8. Wendell
“The boss wants to see you,” one of Oksana’s hired thugs says.
I fold my newspaper with planned calmness, rise, and button my suit jacket as I stare at him.
For a week now, this woman has been summoning me as if I were some kind of dog, snapping her fingers whenever she feels like it.
I went from giving orders to obeying hers, and the shift grates on every nerve I possess.
I gesture for the guard to lead on, although I already know exactly where we are headed. Back to Oksana’s office, her throne room.
She’s already on her feet when I come in, reaching for a crystal decanter on the shelf. Amber liquid sloshes in the decanter as she pulls the stopper, takes a long whiff, and pours two generous drinks.
“Ma’am—” her brute begins.
She silences him with a single pointed finger, not giving him another ounce of attention. He bows anyway and slips out wordlessly.
“Mr. Popova,” she singsongs, turning at last with both glasses in hand. “Please, have a seat.”
A request in tone alone, an expectation in reality.
I unbutton the dark blue suit jacket she gifted me and sink into the chair across from her. She strides over and offers me one of the glasses. Notes of cinnamon, clove, and warm caramel rise from the glass. Top-shelf whiskey, of course. Oksana never settles for anything less than the best.
Which is the only reason I keep up this charade.
I take a long pull, savoring the rich burn in my throat. The woman always brings out the expensive bottles when she wants something.
She clinks her glass against mine, crystal ringing softly. Her eyes sparkle as she drinks, unflinching as the liquor slides down her throat.
“To what are we toasting?” I ask.
A sly smile curls her lips. “To you, passing your first test.”
I arch a brow, swirling my drink. “Doubted me, then?”
She laughs, low and amused. “I’m a businesswoman, Mr. Popova. I trust no one. Ever.”
Smart. Cunning. Ruthless. Like Ivan. And like Ivan, she’ll fall.
“Wise words to live by,” I say. “Tell me, what test met your approval?”
“I met Elena and that little friend of hers.”
I bark a laugh. “A true nuisance.”
“Yes… she is rather protective of the queen.”
“They’re protective of each other,” I correct. “Where one goes, the other follows. If you want to hit the queen’s heart, go after the gutter trash.”
Oksana narrows her eyes as she moves behind her desk. “Why not her husband? You expect me to believe she loves the girl more than the king? They looked rather cozy at their dinner date.”
I run my tongue across my lips, resisting the urge to down the rest of the whiskey. Good liquor is meant to be savored, like the king and queen’s downfall.
“Oh, the king is important,” I say. “Competent. Skilled. Too careful to let you anywhere near him. Ivan tried countless times and failed. If you go after him directly, expect the same outcome.”
Her gaze sharpens, a warning. “You give your opinion a little too freely.”
I conceal my smile behind the rim of my glass. “My apologies, Oksana. I only meant that I’d hate to see you face his fate.”
She regards me for a moment, then sets her glass down and sits. “Speak.”
The command grates on me, but I lean back and oblige. “If you want a real chance, you need to separate the king and queen.”
“Isn’t that what Ivan did?”
“No.” I cross my ankle over my knee. “Ivan underestimated the king’s initiative. Alexei Novak will stop at nothing to protect Elena. Remove him from the equation first.”
Her lips purse as she considers this. “Good.”
“Strike while the iron is hot. While the king is… unavailable… take the friend. Elena will be too distraught to think clearly. She’ll sacrifice anything, including her own life, to save that brat.”
A thin, blade-like smile slices across her face. “I find it difficult to believe all this hatred is simply because the queen resurfaced early and ended your time as king-regent. What is your real reason for despising the Markova line?”
I stare into my glass, weighing how much to give her. She hasn’t shared her motives, yet she expects mine. But I’ve earned favor. Withholding too much will only slow my progress in gaining access to her empire.
“Our ancestors were the first to settle in Zurdonia,” I say. “Hers and mine were the founders. Leadership came down to whether the Markova line or the Popova line would rule.”
Oksana leans forward, entranced.
“The Popovas were favored. We were strategists, strong, decisive. It was an easy choice.”
“Something changed,” she prompts.
“Yes.” My mouth twists. “The Markovas excelled at finance, development, negotiation, weak pacifists, unable to make hard decisions… until he returned. The first Markova. Suddenly, preaching that if Popova ruled, Zurdonia would suffer. That sheer strength wasn’t the only way to secure what the country needed.
” I scoff. “A test was proposed. Each family would secure an ally through diplomacy. Whoever succeeded first would rule.”
“Why the sudden confidence in someone so ill-suited for leadership?” she asks, a dangerous gleam in her eye.
“We’ve wondered that for centuries.”
She smiles. “Did Ivan ever tell you why he wanted the queen?”
The question hangs as the silence settles between us. Something in the way she says it makes my stomach tighten. If she is asking, then the answer matters more than I realize.
I search my memory, turning over every conversation I’d ever had with Ivan, but come up empty. I’d assumed his reason was ambition, power, and revenge, which he spoke so candidly about. The same reasons everyone chased crowns.
Looking at her now, I realize I’d been asking the wrong question all along.
I meet her gaze. “Personal reasons. Alyssa betrayed their mission by falling for that pathetic excuse of a king.”
Her fingers trace her desk. “Yes, but why did he first want her dead, and then later want her to surrender herself? Did you ever wonder?”
My fingers flex against the glass. A simple question, one I should have asked long ago. I always assumed Ivan wanted to toy with the queen before killing her.
Oksana’s smile widens, teeth perfect and predatory. “Your queen possesses an extremely rare ability.”
My focus sharpens. “What ability?”
“She has prophetic sight,” Oksana says, folding her hands. “She sees past and future events.”
A growl curls up my throat. “That sneaking, deceiving?—”
“Ivan was supposed to utilize those skills,” she continues, leaning back. “Before her husband intervened. Word is, those abilities come from your land.”
My neck surges with heat. Rage boils beneath my skin. That filthy Markova line, ruling Zurdonia not because of merit, but because of their cheating. Hoarding some sort of mystical power, that rightfully belonged to us.
I feel the crystal bend beneath my grip.
“Did Ivan say where it was found?” I rasp. “What was it?”
Her gaze flicks to my fingers strangling the crystal. I force myself to loosen them.
“No,” she cautions, and enjoys the way it unsettles me. “And if anything remained, Ivan would’ve taken it.”
“The Markova’s have stolen enough from my family.” My voice vibrates with promise. “They will pay.”
Oksana smiles. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”
She raises her glass and ambles toward me, dress swaying, the picture of effortless control.
“Now,” she purrs. “Let’s begin working on your suggestion. Then we can rid the world of both our problems.”
I raise my glass and tap it to hers before draining the last drop.
“Let’s.”