Dinner With the Dragon

The knock came at 9:12 a.m.

Not a hard knock. Not urgent. Just… precise.

Anya opened the door already bracing for Ingrid, and sure enough, the housekeeper stood stiffly in the hall, hands folded like a woman delivering sentence rather than message.

“Miss Petrova,” Ingrid said, her voice as neutral as the walls, “Mr. Volkov requests that you and your daughter attend a private dinner this evening. Seven o’clock. Formal.”

Anya blinked. “A dinner?”

“Yes. Miss Vera Volkov is visiting from the Upper East Side. She is Mr. Volkov’s aunt. And a board member.”

“Is this optional?”

Ingrid blinked. Once.

Anya exhaled. “Right. Silly question.”

The housekeeper gave a shallow nod and turned away, heels clicking once on the polished floor before vanishing like a ghost into the hall.

Anya closed the door, leaning her forehead against it with a groan.

Zoe popped up behind her. “Are we going to a party?”

Anya turned and crouched. “Not a party. Just dinner. With someone very rich and very… sharp.”

“Like a shark?”

“Exactly like a shark.”

Zoe giggled and twirled in a circle. “Do I have to wear tights?”

“You know what? We’ll negotiate on tights. But no jelly sandals.”

Zoe groaned and ran off to begin preparing like she was getting ready for the Met Gala.

Anya stayed kneeling for a moment longer, fingers pressed to the floor.

Formal.

That word hit different in a place like this. Formal didn’t mean “put on your nice earrings.” It meant: armor up.

She went to the closet they’d stocked “for convenience”—a polite way of saying because you didn’t come prepared for our standards. The garments hanging there were all expensive, all stiff, all perfectly lifeless.

Her fingers skipped past cashmere cardigans and wool-blend neutrals until she found one piece hidden toward the back.

A deep emerald wrap dress. Subtle shimmer. Fitted at the waist, forgiving through the hips. Still had the tag on it.

Anya ran her fingers across the fabric.

It would do.

She laid it on the bed and sat beside it. The city gleamed out the window, unaware, uncaring.

This wasn’t just a dinner.

It was an assessment.

And Anya had spent her life passing pop quizzes in survival.

She could handle one more.

Even if it came with wine glasses, bone china, and a woman with blood cold enough to refrigerate an empire.

The sound of heels on marble announced her before the doors even opened.

Anya stood with Zoe just inside the dining room, both of them dressed, brushed, and vaguely uncomfortable under the chandelier’s too-bright scrutiny. Zoe clutched a pink marker in one hand like a talisman. Anya had wrestled her own hair into something smooth and civilized and was already regretting the decision to wear heels.

Then the double doors parted with mechanical precision, and in swept Vera Volkov.

She didn’t walk. She arrived.

Tall, thin, immaculately composed, she wore a structured navy blazer with velvet lapels, black trousers pressed sharp enough to slice, and a string of pearls that probably cost more than Anya’s annual salary. Her cheekbones looked sculpted by frost. Her dark blonde hair was slicked into a twist so severe it practically hummed with tension.

Her gaze moved over the room like a blade.

When her eyes landed on Anya, they paused. Not in surprise—Vera had clearly already read every line of the will, probably the hospital records too—but in deliberate calculation.

And when they dropped to Zoe, something flickered. Not softness. Just adjustment.

Dimitri appeared behind her, dressed in charcoal. No tie tonight. Just clean lines, buttoned control. He kissed his aunt’s cheek—brief, polite.

“Vera,” he said.

“Darling.” She patted his arm with a single gloved finger. “You look tired.”

“Because you’re early.”

That earned him a dry smile. “You know I hate lateness. Or were you hoping to warn your houseguests I was coming?”

“I doubt they frighten easily.”

Vera turned back to Anya, smile poised but empty. “And this must be… the addition.”

Anya extended a hand. “Anya Petrova.”

Vera didn’t shake it.

Instead, she looked down at Zoe. “And the heiress to the second complication, I presume.”

Zoe blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”

Vera crouched slightly, maintaining perfect posture even in motion.

“It means you’re a very… surprising little girl.”

Zoe frowned. “Surprises are for birthdays.”

