36. Elena
The gates part before us without resistance, smooth and silent, as though they’ve been expecting the weight of our arrival.
I don’t slow as we roll forward, but my fingers curl tighter against my palms. Something about this feels wrong, too open, too exposed. For someone who has lived in the dark as long as Oksana has, this kind of display isn’t all confidence.
It’s a message.
We step out of the car, and the air shifts, thicker somehow, heavy with manicured perfection.
The driveway goes on, curving away in a long, winding arc, lined by perfectly manicured topiary, as if sculpted by hand rather than shears.
Fountains sprout up at regular intervals, spilling water in soft, musical cascades that don’t feel decorative, exactly, but purposeful, each one feeling less decorative than deliberately.
Time to observe. Time to prepare.
“I don’t like this,” I murmur, keeping pace with Alexei as he moves without hesitation, his gaze snapping left, then right, then up, cataloging, calculating.
“Neither do I,” he agrees softly.
But we keep walking.
The mansion reveals itself in pieces at first, stone, glass, gold catching sunlight like a blade’s edge, until it rises fully before us, impossible to ignore.
Columns stretch skyward, tall enough to dwarf us where we stand, balconies trimmed in gleaming accents, windows reflecting the world back at us like we don’t belong in it.
This isn’t a house.
It’s a stage.
“She’s cocky,” Alexei observes quietly, his chin tilting upward.
I follow his gaze, scanning the exterior again. No guards. No visible cameras. No movement behind the glass.
Nothing.
“No visible security,” he adds under his breath. “So, either it’s buried deep… or she wants us to think we’re safe.”
A chill skims across my skin.
Oksana doesn’t do anything without intention.
Every step we take forward feels like stepping deeper into something already set in motion.
“Why does it feel like we’re the ones walking into a trap?” I ask, my voice barely more than breath.
Alexei turns his head slightly, enough to look at me and watch our surroundings at the same time. His expression doesn’t shift, steady, unreadable.
“Because we are.”
The words land flat. Certain.
His fingers brush mine as we walk, brief, grounding, before slipping away again. “Stay close.”
I nod once.
This isn’t how I imagined this would go. Not after everything.
I expected resistance. Weapons drawn. Eyes watching from every angle. I expected to arrive like prey, forcing its way into a predator’s territory.
Instead, we walk up like honored guests.
And that’s worse.
Because somewhere beyond what I can see, I know the others are already moving. Fletcher, Ruslan, Clara, ghosting along the edges of the property, slipping through shadow and silence, mapping weaknesses, counting rotations, searching for the crack that has to exist.
It always does.
Arrogance demands it.
All Alexei and I need to do is survive long enough for them to find it.
The front doors loom ahead, massive, carved, immovable, until they open before we even reach for them.
A man fills the doorway. Broad. Still. Dressed in black so sharp it might as well be armor. His eyes skim over me like I’m an afterthought before locking onto Alexei, measuring him in a way that has nothing to do with politeness. Everything to do with threat.
The silence stretches between all three of us, neither of us giving an inch.
Then he steps aside.
The foyer beyond is blinding in its perfection. Marble floors gleam under the light of a chandelier so massive it burns overhead like a suspended sun, its reflection rippling beneath our feet. A staircase curves upward in a sweeping arc, elegant and pristine, untouched by anything real.
No scuffs. No marks. No life.
“Weapons,” the man barks.
Alexei doesn’t argue. We expected this the moment we stepped out of the car. He lifts his arms without hesitation, forming a T. I mirror him, forcing my shoulders to stay loose, my breathing steady as the man steps closer.
His hands are impersonal. Efficient. They drag along my sides, my ribs, down my hips, too thorough to be accidental, too practiced to linger. Still, something tightens in Alexei’s posture, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watches.
This is part of the game.
The man finishes, then moves to Alexei, repeating the same search with equal precision.
Satisfied, he steps back. “This way.”
We follow obediently.
Through the foyer. Down a corridor that stretches too long, too wide.
Everything gleams with perfection, crystal fixtures hanging in clusters, walls lined with oversized artwork that feels chosen to impress rather than mean anything.
Gold accents catch the light at every turn.
The ceilings rise high above us, painted or lit in a way that softens everything into something warm and unreal.
It’s beautiful.
And completely hollow.
This isn’t a home. It’s a performance.
