Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CAMILLA
The soft, ambient hum of the mansion's private lounge does little to soothe the chaotic storm brewing in my chest but sitting across from Nastya helps.
On the glass coffee table between us, folders of fabric swatches, floral arrangements, and menu options are scattered, but I haven't really looked at any of them.
"The planner finalized the seating chart for the hall," Nastya says, pulling my attention back as she marks something down on her tablet. "And the caterer confirmed the lobster tail appetizers. Everything is completely on track for Friday, Camilla. You don't have to worry about a single thing."
I let out a soft, heavy breath, leaning back against the velvet cushions of the sofa.
"Thank you, Nastya. Truly. You really don't have to do all of this for me."
Nastya looks up, a warm, genuine smile gracing her lips. "Of course, I do. You're going to be my sister in two days. Besides, if I left the planning entirely to Maksim, the whole ballroom would probably be decorated in bulletproof glass and matte black."
A small laugh slips from my lips at the mental image, but the mention of his name causes the familiar, tight knot of irritation to tighten in my throat.
The memory of him barging into the restaurant last night, followed by the terrifying note this morning and his sudden, forceful handling of me, makes my blood simmer all over again.
"He is completely impossible," I sigh, shaking my head as I stare down at a sample of ivory lace.
"I appreciate that he wants to keep me safe, but his overbearing attitude is suffocating.
He treats me like a prisoner under high-tech house arrest. I can't even breathe without him hovering over my shoulder, checking his watch, or dictating exactly where I can step. "
Nastya’s smile fades slightly, replaced by a quiet, serious look. She carefully sets her tablet down on the table, her fingers interlacing in her lap.
"You shouldn't be mad that he's so overbearing, Camilla," she says softly, her voice dropping into a gentle, protective register. "He has a reason for being the way he is."
I blink, catching the sudden shift in her tone. "What reason? Because he's the Pakhan? Because he thinks he owns everything and everyone in New York?"
Nastya locks eyes with me, but she immediately shakes her head, a heavy wall coming down behind her gaze.
"I know it’s really hard, but he’s been honed since he was a kid to always be like that.
Just... try to understand that his paranoia doesn't come from a place of wanting to cage you. It comes from somewhere much darker."
I open my mouth to press her, the burning curiosity pushing at my lips, but the words die in my throat when I look closer at her face.
For a fleeting second, the curtain drops.
I see something deeply haunted swimming in the depths of Nastya's eyes—a shadow of ancient, heavy grief and horrors that a girl her age should never have to carry.
She is hiding so many buried emotions beneath her polite, bubbly exterior, a fragile shield masking a history written in blood.
My heart aches for her, a profound wave of empathy washing over me. I know what it's like to be trapped in a world where your emotions are a liability, where you have to learn to smile through the trauma just to survive the night.
Recognizing the silent boundary she has just drawn, I swallow my questions. I reach across the table, gently squeezing her hand, letting her know without words that she doesn't have to carry it alone.
Nastya offers me a tight, grateful smile, pulling a deep breath into her lungs as she blinks the shadows away, and smoothly pulls the conversation back to the safety of silk drapes and wedding cakes.
A few minutes later, her phone begins to chime with a bright, melodic ringtone. She glances down at the screen, her expression shifting back to her usual composed self.
“Oh, I have to take this," she says, standing up from the sofa and smoothing down her skirt. "I have to go, but I’ll see you later, Camilla."
She leans down, pressing a warm kiss to both of my cheeks, and hurries out of the lounge, leaving the heavy oak doors to click shut behind her.
I am left completely alone in the quiet room, the discarded wedding pamphlets suddenly feeling trivial.
I lean my head back against the cushions, pondering everything Nastya just told me.
He has a reason. A reason darker than just being a ruthless boss.
A reason that makes him fiercely protective, paranoid, and desperately intent on keeping me inside a high-tech fortress.
But as much as my mind circles around Maksim’s hidden past, the bloody placard from breakfast flashes vividly in my mind. Viktor is out there, sending gruesome messages to our doorstep, and Maksim is treating me like a liability to be shielded from the truth.
I refuse to sit in the dark while my life hangs in the balance.
