เข้าสู่ระบบChapter 220Evelyn Prokofiev's POV The heavy leather contract deck remained frozen between the tips of my scuffed municipal boots for exactly three seconds after Yamelyan turned his back. The square of black leather was a physical insult, a standard piece of Radov psychological degradation dropped onto the marble floor like table scraps for a stray dog.I didn't bend from the waist. A low-tier chauffeur with corporate-discipline training bends from the knees, keeping the spine perfectly vertical, ensuring the line of sight never inadvertently challenges the retreating perimeter of the principal assets. I knelt, my knees pressing into the freezing, mirror-polished stone, and swept the authorization keys into my left hand with a single, practiced glide. The plastic edges dug into my palm through the thick cowhide gloves.“This way, Adrian,” Leo’s voice cut through the cavernous quiet of the foyer. It was the flat, deadened tone of a prisoner directing a guard to a new cell block, but
Chapter 219The metallic click of the gun leaving its holster sounded like a trap snapping shut.My heart dropped hard against the tight medical tape wrapped around my ribs. But the cold, clinical instinct that had kept me alive in the gray concrete hell of General Holding 3 took over before Yamelyan’s shout even finished echoing off the marble ceiling.Error. The tactical part of my brain screamed. Monumental, fatal error. Drivers don’t have the combat reflexes of a Spetsnaz operative. Drivers don’t break the wrists of oligarchs’ brides.I had to kill Evelyn Prokofiev again. Right now. In a single micro-second, before Yamelyan’s finger pulled the trigger of the weapon pointed at my chest.I smoothly let go of Maeve’s wrist, letting her arm fall like a dead cable. I instantly dropped my chin into a low, completely submissive bow. The stiff brim of the driver’s cap snapped back into place, hiding my face in shadow once more.The low, raspy, perfectly controlled masculine baritone retur
Chapter 218Evelyn Prokofiev's POVThe fabric was a cage. The heavy charcoal wool of Jasper’s tailored three-piece suit pressed against my skin like cooled lead, holding the frantic, erratic rhythm of my heart completely invisible to the two monsters standing less than three feet away from me. Underneath the crisp white collared shirt, the medical binding tape wrapped around my chest was pulled so tight it felt like it was cracking my ribs, restricting my lungs to shallow, agonizing sips of air. Sweat rolled down the center of my spine, cold and agonizingly slow, but I didn't dare twitch a single muscle.My entire body was screaming. My jaw throbbed with a dull, white-hot heat under the layers of heavy, professional-grade theatrical wax and dense liquid foundation. It had taken Jasper’s top cosmetic artists two hours of grueling, silent labor in the back of a damp, windowless transit van to turn Evelyn Prokofiev, the broken, hunted ghost of Moscow into Adrian, the pristine, untouchab
Chapter 217The grand drawing room of the Radov Estate was filled with expensive, showy luxury. The high ceiling had old paintings of tsarist victories. The walls had heavy gold trim and silk panels. Everything in the room was designed to show complete power.Outside, the cold Moscow winter beat against the thick bulletproof windows but could not get in. Inside, a fire burned steadily in a beautiful Siberian marble fireplace.Maeve O'Hara lounged on a large emerald silk chaise. Her long legs hung over the armrest as she swirled a glass of fine champagne. Her sharp face looked tense, and her manicured fingers tapped restlessly on the glass.Sitting across from her was Yamelyan Radov. He looked like a powerful billionaire, except for the large medical brace on his nose, a clear reminder of Evelyn Prokofiev’s attack on him.“It’s the optics, Yamelyan,” Maeve said in a tight, frustrated voice as she stared at the fire. “The media leak from The Obsidian gala hasn’t been fully stopped by th
Chapter 216The space between us didn't just feel small; it felt entirely crushed under the sheer, suffocating weight of his presence. Ten years of absolute silence, and there he was, crossing the threshold of the library as if he had simply stepped out for an evening stroll.Jasper Kitonio waltzed into the room, flanked by four silent, tier-one private security operators who fanned out instantly, locking down the perimeter of the double doors with mechanical precision. He didn't look like a man who had spent a decade fighting a brutal, continental shadow war across the frozen assets of Europe. His face remained entirely, infuriatingly unchanged, smooth, mocking, and radiating a dark, predatory authority that instantly colonized every single molecule of oxygen left in the room.Without taking his dark, devastating eyes off my face, he unbuttoned his charcoal-gray jacket, slid it off his broad shoulders, and carelessly dropped the tailored overcoat onto a nearby velvet armchair.“You
Chapter 215The transition from the freezing, concrete rot of General Holding 3 to the hyper-modern, sterile warmth of an armored vehicle had passed in a blur of adrenaline-fueled exhaustion. Now, the heavy steel-reinforced gates of a sprawling, private compound on the high-end outskirts of Moscow clicked shut behind us. The architecture was an imposing fortress of glass, black marble, and state-of-the-art security perimeters, the unmistakable signature of Jasper Kitonio’s wealth.Of course, it's always him.Nikolai didn't waste a single second. The moment the vehicle engine cut out in the subterranean garage, he stepped out and lifted a completely delirious, dehydrated Amy Marino into his arms. Her heavy iron chains dragged against the polished floor, clinking softly until the sound was swallowed by the bright, white-tiled corridors of the compound’s private medical wing.“Get her onto the IV line,” Nikolai commanded in a low baritone, handing her over to a team of waiting, silent
Chapter 88The interior of the Sterling limousine smelled of sunblock, expensive leather, and my own impending doom. As we wound down the coastal road toward the private cove, I sat rigidly between the two children, my hands folded over a canvas tote bag that contained the most shameful garment ev
Chapter 89If being water-logged in a 1920s wool bathing suit was the Ninth Circle of Hell, then the walk back to the cabana was the tenth. Every step felt like I was dragging two anchors made of soggy sheep. The navy-and-white stripes had sagged so much that the crotch of the suit was hovering s
Chapter 82The data-skimmer was a cold, jagged weight in the palm of my hand, a sliver of silicon and steel that held the power to decapitate Alaric Blackwood’s future. It was evidence of high treason, a digital noose for a man who had mistaken my invisibility for insignificance. But as I slipped
Chapter 84The Villa de Cristal was a house built on transparency that hid nothing but lies. But tonight, as a rare Mediterranean storm lashed against the reinforced glass, the transparency felt like a threat. The thunder rolled over the cliffs of Marbella, echoing the slow-motion collapse of Alar