“Indeed.” Vera stood again and walked past them both, taking her seat at the head of the table like the queen of a country she invented.

Anya held Zoe’s hand tighter than necessary.

Dimitri, catching the moment, met her eyes briefly.

There was something there.

Not sympathy.

But warning.

Dinner was a ballet of silence and silver.

The table stretched between them like neutral ground in a war of manners. Anya sat with Zoe at her side, her posture tighter than her dress allowed. Across the white linen battlefield, Vera sat poised, her back straight, her wine glass untouched. Dimitri occupied the space at her right hand like a loyal knight—or perhaps the son she’d always wanted Nikolai to raise.

The first course arrived with the quiet efficiency of invisible staff: white asparagus soup garnished with something too delicate to pronounce.

Vera took one sip, then rested her spoon precisely on the porcelain.

“So,” she began, voice rich with unearned sweetness, “Anya. May I call you that?”

“Of course,” Anya replied, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I understand you’re a teacher.”

“Yes,” Anya said, smoothing her napkin. “Preschool.”

“How… noble.” Vera tilted her head slightly. “And modest.”

Anya kept her tone even. “It’s honest work.”

“Of course. I’m sure the children adore you.”

“They do.”

Vera’s smile sharpened. “And before that? Were you always in education? Or were there… other ambitions?”

Anya saw it then—the hook in the water.

“I studied early childhood development,” she said calmly. “While working two jobs and raising my daughter.”

Vera didn’t blink. “Remarkable. I suppose necessity is a powerful motivator.”

Across the table, Dimitri’s jaw flexed.

Zoe looked between them, eyes narrowing.

“And your family?” Vera continued, casually dissecting her soup with the edge of her spoon. “Aside from the late Mr. Volkov, I mean. Were they… close-knit?”

“My mother raised me alone,” Anya said. “With everything she had.”

“I imagine she found it difficult.”

“She did,” Anya said, “but not because of lack of character.”

Vera’s smile didn’t move. “No, I suppose character doesn’t pay rent.”

Anya opened her mouth.

And then Zoe beat her to it.

“My mommy is smarter than anyone in this big cold house,” Zoe said, frowning. “And she doesn’t need your fancy words to be important.”

The room stopped.

Vera’s spoon stilled mid-air.

Anya’s heart dropped into her stomach. “Zoe—”

But Dimitri spoke over her. “She’s right.”

Both women turned toward him.

He looked at Zoe, then Anya. “Sometimes the smallest voices say the most useful things.”

Zoe blinked. “What’s that mean?”

“It means you’re braver than most of us,” he said.

Vera set her spoon down gently. “A bold child.”

“An observant one,” Dimitri corrected, reaching for his wine.

The silence afterward was not awkward. It was strategic.

Vera dabbed the corner of her mouth. “Well. I suppose everyone contributes what they can.”

Anya met her gaze and smiled—finally genuine. “Exactly. And some people even do it without pearls.”

Dimitri actually choked into his glass.

Vera said nothing.

But her next bite of soup was slower.

For a few beats after Anya’s quiet dig, the table was a still-life painting of composed faces and suspended breath.

Zoe, oblivious to the weight she had just dropped into the room, hummed as she nibbled a bread roll shaped like a seashell.

Vera finally resumed eating with the grace of someone who had mastered the art of pretending she’d never been challenged. But she didn’t speak again right away. That in itself was a tell.

Dimitri didn’t speak either—but he watched. Not like before. Not guarded and skeptical, but… curious. Changed. His gaze lingered too long on Anya’s profile as she cut her food with quiet precision.

She hadn’t backed down.

And maybe more disorienting than that—she hadn’t flinched either.

The corner of his mouth twitched like he might be working against a smirk. He reached for his water instead of his wine, which Anya noticed. The first real crack in his polished restraint.

Zoe, meanwhile, decided the bread wasn’t interesting enough and leaned toward Vera.

“My teacher says we should only ask questions if we really want to hear the answer.”

Vera arched a brow. “Does she?”

Zoe nodded. “She says some grown-ups ask things just to sound smart. But my mommy asks things because she listens.”

Anya nearly dropped her fork.

