Page 64 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

"Tell me, Sophia… what do you do for a living? What drives you?"

The blow is calculated. A seemingly innocent question, yet undoubtedly a test.

I offer a polite smile. My voice is steady, controlled.

"I work independently as an IT consultant for small businesses. I help a few clients monitor their system updates…"

Stanford tilts his head slightly, his fingers grazing the stem of his glass.

"Cybersecurity, then."

"In a way, yes."

He nods, an unreadable glint in his eyes.

"A fascinating field, isn’t it? You know, these days, you never really know where attacks are coming from…"

My stomach tightens. His words are anything but innocent.

Before I can respond, Ruslan steps in—right on cue.

"Yes, it’s fascinating. Did you know that in North Korea, hackers are trained from adolescence and integrated into government units?"

A diversion. Ruslan knows I’m under scrutiny.

"Of course," Stanford continues. "But you’d be surprised just how… skilled the French are in this field as well."

A silence settles between us. A faint smile tugs at Stanford’s lips. He’s testing my reactions.

"Oh, come now, let’s drop these boring topics!" Natasha interjects, feigning nonchalance. "Let’s move on to dessert."

And yet, every second, I can feel Stanford’s attention weighing on me.

34. The Return

RUSLAN

The clinking of silverware against porcelain is almost the only sound echoing through the vast dining room. The space, luxurious and impeccably arranged, contrasts with the heavy atmosphere that settled the moment we arrived. Stanislas greets us with that overly polite, overly controlled smile that has never inspired trust in me. Seated to his right, Natasha radiates as she always does, seemingly indifferent to the tension in the air. She even seems to enjoy making Sophia uncomfortable, while the latter, sitting across from me, forces a strained smile every time their eyes meet.

I can feel the tension radiating from her. Her back is straight—too rigid. Her fingers barely graze the stem of her glass, as if she’s afraid they might tremble if she lifts it to her lips. I try to reassure her with a glance, but she avoids my eyes, focusing instead on her nearly untouched plate. Stanislas talks, sprinkling light anecdotes and insincere compliments, and I respond mechanically, too focused on Sophia to truly register his words.

Then, a detail catches my eye.

A movement from Natasha, an apparently innocent gesture as she refills her glass of wine. Her sleeve shifts slightly, revealing for a fraction of a second what she had been trying to hide. A dark purple mark on her wrist. Not just an accidental bruise. No, this is the deliberate imprint of a hand that squeezed too tightly—an unspoken warning carved into flesh.

Our eyes meet briefly, and in that fleeting second, I see everything she cannot say. The pure terror in her dilated pupils, the slight tension in her jaw. She knows that I understand. And what I understand chills my blood.

He knows.

About the USB drive. Maybe not about Sophia’s cover identity, but he believes she’s complicit in my actions, which is just as dangerous.

A cold bead of sweat slides down my spine as the air in the room seems to thicken, turning almost unbreathable. The rest of the meal is tense, and by the time we bid our hosts farewell, I know things are about to take a turn for the worse.

Our bodyguards, who had been waiting in a second car outside Stanislas’s estate, follow closely behind us. The streets of Paris are nearly deserted at this late hour.

"He knows."

Sophia nods, her face pale in the dim light of the car.