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She studies me with unnerving intensity, searching for deception beneath partial disclosure. Her proximity—emotional and physical—creates a dangerous vulnerability.

"One year." Her voice drops lower, genuine emotion bleeding through perfect control. "A year of silence, then you appear as my father's trusted lieutenant. As my arranged fiancé. You expect me to believe coincidence?"

"Not coincidence." Another careful navigation between necessary deception and damaging lies. "Positioning. Our past was a complication. I could not reveal to your father that I knew you. Rest assured, the arranged engagement came solely from your father. I did nothing, I said nothing, to make him offer you to me."

It’s true. There are far more revered family names that he could have chosen. And I would have had my revenge with or without my engagement to Markov’s daughter.

"A complication." She steps closer, something beyond anger emerging in her expression. "Is that all I am to you? A complication in whatever game you're playing in my father's organization?"

The question—impossible to answer with complete honesty without revealing primary mission—creates dangerous tension between necessity and emotional impulse. Between the vengeance that has driven me for years and the connection threatening mission focus.

"You know that's not true." My voice roughens despite efforts at control, my assessment yielding to something more primal. "You've seen the surveillance reports. The attention devoted to your movements. The resources allocated to monitoring your communications. Professional interest doesn't require such focus."

"Then what does it represent?" Her challenge carries dangerous invitation beneath legitimate question. "Why monitor my every movement? Why investigate my secure communications with such... dedication?"

The truth—that jealousy and possessiveness have compromised my discipline, that thoughts of her with another man trigger rage—remains inadvisable. Yet something beyond my assessment drives my response as distance between us diminishes to mere inches.

"You know why."

Her breath catches, pupils dilating as anger transmutes to different emotional current entirely. "Say it. No more evasion. No more partial disclosure. Tell me why you're really watching me."

The moment balances on knife edge—my mission and my emotional impulses creating impossible tension. Logic recommends careful response that maintains security while satisfying immediate demand. Situational analysis suggests controlled disclosure that advances secondary objective without compromising primary mission.

Yet what emerges transcends calculation.

"Because the thought of you with someone else makes me want to burn the world down."

The raw admission—vulnerability I've permitted no one else to witness—lands with physical impact. Her eyes widen, genuine shock replacing practiced composure as the confession registers.

For three accelerated heartbeats, we remain suspended between reserved positioning and emotional truth—between the roles we play in Bratva theater and the connection that threatens everything we've separately built.

She moves first, controlled aggression I should have anticipated yet somehow breaks through situational awareness. Hands against my chest, pushing with surprising strength until my back meets the wall behind me. Not attack but emotional response beyond control.

"A year." Each word punctuated with another push against my chest, restrained violence communicating rage words cannot adequately express. "Over twelve months of nothing. Then you reappear as my fiancé. Monitoring my every move. Investigating my private communications. With no explanation beyond necessity."

I permit the physical outlet for her justified anger, combat readiness recalibrating in the face of emotional catalyst. Her proximity—body now pressed against mine in controlled aggression—triggering responses beyond professional assessment.

"You want explanation beyond strategy?" I capture her wrists as she attempts another push, reversing our positions with controlled movement that places her against the wall instead. "Beyond an arranged engagement neither of us chose?"

Her breath comes faster, pupils fully dilated as anger and something else entirely create dangerous emotional cocktail. "I want the truth. All of it. No more partial disclosure. No more omissions."

The request—impossible to fulfill—creates a dilemma with no clean resolution. Complete honesty is too risky. Continued deception guarantees distance from the only genuine connection I've permitted myself since the murder of my family.

"The truth is complicated." My grip on her wrists gentles, thumbs stroking pulse points I can feel racing beneath my touch. "Beyond Bratva politics. Beyond arranged marriage. Beyond whatever game you believe I'm playing in your father's organization."

"Then uncomplicate it." Her challenge carries vulnerability beneath defiance. "Tell me one truth that matters, Viktor. One reality beyond calculation."

The genuine plea beneath practiced composure breaks something loose inside me—restraint yielding to emotional necessity I've denied since Paris. Since the moment I recognized Anastasia Markova as the woman I left without explanation after genuine connection I never anticipated.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you since Paris."

The admission—inadvisable yet emotionally unavoidable—shifts something fundamental between us. Her eyes widen, genuine vulnerability replacing practiced defiance as the confession registers.

"Neither have I." Her whispered response carries equal vulnerability, equal emotional truth. "Despite every reason to hate you. Despite everything that's happened since. Despite knowing you're not who you pretend to be."

The acknowledgment—that she sees beyond careful facade I've constructed for Markov's organization—should trigger alarm. Instead, it creates opening I never anticipated when arranging this meeting. Connection beyond arranged engagement. Understanding beyond Bratva politics.

My hands release her wrists, moving instead to frame her face with gentleness that contradicts everything I've become in pursuit of vengeance. Her eyes hold mine with devastating directness, searching for deception and finding only dangerous truth.