4. Wendell
The first thing that hits me isn’t her voice.
It is the sound—those sharp, confident clicks of her heels cutting through the sterile quiet of the office like a blade.
Whoever designed this room had an obsession with marble: black veined with silver, polished so thoroughly it reflected light like a mirror.
Every step she takes echoes, filling the space with authority long before she reaches the desk.
She moves effortlessly past me, the faint scarlet scent of her perfume—jasmine twisted with something darker—lying in her wake. A scent meant to disarm, distract, and manipulate. Fitting.
She points to the chair across from her desk, like she has been commanding me her whole life.
A simple gesture.
But everything in this room, everything about her, says that nothing here is simple.
The office is too pristine. Too calculated.
The framed art is minimalist, the books on the shelves arranged by spine color, the desk spotless, no scattered papers, no personal items. It gives no sense of being lived in.
It feels staged instead. A set, built to unsettle.
To remind anyone sitting where I now sit that they are the guest. The uninvited one.
I despise being ordered. I despise being instructed to sit. Yet she’d orchestrated my escape from a fortified, state-of-the-art prison designed especially for men like me. She’d breached systems the monarch swore were impenetrable. That alone makes her dangerous.
And interesting.
So, I sit.
This navy jumpsuit they’d thrown me into back in that garbage hole groans across my middle, it’s too tight, the fabric too cheap, intentionally engineered to deny any sense of agency or comfort. Even now, outside of my cell, it clings like an accusation.
“Maybe you could extend your hospitality a little further and offer something more suitable for me to wear,” I say, letting a shade of boredom color my tone. I want her to understand that despite the setting and circumstances, I am not impressed.
She turns slowly, deliberately, smoothing a perfectly manicured hand along the fitted curve of her dress. She regards me with the attention of someone examining a piece of merchandise she already intends to buy.
Her lips twitch. “I think that can be arranged, Mr. Popova.”
I school my expression, still not used to hearing my name without my title. Her eyes linger on me a little too long.
A challenge.
I smile back, mirroring her ease.
Her eyes light up; she leans forward, hands pressed against the varnished wood of the desk, the décolletage of her dress allowing an artfully contrived view of skin. Nothing happens by accident with this woman. She is the type who weaponizes everything, her voice, her body, her silence.
“But let’s get one thing straight,” she says in a soft voice. “I’ve already helped you escape prison. I even allowed you to leave your little… calling card.” Her nails tap the desk once. A warning bell. “You have no other favors unless I will them.”
Years in politics, in war, in manipulation have honed my ability to hide my reactions well. Still, her words have teeth: Sharp ones.
I swallow the scowl threatening to surface.
My father’s voice whispers in the back of my mind, never showing an enemy their advantage. Bite pain. Bite pride. But never bite the bait.
She presses an intercom button, her voice demanding that whoever she is speaking to on the other end of the line bring something more suitable for me to wear.
“I mean no disrespect, my lady,” I start anew, giving her the tone men like her, people with power, but not lineage, always demand. “I?—”
“No need to kiss my ring.” She cuts me off with a lazy wave, then slips into the oversized leather chair with a grace that comes from practice, not breeding.
She crosses her leg, reclines, and regards me with the same posture I once used to intimidate foreign delegates.
“Because in this moment,” she continues, voice lowering, “I own you.”
The words crackle between us like static.
I straighten, leaning forward an inch, enough to show I am not rattled but not enough to seem threatened.
“You may have broken me out of prison, and I am grateful,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “But nobody owns me.”
Her laughter fills the room, rich and amused, drifting upward to bounce off the high, marble ceiling.
And it enrages me.
“You are nothing without me,” she counters, leaning forward so that the shadow of her silhouette stretches across the desk.
“Stripped of your title. Abandoned by your remaining family. A national enemy. How long before your king and queen reach out to allies to find you? Capture you?” She smirks. “Kill you.”
“They’re not my king and queen,” I snap, the words slipping out before I can leash them.
She’s good. She is better at this than I expected.
Her smile curls like smoke. “Well, Mr. Popova. On that, we agree.”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s your business with the Novaks?”
For the first time, something in her cracks. Not much. Just enough to reveal the truth. Rage. Betrayal. A malevolent hunger that mirrors my own.
“Ivan was a personal friend,” she admits. “They need to pay for his death. And for treating him like a dog.”
I study her.
Ivan?
