IRINA VOLKOV

The next morning, I took the metro to Tverskaya and found a secondhand boutique that catered to women who needed to look expensive without actually being expensive. The owner, a rail thin woman with black hair and calculating eyes, sized me up immediately.

"Special occasion?" she asked in Russian.

I nodded. "Dinner. Somewhere nice." I kept my voice neutral, but the woman's eyes sparkled with understanding.

"Rich boyfriend?"

"Something like that."

She disappeared into the back and returned with three dresses. All designer labels, all slightly worn butt beautifully maintained. The kind of dresses that whispered wealth without shouting it.

I chose a midnight blue dress with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt. Elegant. Sophisticated. The king of thing my character, Anastasia Sokolova would wear. It cost more than I wanted to spend, but when I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw exactly what I needed to see. A woman worth investing in.

A woman worth three hundred thousand euros.

Shoes and a small clutch bag came next, then a stop at a department store for the makeup. By the time I returned to my apartment, the afternnon sun was already fading, and my nerves were wound tight as piano wire.

I spent an hour getting ready, transforming myself into Anastasia. Hair swept up in an elegant chignon. Makeup subtle but flawless. The dress fit perfectly, and the heels.

God, I hated heels, they made my legs look longer than they actually were.

It's just for today. Yeah.

When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

Perfect. So fucking perfect.

I packed my go-bag and hid it in the closet, ready to grab the moment I returned. Passport, cash, change of clothes, laptop. Everything I needed to disappear.

At 6:30 PM, I called a taxi. Not Uber, too traceable. A regular Moscow cab that I paid for in cash.

The drive to Tverskoy Boulevard took twenty minutes through evening traffic. I watched the city scroll past my window. The lights, the crowds, the endless sprawl of concrete and ambition. Two years I'd lived here as a ghost. After tonight, I'd be a ghost somewhere else.

Restaurant Turandot was exactly as opulent as its reputation suggested. Crystal chandeliers, gilded mirrors, waiters in crisp white shirts moving like synchronized dancers. I felt suddenly, acutely aware that I didn't belong here.

But I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, and walked in like I owned the place.

Rule number one: Fake it until you make it.

"Good evening," I said to the maître d' in perfect Russian. "I have a reservation. Under Romanov."

The man checked his list and nodded. "Of course. Mr. Romanov is already seated. This way, please."

My heart began to hammer. This was it. Three months of messages, filled with carefully constructed lies and late-night conversations that had felt too real, all leading to this moment.

Calm down, Irina. It will soon be over.

The maître d' led me through the main dining room, past tables filled with Moscow's elite, oligarchs and their mistresses, businessmen sealing deals over wine that cost more than most people's monthly salary. Eyes followed me. I ignored them.

We stopped at a table in a semi-private alcove. A man sat with his back to me, broad-shouldered in an expensive charcoal suit. Dark hair cut short. Even from behind, he radiated a kind of controlled power that made my stomach flip.

"Your guest, Mr. Romanov," the maître d' announced.

The man stood and turned.

Fuck me.

My breath caught in my throat.

He was... not what I expected. The profile picture hadn't done him justice. He was tall, easily six-foot-three, with sharp Slavic features and ice-blue eyes that seemed to look right through me. Or...my soul.

Handsome, yes, but in a way that was almost intimidating. Like a blade honed to lethal perfection.

His eyes-cold, calculating was what made me stopped. The eyes of someone who saw too much.

For one terrible moment, I wanted to run. No need for the real estate blah blah and just run for dear life.

Then he smiled, and the coldness melted into something warmer. Almost shy.

"Anastasia," he said, and his voice was exactly as I remembered from their audio calls. Deep, slightly accented. "You're even more beautiful than your pictures."

I forced myself to smile, to step forward, to take the hand he offered. His grip was firm, warm, and sent an unexpected shiver up my arm.

Dear God.

"Damien," I said, and was proud that my voice didn't shake. "It's so good to finally meet you in person."

"Please, sit." He pulled out my chair with the kind of old-world courtesy that should have felt out of place but somehow didn't.

As I sat, I caught sight of two men seated at a nearby table. Both wore suits. Both had the kind of alert stillness that marked them as either bodyguards or something worse.

I looked at Damien questioningly.

"Security," he said with an apologetic shrug. "I know it seems excessive, but in my line of work, you can't be too careful. I hope they don't make you uncomfortable."

Ah. Damn.

"Not at all," I lied smoothly. "I understand completely."

Inside, warning bells were screaming. Damn-what kind of "import-export" businessman needed armed security?

I kept my smile fixed, my body language open and relaxed.

"Would you like wine?" Damien asked. "I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of Château Margaux. I remember you mentioning you preferred red."

