Page 24 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

The next morning, I leave my room at 5:45 AM, only to collide violently with his body. I wasn’t expecting him to be up already. He steadies me, holding me against him longer than necessary. My heart pounds in my chest as his scent and warmth envelop me. The sudden urge to curl up against him catches me off guard, and when our eyes meet, I see the same longing, the same need.

He leans in and kisses me softly on the lips. It’s barely a brush, nothing more, yet it’s enough to set off a storm of emotions inside me.

"Be careful," he murmurs against my lips before stepping away.

I slip out without looking back, my heart racing. Furious at him for that kiss that still rattles me. Furious at myself for reacting so intensely.

The Paris-Marseille flight lasts only an hour and twenty minutes, barely enough time to close my eyes.

I land at 9:45 AM, pick up a service vehicle, and head straight to the port. Thirty minutes on the road.

At 10:30 AM, I arrive at the customs secure storage facility. The place is stark, concrete, monitored by cameras and armed guards. A uniformed man in his forties waits for me at the entrance.

"Agent Dumont?"

"Yes."

"Follow me."

He doesn’t ask any unnecessary questions. We walk down a long corridor to a room where sensitive sealed items are stored. The air carries a scent of metal and treated wood. I quickly spot the containers marked "Atlantic Wave." Three units.

The customs officer opens the first crate under my watchful gaze. The label reads "Medical Equipment." I step closer and lift the lid. Inside, carefully packed in protective foam, are dismantled weapons. Assault rifle parts, precision scopes, portable missile launcher components. This isn't just a major bust. It's huge.

I methodically photograph the serial numbers. Some parts have partially illegible alphanumeric codes - FX-374[...], RT-29[...] - others are of Western manufacture, but their identifiers have been partially erased. A crude attempt to erase their traceability, but not effective enough to fool an experienced eye.

I examine the shipping documents. The export certificates are forged, and a suspicious pattern is already emerging—a shell company registered in Georgia, a freight forwarder in Dubai, then another shell company linked to Nexora Trade as the exit point. The signatures, the stamps… everything is meticulously faked, but the serial numbers don’t match any official registry. This kind of setup is typical of well-organized smuggling networks.

I take detailed notes, ensuring I have all the necessary evidence before leaving the warehouse at 12:15 PM.

Quick lunch, then back to the airport. Flight to Paris at 2:00 PM.

Back at the office by 4:00 PM, I immediately start my analysis.

I extract the photos, compile my notes, and secure all the data on our isolated network. Something about this case feels familiar.

I run a deep search through our secure archives. Within minutes, a file catches my attention—an investigation from ten years ago that had led to a major seizure at the time. Shell companies, forged documents, rerouted maritime routes…

Unfortunately, the investigators had never managed to uncover the entire network or identify who was behind the trafficking.

Looking at the seizure dates, another detail strikes me—Stanford was investing in Gloventis, Ruslan’s company, that same year.

Coincidence?

Hard to believe.

Had Stanford already been behind the trafficking back then? After his network was exposed, did he decide to change tactics? New routes for his operations, using small import-export companies? And if so, which ones?

"Write up a report," my chief orders without taking his eyes off his screen when I share my theory.

Of course.

When I come home in the evening, laughter and mouthwatering aromas drift from the kitchen. Inside, I find Ruslan casually leaning against the counter, chatting cheerfully while Laurent busies himself at the stove, preparing what looks like lasagna. Asli is carefully setting the table in the living room, creating a warm, inviting atmosphere. I greet everyone, hoping to slip away quickly.

"Good evening, Sophia," Ruslan says.

He steps toward me, a smile playing on his lips, and I immediately sense his intentions. I freeze, my heart hammering erratically in my chest. I know what he’s about to do, and I’m not ready. Behind him, I catch Asli and Laurent watching us with soft, expectant gazes—I can’t back out without raising suspicion.

His strong arms wrap around me, and before I can react, he presses a possessive kiss to my lips. His scent, his warmth engulf me. Every fiber of my being screams to push him away and run. But I don’t move. I promised to keep up appearances, to play the role of the blissful wife. But that bastard is taking advantage of it, deliberately prolonging the contact, as if taunting me.