Chapter 9 – Ellie
“You look beautiful,” Mike says softly.
I don’t respond. I keep my gaze on the world whipping past the window as the car speeds toward our destination.
I have no idea where we’re going. Mike called it an alliance meeting and insisted I come with him—to “solidify our bond,” as he put it.
The phrase still makes my stomach tighten.
Yesterday he took me shopping. Not normal shopping—Mike-style shopping.
Within an hour, I was standing in a private boutique surrounded by assistants and racks of designer dresses I’d only ever seen in magazines.
Now I’m wearing one of them. A sleek, elegant gown that fits my body like it was stitched directly onto my skin.
The shoes alone probably cost more than my monthly rent used to. The jewelry around my neck could pay off my student loans twice.
I look beautiful. I know that.
But I don’t want to hear it from him.
I don’t want him talking to me at all.
It’s been five days since we slept together, and I’ve withdrawn completely.
It’s not his fault. Not totally.
That’s the frustrating part.
It was consensual. Completely. And if I’m being honest with myself, it was the best sex I’ve ever had in my very limited experience.
But that’s exactly the problem.
I hate myself for giving in.
For losing control.
For letting the lines blur so easily.
So I punish both of us the only way I know how—I rebuild my walls and pretend none of it mattered.
Outside the window, the city lights streak by in long golden lines.
Inside the car, the silence between us grows thicker.
Why does he have to be so attractive?
Why does his voice do that thing to my brain—send tiny sparks through my body like my nerves have been rewired?
Why does every small touch from him feel amplified?
It’s infuriating.
And unfair.
Because this isn’t just my fault.
It’s his too.
We finally arrive at a massive gate, and the car slows to a stop as armed guards step forward, surrounding us. Sergei rolls down the window, exchanging a few quiet words with them. The moment they see Mike, their posture shifts.
Respect. Recognition.
The gate slides open.
We drive through.
Beyond it sits an enormous estate, sprawling and immaculate. This place doesn’t just suggest wealth—it announces it. The house itself glows under carefully placed lights, marble and glass reflecting the night like something pulled straight out of a billionaire’s fantasy.
Music drifts faintly through the air.
There’s a gathering outside—dozens of people moving across the illuminated lawn, waiters weaving through the crowd with trays of champagne. Expensive suits. Glittering dresses. Conversations layered with quiet power.
This isn’t just a party.
It’s a meeting of people who control things.
Sergei parks the car smoothly near the entrance.
Mike turns slightly toward me before opening his door.
“You don’t have to speak with anyone,” he says calmly. “Just stay by my side.”
I don’t respond.
I simply open the door and step out of the car.
For the next hour, Mike introduces me to over a dozen people, half of whose names I forget the moment the conversation ends. I do what’s expected of me—I smile, shake hands, give polite compliments, and accept them in return.
They like me.
I can tell.
But it’s all surface-level, a perfectly practiced social performance. Inside, I feel nothing.
All I want is to go home.
When I see Mike turning toward yet another small group across the lawn, I pause and lightly touch his arm.
“My legs hurt,” I tell him. “I’d like to go sit at the bar for a few minutes.”
He studies me immediately. “Should I come with you?”
I shake my head. “No. Go on. I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates for a moment, clearly debating it, but eventually he nods and releases me.
I walk away before he can change his mind.
Relief washes over me the moment I reach the bar.
I slide onto one of the stools, exhaling quietly as the bartender approaches.
“What can I get for you?”
“Could I please have sparkling water with just a splash of cranberry juice?” I say. “If I can have that with a lime wedge, that would be perfect. Thanks.”
“One for me too.”
The voice comes from just behind me.
I turn.
An elegant woman steps up beside me. Her gown is striking—both sexy and classy at the same time—and her hair is pulled into a tight, sleek bun on top of her head. She carries herself with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly who she is.
She smiles at me.
I smile back instantly, liking her already.
“You can’t stomach alcohol like me, huh?” I joke lightly.
She scoffs in mock offense.
“I’m Russian,” she says. “I drink alcohol like tea.”
I laugh.
She chuckles softly and leans a little closer, lowering her voice. “I just prefer to keep my head clear at gatherings like this.”
Then she winks.
“Oh.” I hold out my hand. “My name is—”
“Sweetheart, everyone here knows who you are,” she interrupts smoothly. “It kind of comes with the territory of being the Rusnak bride. Hi, Ellie. I’m Valeria Petrov.”
I take her hand and shake it. Her grip is confident, firm.
“Are you married to someone here?” I ask.
She immediately pretends to gag.
“Please,” she says dramatically. “No man here is worthy of me. The one who wants to marry me will first have to bow at my feet and worship properly.”
I burst out laughing.
“I like you,” I say. “Who are you?”
She tilts her head, amused.
“I know that’s a rhetorical question,” she says lightly, “but I’m the first daughter of Fydor Petrov.”
I blink. “I don’t know him.”
Valeria leans closer again, lowering her voice like she’s sharing a scandalous secret.
“He’s the biggest crime boss in the country,” she whispers. “But don’t tell anyone.”
I widen my eyes dramatically and pretend to zip my mouth shut.
She grins.
Right then, the bartender sets our drinks in front of us.
Valeria immediately grabs her glass and lifts it toward me. “Cheers?”
“Cheers,” I echo.
Our glasses clink softly, and we both take a sip.
She studies me over the rim of her drink for a moment, her sharp eyes taking in everything.
“You don’t look like the type who would marry a Rusnak,” she says casually. “But I’m not surprised. All the Rusnak men somehow manage to find beautiful, elegant women for themselves.”
