Page 77 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

I hold my breath.

"Vehicle neutralized! Suspect apprehended."

The pressure subsides. With Stanford down, an entire system staggers, shaken to its foundations. We've dealt a severe blow to André Korzton's neo-Nazi organization. The seizures hit the mark: no more money from drug trafficking, no more weapons to fuel their network. They'll have a hard time recovering.

But this victory has a bitter taste. The operation made too much noise. Too visible, too brutal. The higher spheres are stirring. Political pressures are already being applied, discreet but firm. We're being told to downplay the case, to smooth over its rough edges so as not to tarnish certain alliances or draw the attention of international media. We must silence the magnitude of what we've discovered, rewrite reports, dilute responsibilities.

No matter, we've done our job and we'll continue to do it. If we find serious leads implicating public figures or others, we won't hesitate to dig deeper, whether people like it or not. In the meantime, we've earned a good rest.

OPERATION REPORT

3 convoys intercepted

Marseille and Le Havre ports secured

17 arrests

4 containers seized

3 networks dismantled

I close my session and shut down my computer as Ruslan approaches me. He glances at my screen, a smile stretching across his lips. With a firm gesture, he helps me up and pulls me against him. The kiss we share is anything but chaste.

"Done working, Mrs. Novak. Time to attend to your husband."

I chuckle at his authoritative tone, but my body instantly reacts to his proximity. His hands slide along my waist, pressing me closer against him.

"Here? In my office?"

I raise a playful eyebrow.

"That's not very professional, Mr. Novak."

"Professional, no. But necessary," he responds, his voice becoming huskier.

His lips find my neck, placing a series of kisses that make me shiver. The tension of recent days transforms into another form of urgency. I run my fingers through his hair as he lifts me to sit on the desk.

"We could be interrupted," I murmur, though without any real conviction.

Ruslan steps back just long enough to lock the door with a swift motion, then returns to me.

"Not anymore."

His eyes are dark with desire, and I know mine mirror his. Everything we’ve been through—the lies, the danger, the painful truths—has forged a bond between us that nothing seems able to break. Each trial drew us closer, transforming our marriage of convenience into something deep, something real, something unbreakable.

He gently brushes a strand of hair away from my face.

"You know," he begins in a softer voice, "I regret lying to you and not telling you everything from the start. It would have spared us a lot of pain and doubt. But I don’t regret the necessity that led me to you. Deep down, I've always known you were my safe place, and I'll do everything I can to become yours for the rest of my life."

He pauses, searching for his words, then adds,

"I think that one way or another, I would’ve found a way back to you."

His hands slowly undo the buttons of my blouse while mine work at his tie. The adrenaline from our victory, mixed with this stolen intimacy at the end of the day, makes every touch more feverish.

The paperwork can wait. The sanitized reports too. The outside world—with its political maneuvering and compromises—suddenly feels very far away. In this room, in this precise moment, there is only the two of us.

And as our bodies come together, I realize that this may be our most beautiful victory of all.