Chapter 18 – Mike
I always underestimated Anya’s ambition.
I dismissed her as jealous, reckless, the type to act out of emotion.
But I never considered that her attachment to me might be strategic, coldly calculated rather than genuine.
Samantha’s final confession slams that illusion to the ground: Anya has been working with the rival woman for months, feeding them intelligence, planting herself close enough to see and hear everything.
The realization burns like acid.
She wasn’t heartbroken. She wasn’t angry. She was building leverage—patiently, meticulously, like a predator circling its prey.
Every plan I’ve made, every precaution I thought was enough, suddenly feels like it was made with blinders on. Anya wasn’t just a threat; she was an inside weapon, and now I know exactly how deep the knife has been plunged.
I clench my fists. This isn’t personal; it’s tactical. And I won’t let anyone use her—or anyone else—to touch Ellie.
Not ever.
“What do we do?” Ellie asks, her voice quiet but tense, threading itself into the tight coil of my thoughts.
I take a slow breath, letting the weight of the revelation settle before answering.
“We call a meeting. All my closest allies, everyone I trust implicitly.” I meet her eyes, letting her see the plan forming even in my calm.
“She likes to think I see her as an ally. That’s how I’ll get her here.
Once she’s in the room, I deal with her. Personally.”
Ellie studies me for a moment, then nods. Without a word, she slides an arm around my waist, pressing close. The tension that had gripped the evening loosens as we hold each other.
We fall asleep tangled together, the world outside suspended for a few hours. In each other’s arms, there’s a fragile peace—but underneath it, I know the storm is only just beginning.
***
One week later, I hold the meeting right here in my home, under the guise of reinforcing unity after Sergei’s betrayal. Anya arrives dressed in calculated elegance, unaware that the trap has already been laid.
Ellie sits across the table, deliberately distant so Anya can come close. Anya sees it immediately and takes advantage, draping herself over my arm, whispering compliments into my ear, her smile sharp and practiced.
After the discussion about strengthening our ranks and rooting out disloyalty, I rise to my feet, taking Anya’s arm so she rises with me. The room goes still, every eye turning our way.
Anya throws Ellie a triumphant I-won-bitch look from across the table. Ellie only smiles, calm and unshaken, radiating quiet power.
I lift my glass, clicking it against the table to demand absolute silence. The murmur of conversation dies instantly.
“All of you,” I say, my voice low and precise, carrying across the room, “there’s a matter of loyalty we need to address. Right here, right now.”
Anya stiffens slightly, just enough for me to see it. Her confidence wavers, even if she tries to hide it.
I let the silence stretch, heavy and oppressive, the room hanging onto my next words.
“First,” I say, letting the tension build, “I want to thank my wife—because she’s more than an equal. Because of her ideas, her strategies, I’ve been able to fish out moles easily.”
I sweep my gaze across the table. “Everyone, please, a round of applause for Mrs. Ellie Rusnak.”
Ellie beams, a quiet pride shining through, as polite applause ripples around the room. Some reach out to shake her hand, others openly congratulate her. I let her have her shine.
Then, I turn slowly toward Anya, letting my tone harden, every word measured. “And in honor of calling out moles, it’s time for you to confess your alliance with Sergei and Samantha.”
The table begins to murmur again, low and uneasy.
Anya’s response is immediate, sharp, and rehearsed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, her voice a smooth mask over the flicker of panic in her eyes. She glances toward Ellie, trying to read her expression, but Ellie only meets her gaze evenly, unflinching.
I take a step closer, letting the room feel the weight of my presence. “Anya…don’t waste your breath. The communications, the transfers, the timing of every move—it’s all on record. You can deny it all you want, but the truth doesn’t bend to your lies.”
The table goes silent, all attention locked on the confrontation. A few of my closest allies exchange subtle nods, anticipation in their eyes, but no one dares interrupt.
Anya’s defiance cracks only slightly, but she recovers quickly. “You…you’ll pay for this,” she hisses, venom coating each word. “Is it not enough that after I gave everything, after I…used myself for you, you jilted me to marry someone else?” Her voice trembles with fury.
Before I can respond, the overhead projector hums to life. Timofey stands behind it, calm, precise, and slides the first intercepted communication onto the screen.
