Anya didn't go back to the office for two days. She was too scared. The memory of Lex's dark eyes, the coldness in his voice, and the secret she had found in his journal were all too much. She stayed in her small apartment, the curtains drawn, the world outside a distant, blurry noise. She didn't want to go back to his world, but she knew she had to. She had a job. And she had a secret.
On the third day, her phone rang. It was an unknown number. She hesitated, but then answered.
"Anya Petrova?" The voice was cold and professional. It was the voice of one of Lex's bodyguards. "Mr. Volkov wants to see you. Now."
Her heart pounded. "I... I can't. I'm sick."
The voice on the other end was a cold wall. "You have a car waiting for you downstairs. Don't be late." The line went dead.
Anya's hands shook. She had no choice. He was not asking her. He was telling her. She looked at herself in the mirror. The girl looking back was a mess, her hair a tangle, her eyes tired. She quickly put on some clothes and went downstairs.
A black car was waiting. The bodyguard was in the front seat. He didn't speak. He just drove. The drive was silent and long. They didn't go to the Volkov Group tower. They went to a beautiful house on a quiet street. The house was big, with old stone walls and a huge garden. It looked like a castle. It was Lex Volkov's home.
The bodyguard opened the door, and Anya walked into a world of quiet luxury. The house was beautiful, with dark wood and soft light. It felt old, a place with a long history. Lex was in a large room with a fireplace. He was standing, looking out of a big window, his back to her. He was wearing black pants and a white shirt, no suit. He looked less like a boss and more like a king in his castle.
He turned slowly. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, looked at her. They were not cold. They were not angry. They were... sad.
"You read my journal," he said, his voice quiet. It was not a question. It was a fact.
Anya couldn't speak. She just nodded, her eyes full of fear.
He walked to a small table and poured a glass of water. He gave it to her. "Drink it. You look like you've seen a ghost."
Anya took the glass, her hands shaking. She took a sip. The water was cold and clean.
"The Kravtsov deal is a problem," he said, his voice now all business. "My men have been hit. He's trying to make me fall. He thinks he can beat me."
He looked at her, his eyes now sharp and focused. "Your report... it was a piece of a bigger puzzle. You found something no one else could. You have a talent. A real one."
He walked closer to her. "I know who you are. I know what happened. My bodyguard... he made a mistake. A terrible mistake. He was protecting me, but he made a choice that was not mine to make. I am sorry, Anya. Truly."
Anya's heart was a confused mess. He was apologizing? The man who had threatened her, who had used her, was saying he was sorry?
"I don't believe you," she said, her voice a whisper. "You sent me money. You tried to buy my silence."
"That was a different kind of payment," he said, his voice low. "It was for what happened. Not for your silence. The bodyguard gave you a small payment. I gave you a large one. It was a way of saying… I know. And I'm sorry. I knew who you were from the moment I saw your name on the intern list. I watched you. I saw how you worked. I saw how you were fighting to be more than you were."
Anya was stunned. He had been watching her. He had known.
"I tried to keep you out of my world," he said, his voice tired. "But you came in anyway. And you found something no one else could. Now, Kravtsov is a real threat. He knows I'm after him, and he knows I'm looking for a weakness. And you, Anya… you're my best chance to find it."
He looked at her, his eyes filled with a strange, intense light. "I want you to come with me. Not as my assistant. But as a partner. I want you to help me find everything Kravtsov is hiding. I want you to help me take him down."
Anya's world stopped. He wasn't just offering her a job. He was offering her a seat at the table. A seat in a war between two powerful men. A war that she was already a part of, whether she wanted to be or not.
She looked at him, at the sad, tired look in his stormy eyes. The man who was a monster, but who was also a king, a prisoner of his own dark world. She was scared. But she was also angry. Angry at him, at Kravtsov, at the world that had made her a victim. And now, she had a chance to be more than a victim. She had a chance to be a fighter.
"What's the plan?" she asked, her voice quiet but firm.
A small, tired smile touched his lips. "The plan," he said, "is to go to a party. A party at Kravtsov's house. And you're coming with me. As my date."