He remembered. Of course he did. It was a detail my character, Anastasia had mentioned in passing two months ago. The fact that he'd retained it, that he'd thought to order it. It was exactly the kind of gesture that would make a real woman's heart flutter.

Good job Damien.

I wasn't a real woman. Not tonight. Tonight I was Anastasia, and Anastasia would be charmed.

"That's very thoughtful," I said warmly. "Thank you."

The waiter appeared, poured the wine with practice elegance, and disappeared. Alexei raised his glass.

"To new beginnings," he said, his ice-blue eyes locked on mine.

"To new beginnings," I echoed, touching my glass with his.

CHAPTER FOUR:

IRINA VOLKOV

The wine was excellent. Probably worth more than everything I owned. I took a small sip of my wine and set the glass down, hyperaware of every movement, every gesture. One fucking wrong move, one slip in my performance, and this could all fall apart.

"You look nervous," Damien observed. Not accusatory. Just... observant.

"A little," I admitted, because Anastasia would be nervous. "I'm not usually good at first meetings. I'm much better behind a screen."

Nice one Irina.

“I understand.” He leaned back, and something about the movement was graceful, almost predatory. “Same here. But I actually wanted to meet you. I’ve thought about you all the time since we started talking. Do you know what that is like? To have someone occupy your thoughts one hundred percent?”

Yes. I mean I do. Because despite everything, despite all the lies, despite the scam, despite knowing this was supposed to be purely transactional. I had thought about him. More than I should have.

“I think about you,” I said softly, and it wasn’t entirely a lie.

Something flickered in his eye. Satisfaction? Pride? But it was gone too quickly for me to identify.

“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

The waiter returned to take our orders. I barely registered what I asked for, some kind of fish, I thought. My mind was too busy analyzing Damien, searching for weaknesses, for cracks in his polished exterior.

But he gave me nothing. Every movement was controlled. Every word carefully chosen. He asked about my work, my dreams, my favorite books, all the conversations we’d had before, but now in person, with his intense gaze fixed on my face.

I answered as Anastasia would. Charming, slightly vulnerable, grateful for his attention. It was a role I'd played a hundred times before.

So why did it feel different this time?

Halfway through dinner, he reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.

"The investment," he said, sliding it across the table. "Three hundred thousand euros, as promised. I've already had my lawyers draw up the partnership papers. All you need to do is sign."

Really?

My hand trembled slightly as I took the envelope. Inside were official-looking documents and a certified bank check made out to Anastasia Sokolova.

Three hundred thousand euros.

Damn. F for Freedom.

I looked up at him, and for just a second, I saw something in his expression that made my blood run cold. Not kindness. Not attraction.

Recognition.

My brain screamed danger. I needed to make a move quickly. Disappear into thin air with my money.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, his voice perfectly pleasant.

"No," I said quickly. "No, this is... this is incredibly generous, Damien. Thank you."

"You're welcome." He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "After all, what's mine is yours now. Isn't that how partnerships work?"

Something about the way he said it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Irina Volkov, time up. Time to go.

But the check was real. The money was real.

I tucked the envelope into her clutch and forced myself to relax. I was being paranoid. This was just a normal dinner with a lonely businessman who'd been foolish enough to fall for my scam.

In an hour, I'd walk out of here, cash the check, and disappear forever.

But with the way he was staring at me right now, it was like Damien Romanov had no intention of letting me walk out at all.

Dessert arrived. Some elaborate confection involving gold leaf and raspberry coulis. But I barely tasted it. Every cell in my body was screaming at me to leave. To take the money and run.

But silly me stood still.

Damien was watching me with those ice-blue eyes, and something about his gaze made it impossible to move. Like a rabbit frozen in the sight of a wolf.

“You’re quiet,” he observed, setting down his fork. “You have second thoughts about the partnership?”

Huh?

“No,” I said quickly. “Not at all. I’m just…overwhelmed. This is very generous of you.”

“You deserve it.” H e leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to something more intimate. “You’ve been with me for these past few months. Been there. Listening. Understanding a lonely businessman like me. Do you know how rare that is? To find someone who truly sees you?”

Guilt building. I pushed it down ruthlessly. This is not the time to feel guilty. Not now. Not when my freedom was literally sitting pretty in my clutch bag.

“I feel the same way,” The foolish, stupid part of me meant it.

Damien's smile was slow, satisfied. "Good. Because I have a plan for you."

My pulse quickened. "A plan?"

"Come back to my apartment. Just for a drink. I'd like to show you the view from my place, it's quite spectacular. And we can discuss the investment in more detail." He paused. "Unless you have other plans?"

