Page 15 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
They both burst out laughing at that, the sound filling the office like gunfire. Lev actually doubled over, wheezing with the effort of containing his mirth.
“Security check,” he gasped. “That’s good. I’ll have to remember that one.”
“Fuck you, both of you.”
But I couldn’t deny their point entirely. I had been checking the feed more often than necessary, telling myself it was tactical awareness when it was probably something else entirely. Eleanor was an unknown variable in my carefully ordered world, and unknown variables made me nervous.
At least that was what I told myself.
***
The next two days passed in a blur of phone calls and planning. William Beaumont hadn’t responded to my initial message, which could mean several things. Either he was planning his response, didn’t care enough to negotiate, or hadn’t received it yet due to his various security protocols.
I found myself checking the basement feed more frequently, always with some excuse about security or tactical assessment. Eleanor spent most of her time reading magazines that Anya brought her, occasionally pacing the room like a caged animal. She’d adapted to her situation with remarkablecomposure, accepting her circumstances without the hysterics I’d expected.
It was past midnight when I finally allowed myself a moment to breathe. The office was empty, Lev and Cassandra having gone home hours ago. I leaned back in my chair and looked at the monitor, telling myself it was just a final security check before bed.
Eleanor was lying on the bed, reading what looked like a fashion magazine. She’d changed into a hoodie that was too big for her, probably one of Anya’s, with bare legs stretched out across the expensive sheets. She looked younger like this, more vulnerable, less like the defiant woman who’d called me a monster to my face.
I watched her turn a page, completely absorbed in whatever article had caught her attention. For a moment, she looked almost peaceful, like she was reading in her own bed instead of in a basement prison.
The realization hit me like a cold slap: I was already in deeper than I’d planned.
This was supposed to be simple. Take the daughter, use her as leverage, make William Beaumont pay for his crimes. Clean, efficient, surgical. But somewhere between Eleanor’s bitter laugh and her absolute conviction that her father wouldn’t come for her, the plan had become complicated.
She was more than just a tool now. More than just leverage in a game of revenge.
That was dangerous thinking. The kind that got people killed in my line of work.
I forced myself to look away from the monitor, to focus on the files spread across my desk. Plans within plans, contingencies for every possible outcome. This was what mattered. Not Eleanor’s laugh or her defiance or the way she looked curled up with a magazine.
William Beaumont was going to pay for Prague. That was the only thing that mattered.
Everything else was just noise.
But as I tried to focus on the paperwork, my eyes kept drifting back to the monitor. To the woman who was supposed to be nothing more than a means to an end, but who was rapidly becoming something much more complicated.
I was fucked, and I knew it.
The question was whether I cared enough to do anything about it.
Chapter 5 – Eleanor
I’d been wearing the same tank top and shorts for what felt like a lifetime. The clothes that had seemed perfectly normal in my fashion studio now felt like a prison uniform, sticking to my skin with dried sweat and the lingering chemical smell from whatever they’d used to knock me out.
My hair was a disaster, escaped from its ponytail and hanging in greasy strands around my face. I probably smelled like fear and exhaustion, which was exactly as appealing as it sounded.
The sound of the lock turning made me look up from the fashion magazine I’d been pretending to read. Instead of Maxim’s intimidating presence, a woman entered carrying a silver tray. She was tall, maybe five-seven, with chestnut brown hair that fell in soft waves and sharp hazel eyes that looked disturbingly familiar.
She wasn’t wearing any kind of uniform, just well-fitted jeans and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than most people’s monthly salary. Everything about her screamed money and taste, from her perfectly applied makeup to the way she moved with practiced elegance.
The resemblance hit me like a slap. The bone structure, the eyes, even the way she held herself with that same controlled authority I’d seen in Maxim.
She set the tray down on the small table without a word, her movements efficient and professional. Soup, bread, water, and what looked like decent coffee. My stomach growled loudly enough to be embarrassing, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything substantial in days.
When she turned to leave, I cleared my throat and stood up. “Wait.”
She paused, one hand on the door handle, and looked back at me with an expression that was carefully neutral.
