Page 62 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

Stanislas’s invitation... he already mentioned it on the wedding day, but the doubt remains.

Still, refusing would be like waving a blood-red flag in front of a predator lying in wait.

We can’t afford to draw his deadly attention now—not when we’re getting so dangerously close to uncovering the truth he’ll do anything to bury.

I greet the impassive guard at the bottom of the building with a brief nod and go up to my floor, my heart pounding furiously. When the metal doors of the elevator finally open on my floor, the men standing guard in front of the apartment greet me with silent deference.

When I step into our penthouse, I let out a sigh of relief. She's there, watering the tulips in the living room. They've grown well lately. I hope they bloom soon—just to see the wonder in Sophia's eyes. Some women need expensive gifts, jewelry, diamonds. Not Sophia. And I know this woman will love me—rich or poor, sick or healthy. Honestly, I don’t deserve her. But I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her.

She smiles as I approach, and my arms immediately wrap around her. I need to breathe in her scent, hold her close, and make sure with my own hands that she’s okay. As if she senses my worry, she asks:

"What's going on, Ruslan? You're scaring me."

"Stanford called. He invited us to dinner at his place Saturday night."

I hear her breath catch. She understands.

"I don’t know if he’s found something out—if the hitmen chasing you gave him your description, or if he discovered the USB drive, or that we’ve infiltrated his network—but none of this sounds good."

"We don’t have a choice," she says. "We have to go, or we’ll raise suspicion."

"I hate this... I dragged you into this mess. It’s all my fault."

"No, Ruslan," she says, taking my face in her hands. "This is my choice. Don’t take it away from me."

And gently, she presses her lips to mine. I close my eyes to soak in her softness, her presence.

"I care so much about you," I whisper against her mouth before capturing her lips fully.

Other words are pressing at the edge of my tongue, but I want to wait for the right moment. I want to wait until this chapter is truly behind us, until nothing can taint the beauty of the bond we share.

Then without another word, I lift her in my arms and her legs wrap around my waist. Leaving Asli and Laurent to prepare dinner in the kitchen, I disappear with Sophia into our bedroom. As soon as the door closes behind us, I press her against the wall. I take her mouth and kiss her. Then without even taking the time to undress, I open my fly, take out my erection, and lift her skirt, pulling her lace thong aside.

"Are you ready for me?" I ask her.

"Come, Ruslan."

Despite our fever and haste, she's already wet, and I enter her in one long, single thrust. We both shudder as I take her against the wall without even taking the time to undress. Our embrace is raw and passionate, mixed with urgency and fear. My thrusts are increasingly deep; I want to go ever deeper into her, until no one can separate us. When orgasm seizes us, we slide to the floor, our legs giving way under the violence of our own pleasure.

33. Welcome

SOPHIA

Stanford and Natasha welcome us into their living room. The decor is just like them: refined, opulent, meticulously calculated down to the last detail. Every element has been carefully chosen to impress and intimidate. Just like the couple standing before us, their smiles fixed in place.

"Good evening, my friends," Stanford says. "Welcome!"

I had seen pictures of Stanford, but nothing had prepared me for his physical presence. In his sixties, he embodies power in its most brutal form. His silver hair, neatly combed back at his temples, and his perfectly tailored suit only reinforce the impression of controlled danger. His gaze is that of a predator—cold, calculating, with a permanent glint of menace in his eyes. His sharp, angular features and the disdainful curve of his lips betray the arrogance of a man used to crushing his opponents.

Beside him, Natasha looks like she stepped straight out of a fashion magazine. In her radiant thirties, she is the very embodiment of Slavic beauty—voluptuous curves expertly accentuated by a dress that clings to her every contour, an angelic face framed by golden hair cascading over her shoulders like liquid silk. Every movement exudes effortless elegance, the kind of grace that years of practice could never give me.

I catch myself smoothing my dress nervously, even though I had carefully chosen it, acutely aware of my own imperfections. Next to her, I feel painfully ordinary, almost invisible.

Ruslan's hand presses more firmly against the small of my back, as if he senses my unease. That touch should reassure me, but it only sharpens my doubts. How many times has he lost himself in her? Did he whisper the same words to her that he does to me? I hate this part of myself—the part that compares, that questions. But faced with Natasha and her intimidating perfection, how could I not feel like a mere imitation, a second choice?

Stanford steps closer and leans in to kiss me on both cheeks. His heady cologne engulfs me, a suffocating blend of woody and spicy notes. The touch of his skin against mine reminds me of a snake—cold and smooth, almost slick. I barely suppress the shiver of disgust threatening to betray me, keeping a practiced smile on my lips. The contact lasts only a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to chill me to the bone. I can't afford to show the slightest weakness. Not here. Not now. The thought of what he could do to Ruslan and me if he ever discovered we were scheming makes my stomach knot.

"Delighted to meet you, Sophia. I’ve heard so much about you."