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The Markov compoundrepresents everything my family estate is not—meticulously maintained, security systems state-of-the-art, power evident in every manicured hedge and armed guard. I feel their eyes tracking me as I pass through the layers of security, my status as Markov's lieutenant and Anastasia's fiancé granting access that would serve my mission perfectly if I could maintain focus on destroying her father rather than uncovering her secrets.

Dmitri meets me at the inner security checkpoint, his massive frame blocking the corridor with deliberate intimidation. Unlike most of Markov's security personnel, Dmitri possesses both intelligence and personality—evident in the way he rolls a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other while assessing potential threats, in the way his left eyebrow raises slightly when he disapproves of orders he must nevertheless follow.

"You're early, Baranov." The toothpick shifts as he speaks, his gaze deliberately lingering on my bandaged hand. "Security briefing wasn't scheduled until eleven."

"Plans change." I meet his gaze with my own dominance, establishing my authority despite his physical advantages. "Markov requested advanced review of potential vulnerabilities."

The lie flows effortlessly, part of the performance that has become second nature over years of infiltration. Dmitri's eyebrow twitches—the subtle tell indicating suspicion—but his position requires deference to my rank within the organization.

"Miss Markova is in her private suite." His emphasis on "private" carries clear warning. He knows exactly why I've arrived early, his loyalty to Anastasia evident in the slight tension in his shoulders. "I'll inform her of your arrival."

"No need." I move past him with deliberate casualness. "Her father requested we review security protocols together before the main briefing. I'll meet her in the study as arranged."

Another lie, another performance. Dmitri's toothpick shifts again as he steps aside, though his eyes communicate a clear message—he sees more than he acknowledges, understands dynamics beyond his security responsibilities. In another world, I might respect his perception. In this one, he represents one more obstacle between me and the truth.

I move through the compound with practiced familiarity, navigating corridors designed to disorient unwelcome visitors. My destination isn't the study but Anastasia's private wing—the inner sanctum where she retreated after examining those mysterious photographs. The surveillance device I planted near her rooms remains active, transmitting her exact location within the compound to my secure phone.

Approaching her private territory requires careful timing, avoiding security rotations I've memorized over weeks of observation. Three minutes between cameras four and five. Forty-five seconds when the northeast corridor stands unmonitored during shift change. The blind spot behind the decorative column where ancillary security cameras can't quite reach.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I near her chambers, rage and anticipation creating dangerous cocktail in my bloodstream. The security panel outside her door represents sophisticated challenge—but one I've prepared for with meticulous attention. The decoder attached to my phone requires seventeen seconds to bypass security protocols, each moment stretching with excruciating tension as I wait for alarms I've disabled to remain silent.

The door opens with a soft electronic hiss. I step inside, immediately activating the signal jammers that will prevent standard surveillance from detecting my presence. Anastasia's private sitting room—feminine yet restrained, blue and silver decor reflecting her personal aesthetic rather than Bratva opulence. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, something floral with underlying notes that trigger visceral memories of Paris.

Her bathroom door stands partially open, steam escaping from recent use. Her bedroom beyond that, door fully closed. The surveillance tracker indicates her presence in the adjacent dressing room—preparing for the day ahead, unaware of the confrontation about to occur.

I move silently through her space, noting the subtle personalization that reveal glimpses of the woman beneath Bratva princess facade. Books neatly arranged by subject rather than appearance. A small painting of the Seine suggesting Parisian connection beyond our night together. A silver letter opener positioned precisely beside leather journal—left-handed placement contrasting with the right-handed public performance she maintains per Bratva tradition.

Small details. Tiny glimpses of authenticity in a life defined by performance. Each one cataloged and analyzed in my growing obsession with uncovering her secrets.

The fireplace catches my attention—fresh ash suggesting recent burning despite the spring warmth making fires unnecessary. The surveillance footage showed her destroying the photographs after detecting potential observation. Evidence eliminated with Bratva efficiency that both impresses and infuriates me.

What was in those images? Who commands such emotional response? Who matters enough to warrant such elaborate security measures?

The questions burn through my mind as I position myself in the sitting area, deliberately choosing the chair facing her bedroom door. The confrontation carefully staged for maximum impact when she emerges.

I don't wait long.

She appears in the doorway, momentarily frozen in shock at finding me in her private sanctuary. Her hair still damp from the shower, loose around her shoulders rather than perfectly styled. Silk robe belted tightly around a waist that seems impossibly small beneath my surveillance photos' professional clothing. Feet bare against plush carpet, toenails painted pale pink in unexpected femininity.

For one unguarded moment, genuine emotion crosses her features—fear, rage, something else I can't quite identify before perfect Bratva composure locks into place.

"Breaking and entering seems beneath your position, Viktor." Her voice remains steady despite the pulse visibly accelerating at her throat. "My father's lieutenant resorting to common criminality."

"Nothing common about the security measures protecting your privacy." I remain seated, deliberately casual despite the tension coiling through my body. "Almost as sophisticated as the encryption protecting your Swiss communications."

Her expression reveals nothing, though I catch the slight tensing of her fingers against the silk robe—the tell I've learned to recognize when she feels threatened but maintains control.

"My private communications are none of your concern." She moves across the room with deliberate grace, maintaining maximum distance between us. "Neither is my personal space."

"Everything about you is my concern." The words emerge with unexpected heat, revealing more than tactically advisable. "Every secret. Every encrypted call. Every photograph you burn rather than allow discovered."

Her eyes widen fractionally before control reasserts. She knows I've been watching. Knows I witnessed her emotional response to those mysterious images before she destroyed them.

"You've invaded my privacy." Her voice drops dangerously low, genuine anger breaking through practiced neutrality. "Installed surveillance in my private chambers. Monitored my personal communications. Violated every boundary of our arrangement."

"Our arrangement?" I stand in one fluid motion, closing distance between us with deliberate intent. "Is that what you call it when you agree to marry me while maintaining secret communications with someone who makes you flush with emotion? Someone you protect with military-grade encryption? Someone whose photographs you handle with such tenderness it's visible even through surveillance footage?"

"You're insane." She doesn't retreat despite my proximity, chin lifting in defiance that ignites both rage and unwelcome desire. "Your obsession has exceeded all rational boundaries."