Message after message appears—financial transfers, encrypted conversations, carefully timed instructions. Each one links Anya to Sergei and Samantha, her involvement undeniable.
The room murmurs, but my gaze never leaves hers. The color drains from her face, her carefully constructed mask slipping as she realizes the walls have closed in.
I step closer again, voice low and deadly calm. “This isn’t about the past, Anya. This is about the truth. And the truth…always wins.”
Her lips part, words caught somewhere between protest and panic, but no sound escapes. The evidence hangs over her like a guillotine, and the room waits, watching her finally face what she cannot deny.
Then, in a flash, Anya lunges—not at me, but at Ellie. Her hands grab for Ellie’s shoulders, fingers clawing, nails scraping against fabric. Her face is twisted, desperate, a mixture of rage and fear.
Ellie reacts instinctively. She sidesteps, ducking under Anya’s outstretched arms, twisting to use her momentum against her attacker. In a fluid motion, Ellie pivots, slamming Anya’s arm into the edge of the table. The sound of wood cracking echoes across the room.
Timofey and I have been teaching her some fighting techniques for the past week, and I’m so fucking glad she asked for it.
Anya snarls, spinning, swinging again. Ellie blocks the strike with her forearm, feeling the jolt run up her bones. The guards move in, but Ellie’s quick thinking keeps her just ahead of them—enough time to create distance and avoid a direct hit.
I grab Anya by the hair, yanking her back and off balance. She stumbles into me, but her gaze remains fixed on Ellie, wild and unbroken. “You won’t humiliate me!” she hisses, teeth bared.
Ellie breathes hard, stance solid, eyes blazing.
She doesn’t retreat. Instead, she waits, calculating, ready for the next move, a predator poised to strike.
Her hands twitch, fingers brushing the edge of the table, preparing to use everything she’s learned—the defensive strikes, the disarming maneuvers Timofey drilled into her.
I lean close to Anya, voice low and steady. “For touching my wife, I’ll make sure you suffer unimaginable pain.”
Anya laughs, a sharp, bitter sound that cuts through the tension.
She leans into me, her eyes full of hatred.
“You think you’re smart,” she spits, “but you walked right into the set trap. Ellie was never random. Your ‘accidental’ discovery of her research paper—it was orchestrated. Someone fed it to you.”
The guards finally reach her, grappling with her arms and dragging her back. She screams, thrashes, and kicks at anyone who comes near, teeth bared in pure rage. Her words don’t stop, though, venom spilling with every step.
But even as they drag her away, her accusation spins in my mind. Someone orchestrated this. Someone manipulated me. And it wasn’t just Anya.
Ellie’s hand finds mine instinctively, her grip grounding me. I look at her, eyes burning, and she meets my gaze with silent understanding. But her presence can’t erase the echo of Anya’s words. My mind races. Who fed me that paper? Who’s been pulling the strings from the shadows?
The room falls quiet again, but the weight of the revelation presses down on me. I know one thing for certain: I won’t stop until I uncover every piece of this puzzle—and anyone who dares to threaten Ellie or me will regret it.
The rest of the meeting fades into celebration and laughter.
Another mole caught, another victory, and Ellie is the star.
People gravitate toward her, congratulating her, proud of how she handled herself.
I watch her smile, and a flicker of warmth cuts through the tension inside me—but it’s fleeting.
There’s still danger, and I don’t know how to stop it.
Mid-celebration, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I excuse myself, stepping away from the crowded room, and pull it out. An encrypted message. The sender is unknown, the contents sealed tight. I open it, my stomach tightening as I scroll through the files.
Ellie’s conference appearance months ago—the same one I attended anonymously after stalking her for months—was funded anonymously and routed through shell corporations tied to a foreign syndicate.
The same syndicate I recently traced, the one backing the strange woman who kidnapped Ellie.
Every move, every setup—it’s all starting to line up.
My hands tighten around the phone. The truth hits like a punch to the chest: Ellie wasn’t just caught in the crossfire. She was deliberately positioned in my path. Every danger she faced, every orchestrated encounter—it wasn’t random.
Who the hell sent me this? And why?
I lift my eyes, and she’s looking at me, bright and unaware, trusting.
My throat tightens.
She deserves to know. She deserves the truth.
We’re in this together.