The card stayed in her coat all night, and it felt heavier in the morning—like it had soaked up all her restless thoughts.
She didn't tell Lena about it. Didn't tell anyone.
She made it through her morning lecture, barely, her mind drifting in and out of the professor's words. After class, she found herself walking without thinking, boots crunching softly over packed snow as she rode the metro north, past the familiar stops.
When she stepped off at Gostiny Dvor, the city looked different. Richer. Colder. No one made eye contact. The buildings towered like judgment.
She kept walking.
The address led her to a wide granite building with a mirrored façade and armed security in suits so clean they looked fake. The sign near the door read:
Viktorov Holdings
Private Appointments Only
Nastya stood across the street, heart in her throat. For a long minute, she just stared at it. She told herself she could turn around. She could forget all of it.
But she didn't move.
Instead, she reached into her coat, pulled out the card, and crossed the street.
Inside, the air was warm, still, and silent. The marble floor gleamed. A woman behind the desk looked up with a professional smile that never touched her eyes.
Nastya approached slowly, shoulders tight, voice low.
"I… I was told to come. Someone gave me this."
She placed the card on the counter.
The woman's eyes flicked to it, then back to Nastya's face.
No change in expression.
She nodded once and picked up the phone.
Spoke softly into it. Listened.
Then she set the receiver down and smiled again, just a little wider this time.
"You're expected. Take the elevator to the 21st floor."
Nastya blinked.
Expected?
She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button. Her reflection in the doors stared back—wide-eyed, unsure, but standing. Still standing.
As the elevator rose, so did her heartbeat.
She had no idea what waited for her on the 21st floor.
Only that something had shifted, and her life—small, quiet, broken as it was—might never be the same again.
The elevator climbed like it had nowhere to be. No music, no mirrors—just a hush that made her aware of everything: the damp hem of her coat, the nervous flex of her fingers, the weight of the building pressing down on her from above.
Floor 16.
She thought of Lena. Of her mother coughing in the night. Of the second job she didn't show up for.
Floor 18.
What kind of man has the power to make a stranger walk into his world just by giving her a card?
Floor 20.
She could still press the emergency button. Leave. Pretend this never happened.
Floor 21.
The elevator slowed. Stopped. The doors slid open.
She stepped out.
Silence. Thick and expensive.
The entire floor was lined with glass and obsidian. A long hallway stretched out ahead, framed by matte black columns and dim, tasteful lighting. The air smelled faintly of cedar and something colder—metallic, clean, exact.
At the end of the hallway stood a man in a dark suit.
Not Anton.
Another man—tall, sharp-featured, buzzcut, hands folded in front of him like a statue that could come to life at any moment.
He nodded once.
"Miss Ivanova. This way."
He didn't ask her name. He already knew it.
She followed, her boots muffled by the thick carpet, the sound of her breathing too loud in her ears. Her stomach felt weightless and heavy all at once.
They passed a glass wall where suited men and women talked quietly over digital maps and spreadsheets. One looked up, stared at her just a second too long.
This wasn't an office.
This was a war room.
The man stopped at a tall black door. He didn't knock—just opened it with a subtle push.
"He's waiting."
And then he stepped aside.
Inside, the light was low. There was snow falling beyond the enormous windows. A fire crackled softly in a modern hearth. And Anton Reznikov stood with his back to her, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a crystal glass half full of something golden.
He hadn't turned yet.
Didn't speak.
But he knew she was there.
Nastya stepped through the door like she was crossing into another life.
The first thing she noticed was the quiet—too quiet. The kind that swallowed your voice before you could even speak. The walls were sleek, matte black stone. The floor, dark oak. Minimal furniture. One massive desk. A leather chair facing the window. A low fire in a fireplace that didn't belong in a place like this.
And him.
Anton.
Tall. Broad shoulders under a dark, perfectly tailored jacket. No movement, except the slow tilt of the glass in his hand. Snow fell in waves behind him, silver against the cold blue of the window.
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
He spoke first—without turning.
"I wasn't sure you'd come."
His voice was low. Controlled. But not cold.
Still, Nastya felt her pulse in her neck.
She steadied herself. "Neither was I."
He turned then. Slowly.
And for the second time in her life, she met his eyes.
Up close, they were darker than she remembered. Not black—but deep, like something kept buried. His face was sharp. Severe. But not cruel. Not right now.
He studied her for a long second. "I wanted to see you without the tray."
Nastya blinked.
That wasn't the line she expected.
She crossed her arms, though her voice came out quiet. "I don't know what you think I'm doing here. But if this is some kind of game…"
"It's not."
He set the glass down. Walked a few steps toward her—but not too close.
"I wanted to offer you something."
She raised her chin slightly. "A job?"
"Not exactly."
A pause.
"A contract. A marriage, technically. In name."
Silence dropped like a brick between them.
"You're joking," she said.
"No."
"Why?"
His eyes flicked to the floor for a second. And then back to her.
"Because I need someone people won't see coming. Someone who doesn't belong in my world. Someone real."
Another pause.
"And you need something too. Money. Protection. A way out."
She stared at him, frozen.
"You don't know me."
"I know enough."
He stepped closer. Still keeping space. Voice quieter now.
"You said something at the gala. About caring. About being human."
"That's what I need."
He didn't smile. Didn't flinch. Just stood there, waiting.
Not for obedience. Not for fear.
For choice.