Chapter 29 Eva
EVA
I'm reviewing quarterly reports when Natasha's voice crackles over the intercom, higher-pitched than usual. "Miss Markova, you have a visitor in reception."
I glance up from my computer screen, my brow furrowing.
I'm not expecting anyone, and Roman's security doesn't typically let people through without advance notice.
Through the glass wall separating my office from Roman's, I catch his eye.
He's on the phone, speaking low Russian, but his blue gaze sharpens with interest at the interruption.
I stand, smoothing my navy dress over my still-flat stomach, and make my way to the reception area.
The woman waiting there is stunning in a way that makes my stomach clench with immediate unease.
She's tall, elegant, wearing an emerald dress that probably costs more than my old monthly rent.
Her dark hair is swept up in a sophisticated chignon, and her green eyes assess me with the practiced precision of someone who knows exactly how to measure value.
I've seen her before, with Lev. His girlfriend, but we've never been properly introduced.
"Eva Markova?" Her smile is beautiful and completely calculated. "I'm Irina Titova. Lev's girlfriend."
I extend my hand, my professional armor snapping into place. "Of course. It's nice to meet you."
Her handshake is firm, her skin cool against mine. "I was hoping you might have time for lunch? After all, you're marrying the Pakhan, and Roman and Lev are practically brothers. We should get to know each other, don't you think?"
Every instinct I possess screams caution.
There's something predatory in the way she watches me, something calculating behind that polished smile.
But refusing would seem suspicious, would create tension I can't afford.
I force warmth into my voice. "That would be lovely. Let me just grab my purse."
I return to my office, acutely aware of Roman's attention tracking my movements, then collect my bag and coat and pause at his doorway. He's ended his call, his blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"Irina Titova wants to take me to lunch," I say quietly.
Something flickers in his expression, too quick to identify. "Be careful with her."
The warning makes my pulse quicken, but I nod.
Roman stands, moving around his desk with that predatory grace that always makes my breath catch.
He's wearing a charcoal suit today, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch.
He stops close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne, and my body responds with embarrassing eagerness despite the professional setting.
"If you need anything," he says, his accent thicker than usual, "call me immediately."
I want to ask what he's worried about, what threat Irina might represent. But Lev's girlfriend is waiting in reception, and I can't afford to show weakness. "I will."
Roman's hand lifts, his fingers brushing my cheek with surprising gentleness.
The touch sends heat flooding through me, and I see his pupils dilate as he notices my reaction.
For a moment, I think he might kiss me right here, in full view of anyone who might pass by.
Instead, he steps back, his jaw tight with restraint.
"Go. But remember what I said."
The restaurant Irina chooses makes my stomach clench with familiar anxiety.
It's the kind of upscale Midtown establishment where a salad costs more than my old weekly grocery budget, where the waitstaff move with practiced deference and the clientele drip with old money.
I follow Irina inside, my worn coat suddenly feeling shabby despite my best efforts to maintain appearances.
We're seated at a corner table with a view of the street, and I'm acutely aware of how out of place I feel. Irina orders a bottle of expensive wine without hesitation, her French pronunciation flawless. When the sommelier pours, she lifts her glass expectantly.
"I'm sorry, I can't," I say, keeping my voice light. "I have to work this afternoon."
It's not entirely a lie, though the real reason is the life growing inside me that I'm not ready to reveal. Irina's green eyes sharpen with assessment, and I see her mind working behind that beautiful face. She's calculating, measuring, trying to determine what I'm hiding.
"Of course," she says smoothly. "How responsible of you."
The menu is in French, and I struggle to decipher the options while keeping my expression neutral.
Everything is obscenely expensive. I finally settle on what appears to be the cheapest salad, my pride stinging at the necessity of such calculations.
Irina orders without looking at the prices, her confidence absolute.
"So," Irina says once the waiter departs, her smile perfectly calibrated. "Tell me how you and Roman met. It's such a romantic story, I'm sure."
The question feels loaded, though I can't identify the trap. "I was hired as his secretary. We worked together."
"How… conventional." Her tone suggests it's anything but. "And now you're marrying him. That's quite a leap from secretary to Pakhan’s wife."
The way she emphasizes "secretary" makes it sound like an insult. I force myself to meet her gaze without flinching. "Roman and I connected. Sometimes, these things happen quickly."
"Indeed." Irina takes a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving mine. "And what do you think of his world? Are you prepared for what being the Pakhan’s wife really means?"
I think about the shooting in Roman's office, the body wrapped in plastic, the cleaners who erased evidence with terrifying efficiency. The way Roman's men carry weapons beneath expensive suits, and the cold calculation in his blue eyes when he's handling "business".
"I understand what I'm walking into," I say carefully.
"Do you?" Irina leans forward slightly, and I catch a glimpse of something darker beneath her polished exterior. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look like a girl who got in over her head. A desperate woman who saw an opportunity and took it, consequences be damned."
The accuracy of her assessment makes my skin prickle with unease.
But I've survived worse than Irina Titova's interrogation.
I've watched my mother die, sent my brother away, drowned in debt that nearly destroyed me.
I straighten my spine, channeling every ounce of the steel that's kept me alive this long.
