Page 25 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

In a move hidden from the others, I pinch his side—hard. He stifles a pained grunt before finally letting me go.

Our eyes lock in a silent battle. Amusement flickers in his, fueling my fury. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, and I realize he’s enjoying this.

This asshole is mocking me. But if he thinks he scares me, he’s wrong! No way I’m letting him take the lead. And without thinking twice, I rise onto the balls of my feet and seize his mouth. I kiss him as if my life depends on it, as if he were the only man on Earth. It’s only when I feel his hands tighten around my waist and his body press against mine that I pull away from him, satisfied. Not so cocky now!

13. The Stanford Network

RUSLAN

After violently pinching me, Sophia kisses me full on the mouth. I know she's doing it in defiance, but I don't care, as long as she continues. I want more, much more! As I tighten my embrace around her, she pulls back and puts distance between us. Too bad, I would have liked to enjoy it a bit longer. Despite her satisfied air, I can read desire on her face, and when she realizes I've seen through her, the look of my fury pierces me like a blade. In her dark eyes, I read the promise of a thousand deaths. If she thinks she can scare me, she's wrong. I know I'm playing a dangerous game by pushing her to her limits, but it's a risk I'm willing to take. I sketch a smile that will only infuriate her more. I love this Sophia!

It’s fascinating to see the cracks in her mask, those fleeting glimpses that betray her real emotions before she smothers them. I don’t understand why she still clings to this act, why she insists on pretending to be soft and subdued. I’ve never seen a woman so alive.

I know our situation is complicated, that she resents me deeply because of Natasha, but I can’t stand it when she ignores me in my own house whenever Laurent and Asli aren’t around. So when they are here, I take full advantage of it. I turn the situation to my benefit.

I’ll do anything to make her notice me, to make her see me. Even if it means facing her wrath. So I keep provoking her, fully aware that every little jab risks setting off a storm. Because in those brief moments when her anger takes over, when her eyes burn with raw emotion, I finally see the real Sophia. And that’s the woman I want—not the character she’s trying so hard to play. I want all of her: her hatred, her resentment, her unspoken fears, her moments of pure ecstasy.

I know my strategy might seem cruel, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

***

After two weeks of a so-called honeymoon with my young wife, I return to my office. From the 15th floor of our glass tower, I have a breathtaking view of Paris. The wall-sized screens covering an entire side of my office display real-time activity from our logistics centers: Le Havre, where our container ships unload their cargo; Dubai, with its ultramodern hub; Shanghai, with its private terminal; and our newly established platform in Singapore.

Our Paris headquarters is just the tip of the iceberg, the luxurious façade where we host our international clients. Our true operational power lies elsewhere: in our secured warehouses west of Paris, in our port terminals in Le Havre, in our automated sorting centers scattered across the globe. An empire built on the perpetual movement of goods, orchestrated from this office with its smoked glass walls.

My phone vibrates. A text message.

Nicolas: You need to see this. We're in my office.

Ten minutes later, we’re reviewing footage from the new cameras. Standing behind Nicolas, Akim and I silently watch the large screen in his office.

The video file plays. The images are sharp, black and white.

First recording: 2:17 AM. Three men, methodical, open the container. The crates of medical supplies listed on the manifest are carefully moved aside. Behind them, standardized military crates. Impossible to mistake their nature with those distinct markings. The men swiftly transfer them to another container.

"Shit," Akim mutters. "Military equipment."

"Wait," Nicolas says. "That’s not all."

Second clip, the following night. Same scenario, but a different container. This time, high-tech equipment emerges from behind the first row of declared goods.

A chill runs down my spine. This isn’t just an isolated smuggling operation. This is a network.

"Fuck!" Akim breathes. "Military gear."

"Wait," Nicolas responds, "there's more."

"The problem," Nicolas hammers home, "is the massive scale of the criminal network. The first shipment belongs to a company endorsed by Stanford, and the second to a company whose CEO was introduced to us by Stanford himself, five years ago."

"Damn it! Stanford isn't just using our company. He's placed his partners everywhere."

"We absolutely have to track down all his accomplices," I murmur.

"I've started cross-referencing the data," Nicolas answers. "The suspicious weight variations... we're seeing them with three other major clients."

I collapse into my chair. Three others. The scope of the network makes me dizzy. Out of our twenty-five major clients, five are already involved in this network.

"What do we do?" Akim asks.