Page 16 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
I gestured toward the camera mounted in the corner of the room. “Am I allowed to talk to you?”
Her response was flat and immediate. “I don’t give a fuck about permission.”
That surprised a laugh out of me, short and bitter but genuine. “Fair enough. I’m Eleanor.”
“Anya.” She didn’t move from her position by the door, but she didn’t leave either.
“Anya Voronov?” I guessed, putting the pieces together. “Maxim’s your cousin? Boss? Handler?”
“Brother.”
That explained the resemblance and the expensive clothes. If Maxim were high up in the Bratva hierarchy, his family would have access to serious money. The kind that bought cashmere sweaters and professional makeup applications.
“Look, Anya,” I said, trying to inject some desperation into my voice without sounding pathetic. “I know this is probably weird for you, but I have a favor to ask.”
She raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow but didn’t respond.
“I’ve been wearing these clothes for three days. Two days living in my office before your brother decided to drug me, and now this.” I gestured at my wrinkled, stained outfit. “Could I maybe get a shower? And some clean clothes?”
Anya’s expression didn’t change, but I thought I saw something soften around her eyes. Maybe sympathy, maybe just basic human decency, recognizing that I was asking for the bare minimum of dignity.
“Please,” I added, letting some of my exhaustion show through. “All I need is clean underwear and not to smell like stress and fear. I’m not asking for much.”
She studied me for a long moment, those hazel eyes taking in my disheveled appearance and probably calculating whether I was trying to manipulate her or just genuinely desperate for basic hygiene.
“You work in fashion,” she said finally. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. I have my own label. Eleanor Beaumont Designs. Nothing huge, but we’re growing.” I paused, then added, “ You?”
“Anya V. Collection. Minimalist pieces, sustainable materials.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Holy shit, really? I know your work. That black dress with the architectural neckline that Gwyneth wore to the Met Gala? That was yours, wasn’t it?”
For the first time since entering the room, Anya’s carefully controlled mask slipped slightly. A hint of pride flickered across her features. “You follow fashion week?”
“Are you kidding? It’s my job to know who’s doing what in the industry. Your fall collection last year was incredible. The way you played with negative space and clean lines? Pure genius.”
Anya actually took a step back into the room, closing the door behind her. “Your spring line wasn’t terrible either. The florals were predictable, but the construction was solid.”
“Predictable?” I felt my competitive instincts kick in, temporarily overriding the fact that I was having this conversation in a basement prison. “Those weren’t just florals. I was exploring the intersection between organic growth patterns and urban decay. The color palette was specifically chosen to—”
“I know what you were doing,” Anya interrupted, but there was amusement in her voice now. “And it worked, mostly. The execution was better than the concept.”
Despite everything, despite the insanity of discussing fashion criticism with my captor’s sister while imprisoned in an underground room, I found myself grinning. “Okay, fair point. Sometimes I get too caught up in the story and forget that clothes need to be wearable.”
“Exactly.” Anya moved further into the room, apparently deciding that our conversation was worth continuing. “Fashion is art, but it’s also function. Beauty without purpose is just decoration.”
“Says the woman who designed a dress that required three assistants to help the model walk down the runway.”
“That was a statement piece. And she walked fine once she got used to the weight distribution.”
We stared at each other for a moment, both of us probably realizing how surreal this situation was. Here I was, kidnapped and held prisoner, having a professional debate about fashion theory with my captor’s sister, like we were at some industry cocktail party.
“This is fucked up,” I said finally.
“Completely fucked up,” Anya agreed.
But neither of us moved to end the conversation. It felt good to talk about something normal, something that had nothing to do with revenge plots or family betrayals or whatever psychological damage had turned Maxim into the kind of man who kidnapped innocent women.
