Chapter Seven
Arkady
I rub my eyes, staring at the screen until the words blur together.
Twenty CVs today. Twenty people who want to work in my house, and not a single one feels right.
The last rays of sunlight stretch across my desk. Outside, the garden is turning purple with dusk. I’ve been sitting here for over two hours straight, reading profiles of housekeepers with perfect references and years of experience working for families who probably don’t have blood on their hands.
“Khren,” I mutter, rolling my neck until something pops.
Stefan brought coffee an hour ago. It sits untouched, gone cold beside my laptop. I should stop. Should delegate this whole fucking process to someone else. But I can’t.
Whoever works in my home needs to be vetted personally. By me. I won’t have anyone in Ashwater Heights who might report back to my father. Or worse—to Sergei Tulikov.
I check my watch. Almost midnight. One more CV, then I’ll call it.
The inbox refreshes. A new application sits at the top, sent thirty minutes ago.
Mirabel McLeod.
Something about the name tugs at me. I open it, expecting another sterile list of qualifications, another professional photo of someone who looks like they’ve never made a mistake in their life.
Instead, I find her.
The registrar.
My hand freezes over the trackpad. Blood rushes to my groin so fast I have to shift in my seat. The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
It’s her—standing against a plain wall, hair pulled back, wearing a blouse that’s too formal for a selfie. She’s smiling in a careful, measured way, but I can still see it—that same intensity from the wedding. That same quiet strength.
“Mirabel McLeod,” I say the name aloud, testing it. It fits her.
Heat spreads from my chest to my neck. I drag a hand across my mouth, surprised to find my lips dry, my pulse hammering against my fingertips. This visceral reaction to just a fucking photograph—it’s pathetic. Dangerous.
I lean closer, staring at her face on the screen. She looks different with her hair up, different without the panic in her eyes when her dress split. But unmistakably her.
The door to my office opens without a knock. Mikhail steps in, tablet in hand.
“The surveillance report from—”
“Did I ask for you?” My voice cuts like ice.
He stops mid-stride, eyes widening. “No, but you requested—”
“Get out.”
“But the Georgian—”
I stand, my chair rolling back hard enough to hit the wall. “I said, get the fuck out.”
Mikhail pales, nodding rapidly. He backs toward the door, nearly tripping over his own feet. “My apologies, boss. I’ll come back when—”
“When I call for you.” I stare him down, watching him shrink under my gaze. “And next time, knock.”
“Da. Sorry, boss.”
The door snaps shut. The interruption should cool my blood. Instead, the surge of territorial rage at being disturbed while looking at her only heightens the heat building under my skin.
I scan her CV, barely processing the words. Registrar. Organizational skills. Attention to detail.
Nothing about housekeeping experience. Nothing substantial that qualifies her for this job.
It should be an automatic rejection.
Instead, I click reply.
Something hot and dangerous coils in my chest. The universe just handed me exactly what I’ve been obsessing over for the past week.
The woman who stood at that altar and watched me walk away.
The woman whose image has refused to leave my mind, even when I’ve fucked myself raw with my own hand trying to exorcise her.
And now she wants to work for me. Live in my house. Be at my command. I have to be the luckiest mudak to walk the surface of this planet.
I type the interview invitation on Anfisa’s behalf, fingers moving too fast. Set the date for Thursday. Just two days away… probably too eager, too obvious, but I don’t care.
I want to see her. Need to see her. Need to know if the effect she had on me was real or just a product of that moment—the stress of the wedding, the fight with Rosanna, the pressure of a hundred eyes watching me.
I hit send before I can think better of it.
The moment it’s done, my body reacts again—a rush of adrenaline that makes my hands unsteady.
I pace to the window, adjusting my cock through my pants, willing the hardness away through pure force of will.
This reaction to a fucking email—to the possibility of seeing her again—it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before.
Pizdets!
The hunger shifts, transforms into something colder. More calculating.
I need to know more. Need to know who she is, where she comes from, what she wants. Need to know if she’s connected to anyone who might want to hurt me. Sergei. My father. The Georgians.
Need to know if she’s a plant.
I pull up a search engine, type her name. Start digging.
Social media first. She’s not hard to find.
Her profile isn’t locked down—rookie mistake.
