Chapter 20 Viktors True Face
POV: Maya
The fall was as swift as the rise.
The helicopter ride back from the yacht was the opposite of the trip there. On the way out, Maya had been rigid with panic and rage. On the way back, she was... silent.
She sat beside Roman, the hum of the rotors filling the cabin, watching him. The man who had taught her about the stars. The man whose lips had been surprisingly soft, whose need—she realized—mirrored her own.
He caught her looking.
His gray eyes met hers. For a second, the truce of the ocean held. She saw the man from the night before, the man who drank whiskey and talked about navigation.
Then the city appeared on the horizon.
Roman Lazarov's mask slid back into place. The warmth in his eyes went out, replaced by familiar ice. He turned away, and the man from the yacht vanished, leaving only the billionaire. The jailer.
The truce was over.
The rooftop landing was abrupt. He led her out of the service elevator, back into the pressurized air of the penthouse. He didn't touch her. The hand that had cupped her face with desperate need was now shoved in the pocket of his linen pants.
“Go to your room,” he said, already turning toward his office. “Kosta will lock down the main wing in five minutes.”
And that was it. The strange, sensual dream on the ocean evaporated. The cage was closed again.
Maya entered her gray suite and felt dirty. Not the way she'd felt after his punishment, but in a new, more confusing way. She had been complicit. She had allowed the monster to seem human.
She hated her own weakness. She hated the undeniable chemistry that made her forget who he was. A man who had bought her. A man who had broken her.
And, she remembered, a man who screamed a dead woman's name in his nightmares. Anja.
She took a shower, trying to wash away the smell of salt and whiskey, trying to scrub away the memory of his lips. She dressed in the prisoner's uniform—beige cashmere.
Night fell. She was exhausted, but her mind raced. The confusion was a fever.
A soft click at the door.
Maya jumped, heart in her throat. Was he back? To finish what he'd started on the yacht?
The door opened. It wasn't him. It was the phantom housekeeper, the older woman in the black-and-white uniform with the impassive face. She entered carrying the silver dinner tray.
Maya looked away. It was always like this. The woman came in, left the food, and left. No words.
But this time was different.
The woman set the tray on the desk. In the lamplight, Maya noticed her hands trembling slightly. The housekeeper turned to leave. But instead of just closing the door, she stopped and looked at Maya.
It was the first time she'd ever done that. The woman's eyes were pale, frightened. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod toward the tray. Then she was gone, the door closing with its usual click.
Maya frowned. A chill ran down her spine. What was that?
She approached the tray. Dinner was some kind of expensive fish and asparagus. The smell made her stomach turn.
She looked at the tray. The linen napkin was folded strangely. She picked it up.
Hidden beneath the fold was a small ivory envelope. Thin. No address.
Maya's heart stopped.
This wasn't from Roman. His stationery was heavy, gray, like his soul. This was... elegant.
The housekeeper. She'd put it there. She worked for someone.
For whom?
Her blood ran cold. There was only one other player in this game.
Sokolov.
The realization hit her with physical force. Viktor Sokolov had someone inside Roman's fortress. His warning at the restaurant hadn't been a chance encounter. He had tentacles everywhere.
With trembling fingers, Maya picked up the envelope. She looked at the locked door, then back at the envelope. Opening it felt like a final betrayal—but against whom?
She opened it.
Inside were two things.
The first was a folded sheet of paper, a poor-quality photocopy.
The second was an ivory card, heavy, covered in elegant, sharp handwriting.
Her instinct told her to read the card first. Viktor's note.
My dear Maya,
I told you at the restaurant that he was the monster. You didn't want to believe me. Perhaps now you will.
I saw you on the yacht. The little truce. Did you feel something for him? Pity? Attraction?
Ask yourself: Why does he have nightmares? (Yes, I know about them.) It's not the pain of loss, sparrow. It's the burden of guilt.
The blog you read (yes, I know what you search for) was wrong. Anja wasn't reckless. But he was. Roman wasn't the passenger. He was driving.
He killed her through negligence.
And now he’s using you. You’re the ghost he uses for his penance. You’re the substitute for the sister he murdered.
Run from him, Maya. Run before he breaks you permanently, just like he did with Anja.
V.
Maya couldn’t breathe. The words blurred. He was driving.
Her investigation. The obscure blog. Inside sources... sabotage... Roman believes Sokolov...
But what was easier to believe? A sabotage conspiracy... or negligence?
He’s using you to replace the sister he murdered.
The yacht trip. The quiet confession in the darkness, under the stars. The slow, almost tender sex. Was it all... a performance? Was he kissing her or the ghost of his dead sister?
Nausea rose in her throat.
Trembling, she picked up the other sheet. The photocopy.
It was what Viktor said it was. A report. The words “NEW YORK STATE POLICE DEPARTMENT” were blurred at the top.
Motor Vehicle Accident Report.
She read the boxes.
Date: [Five years ago]
Vehicle: [Sports convertible]
Location: [Rural road]
And then... the boxes that mattered.
Driver: LAZAROV, ROMAN D.
Passenger: LAZAROV, ANJA M.
No.
She read it again. Driver: LAZAROV, ROMAN D.
The blog was wrong. Her research was wrong. Or... or this was a lie.
She kept reading, her eyes scanning the cold, technical language.
Officer’s Narrative:
...evidence of excessive speed on curve... skid marks... Vehicle left roadway, colliding with...
And then, a section circled in red ink by a hand she knew was Viktor’s:
Contributing Cause (Provisional): DRIVER NEGLIGENCE.
Maya let the paper fall. It floated down to the gray carpet.
The air. Where was the air?
She felt dizzy.
She remembered the nightmare. His scream. Anja... Not again...
She remembered his fury when she ran. “You’re a reckless fool!”
The pieces clicked into place. But they didn’t form the picture of a grieving man. They formed the picture of a man consumed by guilt.
He wasn’t angry at her recklessness; he was angry because her recklessness reminded him of his. The recklessness that killed his sister.
It wasn’t a nightmare born of grief. It was a nightmare born of guilt.
The truce on the yacht wasn’t a connection. It was a desecration. He was using her body to appease his sister’s ghost.
The man who kept her locked up, the man who bought her, the man she’d just slept with in the middle of the ocean...
Was a killer.
Not a cold-blooded killer like Sokolov. But a killer through negligence. A man who killed his own sister and was now transferring his sick, guilt-ridden obsession onto her.
Maya’s confusion solidified into something new. It wasn’t the simple hatred from before. It was horror. A cold, deep revulsion.
She was trapped. Locked in the highest penthouse in Manhattan with the man who killed Anja.
The truce from the yacht wasn’t just forgotten. It had been poisoned retroactively, transformed into an act of psychological necrophilia.
She was sleeping with a killer.