Page 40 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

***

When I meet Ruslan for dinner, he’s already waiting for me. Since our night together, his mere presence unsettles me, making our forced proximity unbearable. My body betrays me constantly, reacting violently to his slightest gestures, his gaze.

Every fiber of my being ignites at the sound of his voice, his intoxicating scent, his mere presence. How is it possible to feel such intense desire and resentment for the same man at the same time? This duality tears me apart, consumes me from within.

He does nothing to ease my torment. On the contrary. His eyes devour me without restraint, his attention fixates on me with an almost tangible intensity the moment I enter a room.

If I hadn’t seen those photos with my own eyes, I might have believed in the sincerity of his desire. But I’m just another challenge to conquer, a mark on his scoreboard, while he secretly dreams of Natasha.

"I have to visit a client tomorrow," I tell him, deliberately avoiding his gaze. "I might be late for the gala. You can go ahead if—"

"I’ll wait for you."

His tone, authoritative and possessive, leaves no room for discussion. A treacherous warmth spreads through my lower belly against my will.

"Alright, then. I’m going to bed."

"Sophia…"

My name resonates in the room like a plea, charged with an intimacy I refuse to acknowledge. My throat tightens.

"Good night, Ruslan."

A sigh, heavy with frustration and restrained desire, escapes his lips.

"Good night."

I leave the room quickly, fleeing the electric tension crackling between us, fully aware that every second in his presence weakens my resolve a little more.

***

The train slows as it approaches Le Havre. Through the window, the massive cranes of the port stand out against a sky heavy with clouds. The port is already buzzing with activity—huge cargo ships line the docks, multicolored containers stack like giant Lego bricks, and an endless stream of trucks weaves between terminals.

I take a deep breath, feeling the tension build. This time, I’m not hiding behind my screens. I’m on the ground, where the slightest mistake could have serious consequences.

As I exit the station, I immediately spot the unmarked sedan idling at the curb. My contact unlocks the doors without a word. I climb in quickly.

"The team is already in position," he informs me, eyes fixed on the road, his face taut with focus. "We’ve identified the suspect container. It’s supposed to be unloaded within the hour."

The drive to the docks is short. The closer we get, the more intense the chaos of the port becomes. Cranes methodically unload tons of cargo, truck horns blare through the air thick with salt and diesel.

The operation unfolds as planned. The container is offloaded while the customs team methodically secures the area. I step closer.

"It’s a refrigerated unit," an agent notes, checking the serial numbers.

I pull out my equipment and run a quick scan. Usually, the tracking device is hidden in the side panel. But this time, it’s placed behind the refrigeration unit, near the fan. A smart spot—GPS signals and thermal sensors get scrambled by the cooling system.

"I’ll intercept and clone its signal. Then you can open it."

I connect my gear and begin the delicate work of neutralizing the device. A few minutes later, it’s under control.

"All set. You can open it."

The agents force the locks and swing the container doors open. A blast of cold air rushes out, heavy with moisture and the scent of tropical fruit.

The first row of crates matches the manifest—mangoes and pineapples, neatly packed. But behind them…

"We’ve got something," my contact murmurs, lifting one of the back crates.