If Maksim won't tell me what Viktor is planning, I will find out myself. Deciding that I need to learn more about the man hunting me, I stand up and smooth down my dress. I know exactly where to look.
From growing up under my father's roof, I know how these men operate. There are documents for everything. Men like them always keep records—ledgers, intelligence files, dossiers on their enemies. They never trust their memory alone with an empire this size. And Maksim’s private office is the heart of this entire fortress.
I slip out of the lounge and quietly navigate the grand, silent corridors of the mansion, making my way toward the west wing where his study is located. My heart hammers against my ribs, each step echoing too loudly in my ears, but the burning need for answers pushes me forward into the lion's den.
I arrive at the heavy, double oak doors of his office. I glance down the empty hallway, take a steadying breath, and turn the brass handle. It yields with a soft, expensive click.
Stepping inside, I quickly shut the door behind me, immersing myself in the scent of rich leather, mahogany, and Maksim’s distinct, dark cologne.
I immediately head toward the massive executive desk dominating the center of the room. My fingers tremble as I pull open the first drawer. Files, standard business contracts, and tech schematics look back at me. Nothing about Viktor.
Frustration mounts, hot and sharp in my chest.
I begin to search his study in earnest. I rifle through the heavy drawers one by one, shifting stacks of financial ledgers and property deeds.
I check the surface of the table, flipping through the leather-bound blotter, searching for a stray note, a printed dossier, or any mention of the name that is hunting me.
I move to the bookshelves, running my hands behind the leather volumes, checking for hidden compartments or wall safes. I scan the adjacent filing cabinets, my heart beating in my throat with every second that ticks by.
Nothing. Not a single tangible piece of intelligence on Viktor.
"Come on, Maksim," I whisper under my breath, running a hand through my hair in pure frustration. He’s too smart to leave a war map sitting in the open, but there has to be something here.
I refuse to give up, digging deeper into the desk drawers, my eyes scanning every scrap of paper with desperate intensity.
Just then, the distant sound of deep, heavy voices echoes down the hallway, heading straight toward the west wing.
My heart leaps into my throat. I freeze, my breath catching as the footsteps grow louder, accompanied by the distinct, commanding rumble of Maksim’s voice.
They're right outside. I rush to my feet, panicking as I look around the room for an exit, but before I can even take a step toward the adjacent lounge door, the brass handle of the main door begins to turn.
I let out a sharp gasp and do the only thing my panicked brain can think of—I dive beneath the massive mahogany executive desk, pulling my dress tightly around my legs and shrinking into the shadows of the kneehole.
The heavy oak doors swing open.
From my cramped position beneath the desk, my vision is restricted to the floor, but I can clearly see the legs of the people who just walked in.
Four pairs of polished leather dress boots and structured trousers step onto the plush Persian rug.
It’s Maksim, Dmitri, and two other heavily built men from his inner circle.
The air in the room instantly turns thick, vibrating with a tense, dangerous energy. They sound mid-argument, their voices low and tight with lethal frustration.
Right at the threshold, Maksim stops dead in his tracks. "Stop," he commands.
The single word drops like an iron anvil.
The other three men instantly go quiet, the sudden, absolute silence in the room filling with a suffocating pressure.
My heart pounds so violently against my ribs I am certain they can hear it echoing through the wood of the desk.
My hands grip my knees, my knuckles turning stark white as I try to blend into the shadows.
"Leave," Maksim says, his voice flat, completely devoid of emotion.
I frown slightly from my hiding spot.
"Pakhan, the coordinates for the Queens warehouse—" one of the men start, but Maksim cuts him off with a low, dangerous growl.
"Out. All of you. Clear the corridor."
I hear the rustle of fabric as the men bow their heads, their heavy shoes turning around and stepping out of the office. The massive double doors click shut with a heavy, definitive thud, sealing the room off from the rest of the house.
For a long, agonizing moment, there’s just silence. The kind of silence that precedes a thunderstorm. Through the gap under the desk, I see Maksim’s unmoving leather shoes standing a few feet away. He doesn't walk toward his chair. He doesn't move a muscle.
Then, his deep, rough voice cuts through the quiet, sounding entirely too close.
"Come out, Camilla."
My heart thuds, skipping a desperate beat. He knew. Of course, he knew.