Anotta Anotov stepped inside like she owned the room—and hell, she probably did. She wore a form-fitting pink dress, hugging her hips and waist like it was molded to her body. Red high-heels clicked against the floor, sharp and commanding. Her silver hair shimmered under the light, cut short and styled clean, giving her a look that was both elegant and intimidating. Her eyes—icy and unyielding—landed on me like a target.
Behind her came two shadows. A tall, broad man in a dark suit, his face a blank mask, and a woman with her hair tied back tight, eyes scanning the corners like a hawk. Her bodyguards.
I swallowed, forcing myself to stand tall as I bowed my head slightly. "Mrs. Anotov," I greeted formally, voice steady despite the tension twisting my stomach.
She looked me over once, her gaze cool and measuring, then gave a single nod. No smile, no warmth—just acknowledgment. Without a word, she stepped further inside, the bodyguards flanking her like twin wolves.
