted our proposal. Contract negotiations begin next week. Janice Woods is assigned as primary strategist. Nonnegotiable.
The last word makes my stomach drop.
Diana appears at my desk within minutes, phone in hand showing the same email. “He requested you specifically.”
“I see that.”
“Why would he request you specifically?”
“I have no idea.”
Another lie. I know exactly why. This isn’t business. This isn’t coincidence. Dimitri Rudenko knows what I did four years ago, and he’s just maneuvered me into a position where I can’t avoid him.
Whatever this is, it’s deliberate.
I’m already trapped.
“You need to tell Marcus,” Diana says. “Tell him you have a conflict of interest, that you can’t work on this account.”
“Say what? That I had a brief relationship with the client four years ago and then published an anonymous exposé that nearly destroyed his empire? That’ll go over great.”
“Better than whatever he’s planning.”
She’s right. I know she’s right.
“I’ll handle it,” I say instead.
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Diana studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Be careful. Men like him don’t forget, and they don’t forgive.”
She leaves, and I’m alone with my laptop and the contract notification and the crushing certainty that I’ve just walked straight back into the orbit of the only man who’s ever had the power to completely destroy me.