Vera regarded Zoe for a long, unreadable moment.

And then—shockingly—gave her the faintest, most imperceptible nod. Not approval, not affection.

But perhaps… acknowledgment.

“A useful distinction,” Vera murmured.

Zoe grinned and returned to her roll, mission accomplished.

Anya exhaled and reached for her water glass, suddenly aware that her throat was dry.

When she looked up again, Dimitri was still watching her. Not staring. Not challenging.

Just… watching.

“I thought you were the quiet one,” she said, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I am,” he replied. “I just pick my moments.”

“And this one?”

His expression shifted, infinitesimally. “This one I’m trying to understand.”

Their eyes locked. The air between them warmed, narrowed. Compressed.

Something in his voice had changed. Less ice. More weight.

More… intention.

Anya blinked and turned back to her plate, cheeks betraying her with the faintest flush.

Across the table, Vera didn’t miss a thing.

She watched her nephew like she’d just heard the first note of a symphony she hadn’t expected to enjoy.

The doors had barely closed behind Vera when the room finally exhaled.

Anya stepped back from the table and crouched beside Zoe’s chair, whispering, “You were amazing.”

Zoe beamed. “Did I win?”

“You did,” Anya said. “By knockout.”

Dimitri’s voice broke the soft warmth. “She’ll be escorted back to your wing.”

Anya turned to find him standing near the window, already half-shadowed in the dimming light. His expression unreadable, his voice low.

“Ingrid will take her,” he said. “I’d like a word.”

Zoe looked between them. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, sweetheart,” Anya said, brushing a curl behind her ear. “You were perfect.”

Ingrid arrived like a specter summoned by silence and led Zoe out gently. The door whispered shut behind them.

Now it was just the two of them. Stillness thickening the space like storm pressure.

Dimitri moved closer to the table, but not toward her. He circled it, almost aimlessly, like he couldn’t quite decide where to settle his focus.

Anya remained where she was, one hand braced on the back of Zoe’s now-empty chair.

“Just say it,” she said. “Whatever insult you didn’t get to deliver in front of your aunt.”

He looked up, startled. “You think I brought you here to humiliate you?”

“I think you let it happen.” Her voice was tight, but steady. “You knew what she was going to do.”

“She’s not my attack dog, Anya.”

“No. She’s your family.” Her tone sharpened. “And you let her test me like I was some peasant plucked from a ditch.”

“She didn’t need to test you,” he said quietly. “She already decided you weren’t worthy the second she read your last name.”

“And you?” she asked. “Where do you stand on that decision?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward until the candlelight caught the edge of his jaw, casting the rest of his face in low shadow.

“I don’t know where I stand,” he said. “But I watched you sit across from her and not flinch. I watched your daughter put her in her place without even knowing it. And I’ve never seen Vera speechless before.”

“So you enjoyed the spectacle,” Anya said. “Glad to know we entertained.”

“No,” he said.

That one word stopped her.

His voice had dropped—low, rough around the edges now.

“You think I was watching you for amusement?” he asked, slowly. “I was watching you because I couldn’t help it.”

She didn’t move.

His eyes stayed on hers.

“You’re not easy to watch, Anya,” he said, quieter now. “You’re difficult to ignore.”

Her pulse betrayed her first. Then her breath, shallower now, her lips parting around something unspoken.

Dimitri stepped closer.

Too close.

The table, still between them, suddenly felt like the thinnest shield.

“I’ve seen ambition. I’ve seen manipulation. But you—” he shook his head, almost in disbelief, “—you walk into this house like you’re already ready to leave. Like you’d burn it down before you beg for anything.”

Anya’s throat tightened. “Maybe I would.”

His eyes dropped—just briefly—to her mouth.

When he looked back up, the mask had slipped again. And this time, the heat beneath it was undeniable.

He said nothing more.

He didn’t have to.

Because for one moment too long, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.

And then—

Zoe’s laugh echoed faintly down the hall.

It shattered the moment like glass dropped on marble.

Anya stepped back.

Dimitri blinked, and the ice slammed back down over his expression.

She turned and walked out of the dining room without a word.

But her hands were shaking.