Every alarm bell in my head went off at once.

Rule number Five: Never go to a target's home. Always keep meetings public.

Always maintain an exit strategy.

CHAPTER FIVE:

IRINA VOLKOV

But I had the check. The money was already mine. What harm could one drink do? And if I refused, if I seemed too eager to leave, it might raise suspicions.

This is risky and fucking dangerous.

Besides, there was something in his eyes. A challenge. Like he knew I wanted to refuse and was daring me to do it.

I made my decision. One drink. Thirty minutes. Then I will excuse herself, go straight to the airport, and be in Prague by morning.

Okay, sounds perfect.

"I'd love to," I said, releasing a smile. "That sounds wonderful."

"Excellent." Damien signaled for the check. "My car is outside."

The check came and went, I didn't even see how much it was, though I caught a glimpse of several zeros. Damien paid in cash, crisp bills that he counted out with the ease of someone who never had to think about money.

Then we were standing, his hand warm on the small of my back as he guided me through the restaurant. The two security guards fell into step behind us, silent as shadows.

Outside, the Moscow night was cold and clear. A black Mercedes waited at the curb, gleaming under the streetlights. The driver, another suited, dangerous-looking man opened the back door.

Damien helped me inside with a gentlemanly courtesy that would have been charming if my instincts weren't screaming for me to fucking run.

The interior of the car was luxurious. Leather seats, tinted windows, a partition between the front and back. Damien slid in beside me, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Expensive. Masculine. Oddly intoxicating.

The guards got into a second car behind us

Okay, in case you don't know yet-I'm scared.

"Where do you live?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

"Ostozhenka. Near the cathedral." He smiled. "Very quiet. Very private."

Ah. Ostozhenka. One of Moscow's most exclusive neighborhoods. Of course.

The drive took less than fifteen minutes. I spent it making small talk, playing the role of Anastasia, while my mind raced through contingency plans. The car turned onto a tree-lined street and pulled up to a modern building that was all glass and steel.

A doorman appeared immediately, opening the car door. Damien helped me out, his hand once again on my back, proprietary and warm. Seems like he has a thing for backs. Or maybe he's just being a gentleman. A dangerous gentleman.

The lobby was pristine. Marble floors, modern art on the walls, a security desk manned by yet another serious-looking man in a suit. He nodded at Damien with the kind of deference usually reserved for royalty.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My heart slammed against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

It's not too late to turn back, right? I mean I can just tell him I have somewhere to go-someone to meet at the moment.

I just need to come up with a lie, right?

We rode the elevator to the top floor in silence. The guards stayed in the lobby, I noticed that and breathe out in relief. Just me and dangerous Damien, rising through the building like we were ascending to some private kingdom.

The elevator opened directly into his apartment.

I stepped out and froze.

Okay,

The penthouse was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire city, Moscow spread out like a glittering jewel box. The space was enormous, open plan living area, sleek modern furniture, art that probably cost more than I'd made in my entire life of scamming.

This wasn't the home of an import-export businessman. No, no, no.

This was the home of someone with serious money. Serious power.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Damien's voice came from behind me, close enough that I felt his breath on my neck.

"It's beautiful," I managed, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Make yourself comfortable." He moved to a bar area, pulling out two crystal glasses. "Vodka? Wine? Whiskey?"

"Wine is fine," I said, perching on the edge of a leather sofa that probably cost more than a car.

This guy is rich-wealthy. Fucking wealthy.

I watched him pour, my muscles coiled tight, ready to She watched him pour, her muscles coiled tight, ready to run. The elevator required a key card to operate. I'd seen him use it. Which meant I was trapped up here unless he let me leave.

Okay, calm down, I told myself. You're being paranoid. This is just a drink. Thirty minutes and you're gone.

Damien returned with two glasses of white wine and sat down beside me. Not across from me, beside me, close enough that our knees almost touched.

Breathe, girl.

"To partnership," he said, raising his glass.

"To partnership," I echoed, taking a small sip.

For a moment, we sat in silence. The view really was spectacular. Moscow glittered below them like a universe of stars. It was easy to see why someone with this much money, this much power, might feel like a god looking down on mortals.

And here I was, willingly walked into the beast's belly.

"Can I ask you something, Anastasia?"

The way he said my name. My fake name. Made something cold slither down my spine.

"Of course," I said.

"What's your real name?"

My.... heart stopped.

"I... what?" I forced a confused laugh. "Damien, my name is Anastasia. I don't understand...."

"Your real name." His voice was still pleasant, conversational, but there was steel underneath now. "The one your mother gave you. The one on your actual passport, not the fake one you're planning to use at the airport tonight."

The world tilted. Busted.