Chapter 5
Lev Markov
I’d been in Roman’s penthouse before. It was always immaculate: curated, perfumed, and designed to look lived-in without anyone actually living here. The kind of space that existed for seduction, not comfort.
Tonight, though, the air was different.
We stepped off the elevator and silence greeted us, that sterile, insulated, over-filtered quiet that only money can buy. The place was untouched, cleaned and sterilized by staff who knew better than to ask questions. Still, something lingered beneath the polish.
Roman wandered ahead, running his hand along the piano like he was expecting a round of applause. “Well,” he said lightly, “here we are. Home sweet scandal.”
Dmitri ignored him, already scanning the space with that calculating gaze of his. “No one comes in or out without clearance from now on,” he said. “Anton’s team will sweep for electronic tampering.”
Roman poured himself a drink instead. “I’ll toast to that. To beautiful women with questionable morals—the only ones who ever seem to touch me these days.”
“I’ll make sure the next one that touches you kills you,” I muttered.
He laughed, but the sound was hollow.
I turned away from both of them. I didn’t need to see Roman’s wounded pride or Dmitri’s condescending disapproval.
Something else had caught my attention.
The smell.
It was faint. Vanilla, coffee, and something floral. Jasmine, maybe. The scent was everywhere now that I’d found it, that same sweet-floral note I hadn’t smelled in years. I remembered it in hallways, classrooms, on the edge of a scarf that wasn’t mine.
My boots echoed against the marble as I crossed to the kitchen island.
There was a mug, empty but not yet washed, sitting beside the sink. The faintest stain of foam still clung to the inside, the shape of a small heart traced into it. A latte. Carefully made.
No one Roman hired would have done that.
I stared at it for a long moment. My throat went dry.
“Find anything?” Dmitri asked from behind me.
I didn’t answer right away, but I could feel Roman’s eyes on my back.
“It’s nothing,” I said too quickly.
Roman chuckled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have,” I mumbled.
“Explain,” Dmitri said. His tone wasn’t a request.
I exhaled, staring at the mug. “She made coffee.”
Roman blinked. “And that means…?”
“She left a heart in the foam.”
Silence. Then Dmitri, dry as ever: “I fail to see the forensic significance of that.”
“It’s her,” I said quietly.
“Her who?” Roman asked, frowning.
I turned toward him. “Show me the photo again.”
He pulled it from his jacket and slid it across the island. The glossy image caught the light.
Her face was half-turned, blurred slightly, but the curve of her face, that posture—confident, like she owned the air she breathed.
I knew that stance. I’d hated that stance.
The memory hit me like a sucker punch.
We’d been seventeen at the time.
Me, the Markov family’s heir-in-waiting and her, the scholarship girl who didn’t know her place.
Back then, we’d gone to boarding school together. I’d ruled the place with quiet violence and a perfect smile.
And then there was her.
Kara Lennox.
Top of every class, infuriatingly composed, mouth always one step ahead of her fear.
She’d transferred in halfway through the term, always wearing that damn ribbon in her hair. It was black silk, perfectly tied. Every boy wanted her attention. Every girl wanted her gone. And me? I wanted her silent.
She never was.
I remembered the first time I cornered her in the west hall, between classes.
She’d made some remark in front of the others, a joke at my expense that had actually been clever.
Too clever. I’d caught up to her as she was turning the corner, grabbed her wrist, pressed her back against the cold stone wall.
“You think you were funny back there, princess?” I’d hissed.
Her chin lifted, that prissy little smirk tugging at her lips. “I’m funny all the time.”
I’d leaned closer, meaning to scare her, to make her apologize, but she hadn’t flinched. Not even when my hand traced the ribbon in her hair, or when I whispered, “Careful. You don’t know who you’re playing with.”
“I do,” she’d said, eyes bright and fearless. “The boy who’s terrified someone might find out he’s lonely.”
Then she’d kissed me.
Just once. Quick, shocking, and more of a challenge than affection. When she’d pulled away, her smile was infuriating.
“See? You’re not as dangerous as you pretend to be.”
And then she’d walked away, leaving me standing there, breathless, furious, and achingly hard.
Now, years later, I looked down at her face again. She was a different woman now, but she carried herself in the same way. Sure, she was older, more refined, but it was still her.
“Shit,” I muttered.
Dmitri noticed. “I know that face, brother. You recognize her, don’t you?”
I nodded once, jaw tight. “We went to school together.”
Roman looked delighted. “You and the mystery woman? Now that’s more than a little interesting.”
“Don’t,” I warned sharply.
He raised a brow. “What, I can’t enjoy the irony? The one who used to mock me for falling into bed with trouble is now neck-deep in it himself.”
Dmitri’s voice cut through the banter. “What was she like?”
“Cocky. Smart mouthed,” I responded. “Too clever for her own good; probably brilliant, actually. She used to call me a tyrant. I called her a brat.”
Roman smirked. “Sounds like foreplay.”
I shot him a look. “If it was, it ended badly.”
“Everything ends badly with you,” he teased.
“Keep talking and it’ll end badly for you too.”
Dmitri held up a hand before the exchange could ignite. “Focus. If this woman is the same person, then she’s not random. She’s someone with a reason to get close to us. She had to have chosen Roman for a reason.”
Roman lifted his glass. “I bet it was my devastatingly handsome face and charming personality.”
I ignored him, staring out the window at the Dubai skyline. The faint scent of jasmine still hung in the air, mocking me.
I’d find her and when I did, I would finally handle her the way she needed to be handled.
Bent over with her legs spread, impaled on my cock.