Page 62 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
“Someone leakedwhat?”
“Handled,” Anya said quickly. “Rafael made some phone calls. The photos disappeared from the internet, and the competitor decided to completely redesign their collection. Something about suddenly remembering they had other priorities.”
I stared at her. “Rafael made phone calls.”
“Our family takes business very seriously. Both kinds of business.” She grabbed a tablet from one of the assistants and shoved it toward me. “But right now, I need you to look at these alterations and tell me if they’re acceptable, because we have fittings in two hours, and if we need to make changes, it has to happen now.”
The designs on the screen were perfect. Better than perfect. They were my vision, but refined, enhanced, elevated in ways that made my chest tight with something that felt dangerously close to gratitude.
“Anya, these are….”
“Don’t you dare get emotional on me. I’ve been running on espresso and spite for seventy-two hours, and if you start crying, I might actually murder someone.”
“I was going to say they’re brilliant.”
“Oh.” She looked almost embarrassed. “Well. Good. Because I may have taken some liberties with the execution, but I thought….”
“They’re perfect.”
Zara cleared her throat. “Not to interrupt this moment of artistic appreciation, but we do have some actual problems that need addressing.”
“Such as?”
“Media requests. Lots of them. Apparently, the wife of a Bratva facilitator launching a fashion line is considered newsworthy.”
“Fuck.”
“My thoughts exactly. Also, security. Your husband’s people want to sweep the venue again, install additional cameras, and basically turn your fashion show into Fort Knox with better lighting.”
I rubbed my temples, feeling the familiar pressure that came with trying to balance two worlds that were never meant to intersect. “What did you tell them?”
“I told them to coordinate with Anya, since she seems to be running this operation now.”
“I told them they could have their security measures as long as they stayed invisible,” Anya said. “Your guests are coming to see fashion, not to feel like they’re entering a war zone.”
“Even though we technically are entering a war zone?”
“Especially because we’re entering a war zone. The whole point of this show is to prove that you’re not going to beintimidated, that you’re not hiding, that you’re stronger than whatever forces are trying to tear you down.”
The conviction in her voice hit me like a physical blow. This wasn’t just about fashion for her. This was about something deeper, something that had to do with the way her family had learned to survive in a world that was constantly trying to destroy them.
“Anya,” I said quietly. “Why are you doing this?”
She looked at me for a long moment, and I saw something in her expression that reminded me of Maxim. Something fierce and protective and absolutely uncompromising.
“Because you’re family now,” she said simply. “And family doesn’t let family face their battles alone.”
“Even when those battles involve people shooting at me?”
“Especiallywhen those battles involve people shooting at you.” She smiled, and it was sharp enough to cut glass. “Besides, I’ve been wanting to prove that I can run a business better than my brother. My own clothing line is more limited, so this seemed like a good opportunity.”
Zara snorted. “Competitive much?”
“You have no idea. Maxim thinks that because he’s older and male and involved in the family business, he’s automatically better at everything. I’ve been waiting years for a chance to show him up.”
“Using my fashion show as a sibling rivalry battleground?”
“Using your fashion show as proof that Voronov women are just as capable as Voronov men. Maybe more capable.”