The man who tortured his own bloodline into obedience. The man who’d nearly sacrificed his granddaughter for political bargaining.
“No offense,” I start, “but Ivan didn’t have friends. You saw what he did to his own family.”
A twitch flickers beneath her eye, gone a second later. “I’m not here to discuss Ivan,” she snaps coldly. “Trust requires worth. Until you prove yours, trust is off the table. For now, you are an employee. One, I reward when deserved.”
I lift a brow. “And if I don’t cooperate?”
Her smile sharpens. “Then I hand you back to the king and queen of Zurdonia.” A pause. A lean. The room darkens around her as the shadows shift across her face. “Or I kill you myself and feed you to the fish.”
A threat.
A well-delivered one.
But still just a threat.
I’d spent months locked away in darkness with nothing but my own fury and ambition to keep me sane. I’d mapped out every path to reclaiming what was mine. To end the Markova-Novak line once and for all. If she thought she could frighten me, she is mistaken. But I need resources. And she has them.
“Very well,” I acquiesce. “You have my attention. What would you like me to do? And what shall I call you?”
“You may address me as Oksana.” Her fingers drift lazily across her forearm before she meets my gaze. “Bring me the queen.”
I laugh openly this time.
“You can’t be serious.” But she doesn't change her expression. “Oh. You’re serious.”
“Do I give you the impression that I am a woman who plays games?” she snaps.
“I think you underestimate the Novaks,” I continue, leaning toward the desk. “Alexei doesn't let his wife out of his sight. After what happened with my escape, you’ll be lucky if your tech can still track her.”
Oksana leans back, eyes glittering. “I’m listening. What do you recommend?”
Ah. Finally. Recognition of my worth.
“Elena Markova cares more about the people she loves than she does herself,” I offer.
“So, we go after the king first?”
I laugh. “No. He’s too smart.”
“Then who?”
“The heart of her family. The one who’s been with her from the beginning. The one she’d burn the world for.”
“Her best friend?”
I nod. “She’s everything to Elena.”
My blood heats with old hatred. The palace, once a seat of nobility, had become a playground for weak-blooded parasites.
If I can bring them all down on my way to reclaiming my kingdom?
Even better. And ending the Markova bloodline will finally put my name, my true name, back in the place it belonged.
“Not everything requires force,” I add. “The queen will trade her life to save someone she loves.”
Oksana breathes in slowly, her chin rising. “Good. That could work.”
“Oh, it will,” I reply, with confidence. “More than you realize.”
Her palms flatten against the desk. “Then you’ll work with my men to form the plan.” Her eyes gleam with calculation. “I know that look, Mr. Popova,” Oksana continues, her gaze never leaving mine. “You’re weighing your options.”
I don’t answer.
Her fingers tap lightly against the desk, slow and deliberate. “Relax. If I needed brute force, I’d have replaced you already.” She offers a faint smile. “Men like that are… replaceable.”
“Then why am I here?” I ask.
Her tapping stops. “For something harder to find.” She leans back, studying me like she’s already decided. “Access. Influence. History.”
My jaw tightens. “That sounds expensive.”
“It will be,” she says smoothly. “For the right return.”
I shift slightly. “Which is?”
Her smile deepens, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “A crown that listens. Revenge is only one portion of what I am seeking.” A pause. “Imagine it, doors opening before we even knock.”
My gaze flickers, just for a second.
She catches it.
“There it is,” she murmurs.
I lean back, masking it. “You’re asking for a lot.”
“I’m offering more.” Her voice softens, almost pleasant. “Stand with me, and you won’t have to take scraps ever again.”
The silence stretches between us.
A knock sounds.
One of her men enters with a garment bag and a pair of black dress shoes with unmistakable red bottoms.
Oksana motions toward me.
He approaches, handing me the package.
I check the tag… Alexander Amosu.
The shoes… Valentino cap-toe Oxfords.
There’s the scent of fine leather wafts up, intoxicatingly after months of rot, filth, and deprivation.
Oksana chuckles. “I assume they’re satisfactory.”
My gaze remains fixed on the suit draped across my lap. “A man could get used to gifts like these.”
“As I said,” she murmurs, “I reward those who don’t disappoint. Consider this a gesture of goodwill.”
I nod once. “To a long and rewarding partnership.”
She stands, smoothing her dress before pressing her hands into the desk as her presence fills the room like a shifting tide. “Then let’s begin,” she declares. “Your first assignment: help bring me Hannah Young.”