Chapter Three

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.