Chapter 24 Roman
ROMAN
The morning starts like any other. I'm reviewing shipping manifests when Natasha's voice crackles over the intercom, higher-pitched than usual, edged with panic.
"Mr. Sokolov, Boris Borisov is here with his daughter. They're demanding to see you immediately."
I don't need to ask if they have an appointment.
The tremor in Natasha's voice tells me they've already bulldozed past her protests.
I glance through the glass wall at Eva, who's bent over her desk, blonde hair pulled back in that sleek bun I want to destroy with my hands.
She looks up, brown eyes meeting mine with a question she doesn't voice.
"Send them in," I say, my voice flat.
I remain seated behind my desk as Boris Borisov storms into my office, his massive frame filling the doorway.
He's red-faced and sweating despite the perfectly climate-controlled temperature, his jowls quivering with rage.
Daria follows in his wake, all designer labels and ice-blue fury, her gaze immediately shooting daggers through the glass wall at Eva.
"What the fuck is this, Roman?" Boris's voice booms, spittle flying. "You humiliate my daughter? Break our agreement? Destroy our alliance?"
I lean back in my chair, my fingers steepled, deliberately projecting calm in contrast to his hysteria. "There was no agreement, Boris. Sit down."
"Don't tell me to sit down!" His fist slams on my desk, rattling the coffee cup Eva brought me this morning. "We had an understanding! A tentative engagement! You gave your word!"
"I gave nothing." My voice drops lower, forcing him to lean in to hear. It's a power play I've perfected over decades. "Our families discussed a potential alliance. I agreed to consider it. I've considered. The answer is no."
Daria's shriek cuts through the office like nails on glass. "You're choosing her? That secretary? You're replacing me with some desperate little whore who spreads her legs for a paycheck?"
My hands clench beneath the desk, but I keep my expression neutral. Through the glass, I see Eva's shoulders tense, though her head remains bent over her files. She's listening to every word.
"Watch your mouth," I say, my accent thickening with barely controlled rage. "You will not speak about my fiancée that way." Technically, that's not true. Not yet. But Daria doesn't need to know that.
"Fiancée?" Daria's laugh is shrill, hysterical. "You're actually going to marry her? That nobody? That—"
"Enough." The single word cracks like a whip. "I have the right to choose my own wife. I've made my choice."
Boris's face has gone from red to purple. "You're making a mistake, Roman. A catastrophic mistake. My family has supported you for years. We've stood beside you, vouched for you with the other families. And this is how you repay us? By humiliating my daughter in front of everyone?"
"Your daughter was never humiliated by me.
" I stand slowly, my height and the desk between us creating a barrier he can't cross without making this physical.
And if he makes it physical, he'll lose.
"Any humiliation she feels is of her own making.
I never promised marriage. I never touched her.
I never gave her reason to believe she had any claim on me. "
"You let her call herself your fiancée!" Boris slams his hand on the desk again. "You let her plan a wedding! You let her tell people—"
"I let her believe what she wanted to believe," I interrupt, my voice cold. "That was her mistake, not mine."
Daria's composure shatters completely. She starts screaming about disrespect, about broken promises, about how I've made her a laughingstock.
Her voice echoes through the office, shrill and furious, and I see Eva flinch through the glass.
My jaw tightens. I want to throw them both out, to protect Eva from this ugliness, but I need to handle this carefully.
Boris still has connections, still has influence with families I can't afford to alienate completely.
"You'll regret this," Boris threatens, his voice dropping to something more dangerous. "I'll tell the other families that Roman Sokolov's word means nothing. That you can't be trusted. That you're weak, distracted by pussy instead of focused on business."
The insult hangs in the air between us. I move around my desk with deliberate slowness, closing the distance until I'm standing close enough to smell the vodka on his breath, the desperation in his sweat.
"You can tell them whatever you want," I say quietly, my accent thick.
"But we both know the truth. Your organization is drowning in debt.
You need this alliance more than I do. You were counting on my money, my connections, my protection to save you from the hole you've dug. Without it, you're finished."
Boris's face goes pale beneath the flush. I've hit the nerve I was aiming for.
"So here's what's going to happen," I continue, my voice low enough that only he can hear.
"You're going to leave my office. You're going to take your daughter home.
You're going to tell the other families that the engagement was mutually dissolved, that both parties decided we weren't compatible.
You're going to do this with grace and dignity, or I'll make sure everyone knows exactly how desperate you are.
How much you owe. How close you are to losing everything. "
"You bastard," Boris whispers.
"Yes," I agree. "But I'm a bastard with power. You're just desperate."
Daria tries one more time, her voice cracking with tears that might even be genuine. "Roman, please. We could be good together. I could give you everything you need. I understand your world. I wouldn't be a liability like she is."
