Page 23 of Imperfect Desires

Yelena’s eyes soften. “You’ll get over him.”

I don’t answer.

Yelena slides her hand across the table and brushes her fingers against mine. “We’re in London now. This is a fresh start. New life. New opportunities.”

I nod slowly.

Yelena leans forward. “We’re going to focus on school. We’ll stay low-key. No drama.”

“No drama,” I repeat softly.

Yelena smiles faintly. “It’s going to be fine.”

I close my eyes and let her words settle against my aching chest.

“Maybe you’re right,” I whisper. “Maybe time and distance will erase this feeling.”

Or maybe it will make it worse, because I know what I feel is not infatuation. I lied to Yelena when I said I’ll move on. Deep down, I know the truth: I haven’t even begun to let him go.

8

Alina

Russia feels different after four years away.

I can’t tell if it’s the air—the sharp bite of winter as it presses through the windows—or if it’s just me.

Yelena and I have been back for two months now. After four years at Imperial College London, the transition should feel more jarring—but it doesn’t. Moscow is familiar in a way London never was. The darkened streets, the cold wind cutting through the trees, the quiet weight of the estate—it’s all embedded into my bones.

We’ve changed, though. Yelena and I are no longer the sheltered, inexperienced girls we were when we left. We have businessdegrees now. We know how to run numbers, balance the books, and track the flow of money through the organization's accounts. Our father ensured we were educated—and not just in the traditional sense. Over the years, he’s involved us deeper in the workings of the Bratva. We’re not just his daughters—we’re part of the business now.

I sit at my desk in the corner of my room, flicking through financial statements on my laptop. Across the room, Yelena lounges on the bed, flipping through a magazine.

She stretches, yawning. "We should go out tonight."

I barely look up. "We just got back."

"Exactly." Yelena closes the magazine with a soft snap. "We need to reacquaint ourselves with the city."

I roll my eyes. "You mean you need an excuse to flirt with one of Papa’s guards as you have been doing since we returned."

Yelena grins. "I’m weighing my options."

My phone buzzes on the desk. I glance down and see a message from my father:

I need you and your sister to come to my office now.

I frown. "We’re being summoned."

Yelena raises an eyebrow. "Think we’re in trouble?"

"I doubt it."

We walk side by side down the long corridor leading to our father’s office. The dark marble floors echo beneath our heels.

My father’s office is designed to intimidate. It has huge glass windows and black leather furniture. A massive mahogany desk dominates the center of the room. A heavy silence hangs in the air when we step inside.

Our father sits behind the desk, his dark eyes steady as he watches us enter. He gestures toward the chairs in front of him. "Sit."

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