I sigh quietly.
I barely know this woman. Logically, I shouldn’t be saying anything personal to her. But there’s something about her presence that feels…safe. Disarming.
“My husband is a nice man,” I admit carefully. “But I never envisioned being trapped in a Bratva world.”
Valeria’s expression softens slightly.
“I understand,” she says. “I was born into it.”
She pauses before taking another sip.
“But I can’t really empathize with you,” she adds honestly. “Because I don’t know what it’s like to live a normal life outside of this.”
Her tone isn’t defensive. Just matter-of-fact.
“What I do know,” she continues, “is that this is a man’s world. Especially here.”
I nod slowly.
She leans a little closer, her voice dropping into something more serious.
“And women in this world?” she says. “We have to fight twice as hard to be seen. Twice as hard to be heard. Twice as hard to be respected.”
“I agree,” I say quietly.
She lifts her glass again, pointing it lightly in my direction.
“So keep fighting for yourself,” she says. “And make sure your husband understands one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That you’re not a pushover.”
I’m about to respond when a man steps up beside her.
“Miss Petrov,” he says respectfully, “your father is asking for you.”
Valeria’s expression changes instantly. The easy humor disappears, replaced by something more controlled.
Her smile tightens slightly.
She glances at me one last time, lifts her glass in a small farewell gesture, then slides off the stool.
“Nice meeting you, Ellie,” she says.
And just like that, she walks away.
I turn slightly on the stool, letting my gaze follow her as she crosses the lawn. She disappears through one of the large glass doors leading into the house.
I like her.
The thought lingers for a moment as I take another small sip of my drink.
Just as I start to look away, movement catches my attention.
Sergei.
He’s heading toward another door across the terrace, his posture rigid, his eyes sweeping the crowd in that sharp, calculating way he always seems to observe everything.
I frown slightly.
He moves quickly and slips through the door without stopping.
My gaze lingers there.
What is he doing?
Maybe I’m reading too much into it.
I turn back to the bar, swirling the lime wedge in my glass, but my eyes keep drifting back to that same door.
Minutes pass.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Then twenty.
By the time half an hour passes, I’m starting to feel ridiculous for even noticing.
Paranoid.
Just as I’m convincing myself of that, the door opens.
Someone steps out.
Anya.
She’s wearing a breathtaking dress, sleek and dramatic, the kind that draws attention the moment someone walks into a room. She pauses briefly, scanning the crowd before slipping easily into it.
Within seconds, she’s smiling, laughing, blending seamlessly with the gathering as if she’s been there the entire time.
I blink.
A few minutes later, the door opens again.
Sergei walks out.
He doesn’t look around this time. He heads straight toward the bar.
My attention snaps back to the bartender immediately. I lift my glass, pretending to sip even though I barely taste the drink.
My thoughts race.
What am I thinking?
Seeing Sergei and Anya coming from the same room doesn’t mean anything.
Does it?
Anya used to be close to Mike. Sergei works closely with Mike too.
They’re probably friends.
Right?
Still, a small knot forms in my stomach as I stare down into my drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass.
“Vodka.”
The sharp voice snaps at the bartender, and I turn.
Sergei has stepped up beside me.
He nods once in acknowledgment. “Mrs. Rusnak.”
I flash him a bright smile—far warmer than anything I’ve ever shown him before—and shift slightly on the stool to face him.
“We haven’t really talked, have we?” I say lightly.
He looks faintly uncomfortable, as if he didn’t expect me to engage him in conversation at all.
“No,” he says. “We haven’t.”
“Well,” I continue, “I’ve never really thanked you for saving my life. Twice now.”
For a moment, he looks almost amused.
“It was your husband who saved you,” he replies. “I was simply following instructions.”
I shake my head.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I still appreciate it.”
His expression softens just slightly. “You’re welcome.”
I keep the conversation going, letting my tone stay easy and casual while my mind quietly shifts into a different gear. I listen carefully—his cadence, the way he forms his sentences, the rhythm of his speech.
I want to memorize it.
As a forensic linguist, patterns matter.
“Both attacks were very scary,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. “I hope we find the people responsible very soon.”
“We’re working on it,” Sergei replies calmly.
“Have you gotten any new information yet?” I ask.
He pauses briefly before answering.
“Only a few leads,” he says. “Mike is working day and night to make sure it’s handled.”
The bartender sets his drink in front of him.
Sergei picks up the glass.
“I have to go,” he says.
I nod politely. “Of course.”
He gives a small nod in return before turning and disappearing back into the crowd.
I watch him leave, my fingers slowly rotating the glass on the bar as my thoughts continue to turn.
Because I’m not just thinking about what I saw earlier now.
I’m thinking about how he speaks and telling myself to listen to him more regularly and pay closer attention.
Over the next few hours, I keep my eyes discreetly on Anya and Sergei.
Even when Mike finds me and holds me at his side, my attention flickers.
Anya makes no move toward Mike, but I notice the subtle interactions she shares with Sergei.
The shared glances, the brief exchange of expressions that linger a little too long.
It hits me slowly, like ice creeping up my spine. The attack on the way to see Raelyn…the way the kidnappers seemed to anticipate my every move. It wasn’t just luck. It couldn’t have been.
It had to be inside information.
The realization sits heavy in my chest. By the end of the gathering, I understand something crucial: I’m not merely a target. I’m a variable. Someone is manipulating the situation from within, orchestrating events I can’t see, and my presence is being exploited.
The knowledge chills me far more than the attacks themselves. Because if it’s coming from inside, then trust becomes impossible, and everyone, even those closest to Mike, could be part of the threat.