I don't even look at her. "Get out."
They leave finally, Daria's threats echoing through the office as Boris drags her toward the elevator. She's promising her father will make me regret this humiliation, that I'll pay for choosing a nobody over her, that everyone will know what kind of man I really am.
I watch them go, my mind already calculating the political damage. Boris will talk, despite my threats. He'll poison whatever relationships he can, try to turn other families against me. The alliance with the Borisovs is finished, and that creates a vacuum that Abram Yakovlev will be eager to fill.
But when I look through the glass wall at Eva, still bent over her files with that stubborn determination I both love and want to break, I know I'd make the same choice again. She's mine. The baby growing inside her is mine. And I'll burn every alliance to ash before I let anyone take them from me.
The rest of the morning passes in tense silence.
I make calls, review documents, handle the endless business of running an empire.
But I'm acutely aware of Eva in the adjacent office, the way her dress hugs her body, the curve of her ass when she stands to retrieve files.
My cock hardens remembering how she felt beneath me, how she gasped my name, how her body responded to mine with desperate hunger.
Later in the afternoon, I press the intercom. "Miss Markova. My office. Bring your notepad."
She enters moments later, her professional armor firmly in place despite the morning's drama. She settles into the chair across from my desk, pen poised, brown eyes carefully neutral. But I see the tension in her shoulders, the way she presses her thumbnail into her index finger when she's nervous.
I dictate correspondence for twenty minutes, watching her neat handwriting capture my words. I prefer this method sometimes. Digital files can be hacked, traced, used against me. But Eva's handwriting is hers alone, and there's something intimate about watching her record my thoughts.
When I finish, she doesn't immediately leave. Instead, she sets down her pen and meets my gaze directly.
"I need to tell you something," she says, her voice steady despite the fear I can see flickering in her eyes.
"Go on."
"Last night, I received a call. From the company that holds my mother's medical debt." She pauses, her hands folding in her lap. "They offered to reduce the debt significantly. Forgive most of it, actually. But only if I provide them with a small favor."
My jaw tightens. "What kind of favor?"
"They didn't specify. Just said they'd be in touch with details." Her brown eyes search mine. "It's the company you told me about. The one connected to Abram Yakovlev."
Fuck. Abram is circling closer, using Eva's vulnerability to manipulate her, to create leverage against me.
My hands clench on the armrests of my chair, rage flooding my veins.
I want to wage war against his entire organization, to destroy everyone involved in that predatory lending scheme, to make them pay for targeting what's mine.
"You'll refuse," I say, my voice hard. "Whatever they ask, the answer is no."
"I know." She straightens her spine, that stubborn pride surfacing. "But I have a different idea."
I raise an eyebrow, waiting.
"Let me work with them," Eva says, her words coming faster now. "Pretend to cooperate. Gather evidence about how the scheme operates, who's involved, how they trap families. Then we can dismantle it from the inside. Free not just me, but the hundreds of immigrant families caught in the same cycle."
"Absolutely not." The refusal is immediate, instinctive. "It's too dangerous. It puts you directly in Abram's crosshairs."
"I'm already in his crosshairs!" Her voice rises slightly, passion breaking through her careful control. "He knows about me. He's using my debt to manipulate me. At least this way, I'm fighting back instead of just being protected."
"No." I stand, moving around my desk. "You don't understand what you're asking. These are dangerous men, Eva. They don't play games. If they suspect you're gathering evidence—"
"Then I'll be careful." She stands too, meeting my approach without retreating. "These are my people, Roman. Immigrant families being exploited, destroyed by debt they can never escape. I can help them. I can make a difference."
"By putting yourself at risk?" My hands grip her shoulders, perhaps harder than I intend. "By walking into a trap? You're carrying my child, Eva. I won't allow it."
Her brown eyes flash with anger. "You won't allow it? I'm not asking your permission. I'm telling you what I'm going to do."
"The fuck you are." My accent thickens with frustration.
We're standing too close, the air between us crackling with tension that's equal parts anger and desire.
I can smell her perfume, see the pulse fluttering at her throat, notice how her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths that make her breasts strain against her dress.
My cock hardens despite my fury, my body responding to her proximity with embarrassing eagerness.
"You're impossible," I growl.
"So are you."
We're still glaring at each other, neither willing to back down, when my office door opens without knocking.
David Brennan stands in the doorway, his usual composure cracked by urgency. He's holding a folder, his expression grim behind his titanium-framed glasses.
"We have a serious problem," he says, his voice tight. "The Chinese just hit one of our gambling operations. Three men dead, all killed execution-style with weapons traced back to our armory. They think we're breaking the alliance."