Photos load on my screen. Her on a beach somewhere, hair blowing in the wind, laughing at something off-camera.
Her with an older man—her father, based on the resemblance, his arm around her shoulders at what looks like a graduation ceremony.
Her at a café, coffee mug raised to the camera.
Each image sends another jolt through me. I memorize details—the way her throat curves, the small mole near her left collarbone, how her smile tilts higher on the right.
And then—
I stop scrolling. Blink. Look closer.
Two of her.
The photo shows two identical women—girls, really—arms linked, heads tilted toward each other. Same face. Same smile. Same eyes.
Twins.
Something cold slithers up my spine.
I check the caption: Missing you every day, D. Six years and counting.
Missing. Six years.
I pull up another search window. Type her name plus “twin” plus “missing.”
Results flood in.
News articles from six years ago. Police reports. Missing person flyers with a face that matches Mirabel’s perfectly. Debra McLeod. Disappeared during a school trip at age eighteen. Never found.
My stomach tightens. The arousal that’s been simmering since I saw her photo doesn’t fade—it transforms, sharpens into something more focused.
I don’t know why it bugs me, but something about this feels… off.
I stand, pacing to the window, then back to my desk. My mind races through scenarios, connections, possibilities.
Disappeared during a school trip.
Age eighteen.
A knock at the door—tentative, hesitant.
“Enter,” I bark.
Leo enters, hovering near the threshold. “Arkady, the weapons inventory you requested for Ashwater is complete.”
I wave him closer, not bothering to minimize Mirabel’s photo on my screen. His eyes flicker to it, then quickly away when he notices me watching.
“Leave it.” I gesture to the desk.
He sets the folder down, his movements careful, precise. “Also, Alexei and Andrei report movement at the harbor warehouse. Unusual activity that might—”
“Is it an immediate threat?”
“No, but—”
“Then it can wait.” I turn back to my screen, dismissal clear.
Leo clears his throat. “There’s one more thing. Sergei Tulikov was seen meeting with Baranov today.”
That gets my full attention. Anton Baranov controls half the docks, and if he’s talking to Sergei, trouble is brewing. Which is hardly a surprise.
“Where?”
“Restaurant Morye. Private room. Two hours.”
I nod once. “Have Alexei follow Baranov. I want to know everyone he talks to next.”
“Already done.” Leo straightens, some of his nervousness fading as he falls into the familiar rhythm of business. “Anything else you need tonight?”
I glance at Mirabel’s photo, then back to Leo. “Privacy.”
He inclines his head, taking the hint. “Of course. Good night, boss.”
The door closes behind him. I’m alone again with her. With the mystery she represents.
I scrub both hands down my face, stubble rough against my palms. The smart move would be to delete her application. Forget her name. Find someone else.
But I can’t.
I stare at her photo again. That careful smile. Those eyes that held mine at the altar, steady even as chaos erupted around us.
My skin feels too tight, as if I’m burning from the inside out. I loosen my tie, unbutton my collar, trying to ease the constriction in my chest that has nothing to do with my clothes and everything to do with her.
If I reject her now, I’ll never know. Never know if the connection is real. Never know if she feels this same inexplicable pull.
I close her social media profile and open a new search window. Dig deeper. Medical records. School transcripts. Employment history. Bank statements. Credit score.
If she’s hiding something, I’ll find it.
Hours pass in a blur of screens and searches. The coffee goes from cold to forgotten. Outside, the city sleeps, but I don’t.
By the time dawn breaks, I know Mirabel McLeod better… I know she has no connections to the Bratva. No suspicious gaps in her history. Nothing that suggests she’s anything other than what she appears: a woman looking for a well-paying job.
Which means either she has no idea who I am, no idea what my family does…
Or she’s the best fucking actress on the planet.
Either way, I want her in my house. Under my roof. Where I can watch her. Study her. Get this bullshit out of my system.
I close the laptop. Roll my shoulders. My body aches from sitting too long, muscles protesting as I stand. But my mind is sharp. Focused. Certain.
I check my phone. Three missed calls from Yanis. A dozen messages from Stefan. The world keeps spinning while I’ve been lost in her.
I ignore them all.
Mirabel McLeod is coming to Ashwater Heights.
And one way or another, I’m going to find out exactly why fate keeps pushing her into my path.