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"Then tell me who you're calling." I move closer still, close enough to catch the scent of her shower gel—something citrus and clean beneath her usual perfume. "Tell me who matters enough to risk security breaches that would trigger lethal response if detected by your father's surveillance rather than mine."

"That's none of your business." Her eyes flash with genuine anger, composure cracking beneath pressure I've deliberately applied. "Our arrangement is professional. Political. It doesn't include ownership of my private life."

"Who is he?" The question escapes before I can contain it, raw jealousy evident beneath tactical interrogation. "Who commands such devotion? Such protection? Such elaborate security measures?"

Something shifts in her expression—confusion briefly replacing anger before understanding dawns. She knows I believe she's contacting a lover. The realization doesn't correct my assumption, suggesting truth potentially more complicated than romantic entanglement.

"There is no 'he,’" she responds finally, something calculating replacing defensive anger. "My secure communications serve purposes you couldn't possibly understand."

"Then help me understand." I move into her personal space, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. My heart hammers against my ribs, the scent of her perfume making my mouth go dry. "Make me understand what's worth risking both our positions within the organization."

"Why do you care?" Her challenge carries unexpected vulnerability beneath defiance. "Why this obsession with my private communications? My secure calls? What possible relevance do they have to our arrangement?"

The question strikes deeper than she likely intends, probing motivation I've refused to fully examine even in private assessment. Why do I care? Why has monitoring her communications become an obsession rivaling my primary mission? Why does the possibility of her emotional connection to someone else fill me with homicidal rage?

"Because nothing about you makes sense." Truth emerges despite tactical considerations, something raw breaking through years of control. "The woman I met in Paris would never accept an arranged marriage without resistance. Would never embrace her Bratva princess role after tasting freedom. Would never return to her father's world willingly unless something—or someone—mattered more than her independence."

Her pulse races beneath the delicate skin of her throat, pupils dilating with something dangerously close to desire despite the anger still evident in her posture. "You know nothing about me. Nothing about what I want or why I do what I must."

"I know more than you think." I raise my hand to her face, not quite touching but close enough that she can feel the heat of my skin against hers. "I know how you respond when genuinely touched. I know the sounds you make when pleasure overtakes control. I know the woman beneath the Bratva princess mask."

"You knew me for one night." Her voice barely rises above whisper, something vulnerable bleeding through perfect composure. "One night over a year ago. Nothing more."

"One night that clearly meant nothing to you." The bitterness surprises me, revealing wound I hadn't acknowledged even to myself. "Since you disappeared without a word afterward."

"I disappeared?" Genuine shock replaces feigned distance, her eyes widening with what appears to be authentic confusion. "You were the one who insisted on us moving on. You were the one who gave me silence."

The assertion lands like physical blow. My perception of Paris—of her potentially being a pawn in some way of her father—suddenly reframing with her claim of my abandonment. Before I can process this revelation, she continues with increasing intensity.

"Why did you leave me?" Raw emotion breaks through, years of control crumbling in this unguarded moment. "One night and then nothing—not a word, not a note. Just empty lovemaking and over a year of silence. Then you reappear in my father's organization, playing the role of devoted lieutenant while watching me with those cold eyes that reveal nothing of the man I met in Paris."

"I left without looking back because—" I begin, but she interrupts with unusual ferocity.

"It doesn't matter now." She steps back, attempting to rebuild emotional distance even as her voice betrays continued distress. "Nothing about Paris matters. What matters is your invasion of my privacy. Your surveillance of my private communications. Your obsessive?—"

"It matters." I close the distance she attempted to create, something breaking loose inside me—control slipping for the first time in years of disciplined performance. "Paris matters. You matter. More than?—"

I cut myself off, revelations threatening security, threatening the mission, threatening everything I've sacrificed for vengeance. But something more powerful than tactical consideration drives me forward, hand finally making contact with her face, fingers trembling slightly against her skin.

"More than what, Viktor?" Her voice softens, something dangerous like hope flickering in those blue eyes. "More than the mission? More than whatever game you're playing in my father's organization?"

The question pierces too close to truth I've refused to acknowledge—that my obsession with Anastasia has begun to rival my dedication to vengeance. That monitoring her secure calls reflects possessiveness beyond tactical assessment. That imagining her emotional connection to someone else fills me with rage that threatens years of single-minded purpose.

"Who are you calling?" I ask again, voice rough with emotion I can no longer fully suppress. "Who matters enough to warrant such protection? Such risk?"

"I’ve told you all I will. It’s not a man. Your pride can rest easy about that, Viktor.” Her tone turns harsh. “You wouldn't understand." Her pulse races beneath my fingers still resting against her neck, her pupils dilating despite her attempt to maintain distance. "You couldn't possibly understand what drives me."

"Try me." The challenge emerges as almost plea, something desperate breaking through tactical interrogation. My thumb traces her lower lip, feeling the slight tremor there despite her controlled exterior. "Tell me what's worth risking everything to protect."

She sways slightly toward me, conflict evident in her expression—calculation battling something more vulnerable, more genuine. For a moment—brief but unmistakable—decision forms in her eyes, determination replacing defensive anger.

"Viktor, I?—"

The security alert cuts through the charged silence between us—three short tones indicating breach of privacy protocols. Her eyes widen with genuine alarm as she steps back, composure returning despite the emotion still visible beneath.

"Someone's coming," she warns, moving away with obvious reluctance. "My father's security detected unauthorized access to my private chambers."

The interruption arrives with infuriating timing, just as a breakthrough seemed imminent. Just as Anastasia appeared ready to reveal the truth behind her secure communications. Just as something genuine emerged between performances.