We passed a dining room that could hold a small army, a kitchen so sleek it looks untouched, more like a display than something meant to be used. Every surface is immaculate. Every detail is intentional. Nothing personal. Nothing human.
The farther we go, the clearer it becomes, this place wasn’t built for living. It was built to be seen.
The hallway opens, and sunlight spills in ahead of us.
The backyard appears as if it were taken straight from a luxury resort, complete with an infinity pool extending into the horizon, palm trees swaying in a perfectly choreographed dance, and cabanas placed in perfectly symmetrical arrangements.
A sunken fire pit sits off to the side, a bar remains unused outside, and in the background, a glass garage appears to display cars as art rather than vehicles.
Even the plants are manicured, the trees trimmed into perfect spheres, and the vines kept at bay.
Then… I see it. My hands absentmindedly stroke the rose pendant underneath my blouse.
Patches of deep crimson roses, the color a deep red, so perfect they almost feel as if they were frozen in time.
I thought the roses in Petrova were some of the most beautiful I had ever seen, but these roses have nothing on the ones here.
Everything else here is curated. Everything is watched.
Strangely enough, these roses seem to be the only thing that feels real in this entire place.
“Wait here,” the man orders.
He steps back, hands folding in front of him as he goes completely still, more statue than person.
I glance at Alexei.
He gives me a small nod, but his attention is already elsewhere, eyes tracking lines, angles, entry points. Counting and planning every motion.
Unlike before… this feels different.
Fewer guards and stronger ones. More control. Which makes Oksana far more dangerous.
My gaze drifts toward the back of the house, and I catch sight of them.
French doors, lining up halfway down the pool.
“Alexei,” I whisper.
“I see it.”
My pulse ticks up, slow but steady.
“Remember,” he reminds quietly, “stay calm.”
The doors open.
And Oksana steps out like she owns more than the ground beneath her feet.
She moves with effortless grace, a white gown flowing around her legs, catching the light with every step.
The fabric clings enough to suggest, never reveal, paired with heels that click softly against stone, measured, unhurried.
Controlled.
Her arm is looped through someone else’s.
My breath falters.
No.
Not just someone.
Him.
Wendell.
The name hits like something sharp and buried too deep to ignore.
He walks beside her as if he belongs there. Like this… this alliance, this betrayal, is the most natural thing in the world. They walk as if they’re stepping out onto a vacation terrace instead of into a confrontation that could burn everything down.
Oksana’s smile curves slowly as she approaches, red lips precise and immaculate. There’s nothing warm in it. Nothing welcoming. Only anticipation. Enjoyment.
She leans slightly toward him, murmuring something too low to hear.
Wendell doesn’t look away from us. Not once.
There has always been something about him, something refined, untouchable. Authority woven into the way he stood, the way people moved around him.
But this… this is different. His fingers flex at his side, subtle enough that most would miss it.
I don’t.
Because I know what he’s capable of with his new abilities.
And standing beside Oksana, wrapped in her world, backed by her infinite resources.
He was once merely dangerous. Now…he’s inevitable.
They move like they own the ground beneath them.
Each step is careful, unhurried, precise, the kind of movement that isn’t about getting somewhere, but about being seen getting there. A performance. A reminder.
My spine locks. My pulse ticks louder.
Oksana’s gaze drops to my hand, and I follow it a beat too late. The rose pendant is still caught between my fingers, the chain twisted tight around my knuckles. Heat flashes up my palm like I’ve been burned.
I let it fall.
The metal kisses my chest, cold now, harmless. I smooth my expression as they close the distance, erasing the instinct to recoil, to react, to give anything away.
Too late.
She already catches what I cannot hide. Her attention slides past me. Slowly. Purposeful.
It lands on Alexei.
I’ve seen that gaze before on strangers, in crowded rooms, in passing glances that linger too long. Women who stare at him like he’s something to be claimed, something to be draped over their arm like a prize they didn’t earn.
It’s always irritated me.
This…this is different.
Her examination doesn’t linger. It drags. Up his legs. Across his hips. Over his chest. Taking, measuring, and wanting something that does not belong to her..
Something sharp curls in my gut.
My hands clench.
A low, rough sound vibrates in the air.
It takes me a second to realize… it’s me.
The growl slips free before I can stop it.
Her head snaps toward me, and that smile, slow, knowing, filthy, spreads across her lips like she’s been waiting for exactly that.