Lena Petrova Novels & Stories

Anna’s ghost wouldn’t haunt her she’d face it, and Petrov, head-on. ****************

calm yet dangerously, the man beside the old man mutters. Silence rules as they duel with cold gazes. Despite all the new information laid in front of them, Levinia remains adamant. She meets every eye of her supposed family. Her father, Carlos Petrov, the Godfather of Petrov Mafia. Her uncle, Carlisle Petrov, her cousins, Donny and Sullivan, and her nephew, Barry, who is a cyber specialist together with his mother. "Even now, you are showing you are a Petrov, Anya. Only a Petrov could have this kind of fearlessness in you" Carlisle smirks.

Mitchelle The conference room at Petrova Technologies was nothing like I expected. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city skyline, sleek modern furniture filled the space, and everything from the lighting to the temperature felt perfectly calibrated for comfort and focus. Ms. Elena Petrova sat at the head of the glass table, radiating the kind of confidence that came from building an empire from scratch. She was in her late forties, impeccably dressed in a charcoal grey suit with her dark hair pulled into a sophisticated chignon. When she smiled at me, her whole face lit up.

“The meetings you attended that you had no reason to attend. The access logs. What you have been feeding to Destan Cole.” I watched it land in her. She had not been prepared for this. Whatever she had come here to do, it had not included this. I could see that in her face. “Petra” Lena said. Quiet. Not a question. “Petra. Three weeks of notes. She is very thorough.” Lena looked away for a second and then looked back. She was about to say something, some version of the justification, and then the sound came from the street below. Both of us heard it.

The Gym isn't really a Gym, but an arena, and it doesn't help that the walls are lined with wolves' taxidermied heads. She glares in my direction when she sees I'm sitting in the stands. "What..." "Do not speak unless spoken to," Petra cuts her off as she heads to the middle of the arena, expecting Lena to follow. But she stands there, motionless, staring at Petra's back. Petra turns in her direction. "I am Petra, the leader of the Lycans. It's only at Alpha Maximilian's request that I agreed to train you, so you thank him for that."

They had never seen wealth like this. Elena Petrova, 22, from Russia — tall, pale-skinned with icy blue eyes and full breasts. Aisha Rahman, 23, from Malaysia — petite but curvaceous with golden-brown skin and long black hair. Isabella Costa, 24, from Brazil — athletic with sun-kissed skin, dangerous curves, and a wild spirit. The party started civilized — champagne, caviar, laughter. But as the night deepened, Victor’s true intentions emerged.

He pooked pointed at Anton, then scanned Kat's group before gesturing to the side of the stage, where a Lena was standing. Her long brown hair was a mess, and she wore a pink dress. To say she was terrified was an understatement. "This is Lena Petrova, as you all know," Vitale said, pointing at her. "The girl who was on patrol with Natalia when the kidnapping occurred. She's here to tell you the truth, isn't that so, Lena?" Vitale announced, walking over to her and took her hand, leading her to the podium. He handed her the microphone and said in a commanding tone. “Lena, tell them the truth. Tell them what really happened last night.”

“Who would do this?” “Quiet,” Sasha yells as he turns the television up to hear the news. More on the Petrov story, Ana Petrov, wife of billionaire celebrity Roman Petrov and recently found heiress Anna Bateman, has gone missing in what are very suspicious circumstances on the luxury yacht of a friend at some time in the early hours of Sunday morning. Witnesses say that the night before, the pair were involved in a very public heated domestic argument had Roman Petrov forcing Ana into his limousine against her will.

Dimitri moved with her, his frame steady at her side. And between them—Zoe, dressed simply in soft blue, her small hand tucked into her mother’s. The sight struck the crowd like a silent chord. Not scandal. Not shame. A family. Lena’s voice echoed softly from the wings: “You’re live.” Anya drew breath. Let it settle deep. And then, with her voice clear and even, she began: “My name is Anya Petrova.” No apology. No preamble. Just truth. “I am the daughter of Eva Petrova. I was born from a marriage my mother never wished for, one that bound her to a legacy of blood she sought to escape.”

Biting my lip in concentration. "I think I'm done," I say, his face is outstanding better already. Patching itself together as though nothing happened. He doesn't move, "you're beautiful." I flush. Looking down and picking at my cracked nails. "Stop." Chris merely smiles, "You are Andrea. And I'm going to remind you every chance I get." I fumble to words, to any response. I've never considered myself beautiful. My almost platinum blonde hair was weirdly natural and my blue eyes where so light they sometimes seemed to reflect clouds. But beautiful? No.