"I love Roman," I say quietly. "And he loves me. Whatever else you think you know about our relationship, that's the truth that matters."
Irina's expression shifts, becomes something harder. "Love." She laughs, the sound bitter. "How naive. Love doesn't survive in this world, Eva. It gets crushed beneath the weight of violence and betrayal and the constant need to prove you're strong enough to keep what's yours."
Our food arrives, providing a momentary reprieve from the tension crackling between us. I pick at my salad, my appetite completely gone, while Irina eats with elegant precision. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken hostility.
"You know," Irina finally says, her voice deceptively casual, "Lev and I have been together for five years.
I've watched Roman build his empire, seen the women who've tried to get close to him, the ones who thought they could handle his world.
" She pauses, her green eyes boring into mine.
"They all ended the same way. Broken, traumatized, or dead. "
The words echo Lev's warning from weeks ago, and my stomach tightens with familiar dread. "I'm not like them."
"Aren't you?" Irina's smile is sharp. "You're young, inexperienced, completely unprepared for what's coming.
Roman's enemies will use you against him.
They'll hurt you to hurt him. And when that happens, when you're bleeding and terrified and begging for mercy, you'll realize that love isn't enough. "
I set down my fork, my hands trembling slightly despite my best efforts to appear unaffected. "Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?"
Irina's expression softens slightly, becomes almost sympathetic. "I'm trying to help you understand what you've gotten yourself into. Roman is dangerous, Eva. Not just to his enemies, but to everyone around him. The closer you get, the more you'll be destroyed by proximity to his violence."
"He would never hurt me."
"Not intentionally, perhaps." Irina finishes her wine, signaling for another glass. "But intention doesn't matter when bullets start flying, when enemies come for what's his, when the weight of his world crushes everything soft and innocent beneath it."
The lunch continues in tense silence, Irina's questions becoming more pointed, more invasive.
She asks about my family, my background, and my plans for the future.
Each answer I give feels like ammunition I'm handing her, information she's cataloging for purposes I don't understand.
By the time we finally leave the restaurant, I'm exhausted and emotionally drained.
The SUV is waiting at the curb, Roman's security detail as constant as my own shadow. I slide into the back seat, grateful for the privacy of tinted windows. My phone buzzes with a text from Roman.
How was lunch?
I stare at the screen, trying to formulate a response that captures the unease churning in my stomach. Before I can type anything, another text arrives.
I'm having her followed. Tell me everything when you get home.
Home. The word still feels strange, foreign. Roman's estate isn't home. It's a gilded cage I've agreed to inhabit. But the thought of seeing him, of being in his presence, eases some of the tension coiling in my chest.
The drive back to the estate takes longer than usual, traffic snarled by construction.
I watch the city pass by through the window, my mind replaying Irina's warnings, her thinly veiled hostility, the calculation in her green eyes.
She sees me as a threat, though I can't understand why.
What do I have that she wants? What am I taking from her simply by existing?
The estate gates finally come into view, and I exhale slowly as we pull through. Security waves us past, and the SUV stops at the main entrance. I thank the driver and make my way inside, my heels clicking against marble floors that still feel too grand, too expensive, and entirely too much.
I find the sitting room and settle onto one of the leather couches, pulling out my laptop to review wedding arrangements.
The ceremony is in two weeks, and there are still a thousand details requiring attention.
Flowers, music, the traditional Russian elements Roman insisted on, the guest list that keeps growing as more of his associates demand invitations.
I'm reviewing seating charts when one of Roman's security team appears in the doorway. "Miss Markova, you have a visitor."
My heart leaps. "Who?"
"Your brother. Alexei Markov. He just arrived from Russia."
The laptop nearly slides from my lap as I jump to my feet. Alexei. My brilliant, stubborn, beloved little brother is here. Joy and terror war in my chest as I rush toward the foyer, my mind racing. I knew he was coming, but I didn't know when he would get here.
I round the corner into the marble entryway and stop cold.
Alexei stands frozen just inside the door, his worn jacket and scuffed shoes stark against the estate's opulence.
His blonde hair is messy from travel, his face thinner than I remember, and his blue eyes are so like our mother's that my chest aches.
But it's his expression that stops my heart.
He's staring at the crystal chandeliers, the artwork on the walls, the obvious wealth surrounding him, and his face twists with something that looks like disgust.
"Alexei," I breathe, taking a step toward him. "I'm so happy you're here. I didn't know when you were coming or I would have—"
"This is where you've been living?" His voice cracks, raw with emotion. "While Babushka and I ate day-old bread and counted kopeks for heating?"
The accusation hits like a physical blow. "It's not what you think. I can explain—"
"Can you?" He turns toward the door, his shoulders rigid with betrayal.
"Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been living in luxury while we suffered.
While I withdrew my university savings to try to help pay for Babushka's surgery.
While we froze because we couldn't afford heating. "
"Alexei, please."
He looks at me one more time, and the hurt in his eyes nearly destroys me. "I don't even know who you are anymore."
Then he's gone, the door slamming behind him with devastating finality, and I'm left standing in the marble foyer, my heart shattering into pieces I don't know how to put back together.