Page 9 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
“Anya?” Sasha’s voice pulled me back to the present. She was standing in the doorway, clipboard in hand, with that expression she wore when she had a list of problems needing to be solved. “We need to go over the venue details.”
I gestured to the chair across from my desk, and she settled into it with the efficiency of someone who’d learned to navigate my creative process without disrupting the flow. Threeyears she’d been working for me, three years of learning to speak the language of controlled chaos that governed my world.
“The venue is confirmed,” she said, consulting her notes. “The Millennium Park location, evening of the fifteenth. Lighting crew confirmed, sound system tested, seating arranged for two hundred.”
Two hundred people. Critics, buyers, influencers, and the carefully curated selection of Chicago’s cultural elite who would decide whether my latest collection was revolutionary or merely ambitious. The thought should have excited me, but today it just added another layer to the anxiety pressing against my ribs.
“What about the models?” I asked, leaning back in my chair.
“Fresh Face confirmed for the final walk—Emma Sinclair, the redhead we saw last week. She has that ethereal quality you wanted for the wedding dress.” Sasha flipped a page. “But we’re still waiting on approval for the rest of the casting. The agency is being difficult about the timeline.”
Fresh Face. The final walk. Thepièce de résistancethat would either cement my reputation or destroy it completely. I’d designed the dress as a love letter to possibility—layers of silk and tulle that moved like water, beadwork that caught light like captured stars. It was the kind of dress that made people believe in happily ever after, even when they should know better.
“Keep pushing them,” I said. “We need confirmation by tomorrow, or we start looking elsewhere.”
She nodded and made another note. “Anything else?”
Before I could answer, my phone rang. Irene’s name flashed across the screen, and I felt a smile tug at my lips despite the stress of the day. My best friend had a talent for calling at exactly the right moment, as if she could sense when I needed a voice that wasn’t talking about budgets or timelines or thethousand tiny details that could make or break everything I’d worked for.
“Take a break,” I told Sasha, reaching for the phone. “We’ll finish this in an hour.”
She gathered her notes and left, closing the door behind her with a soft click. I answered on the fourth ring.
“Please tell me you’re calling with good news,” I said, settling back in my chair. “Because I could use some today.”
There was a pause on the other end, long enough to make my stomach clench with unease. When Irene spoke, her voice carried a weight I’d never heard before.
“Anya, I need you to sit down.”
The bottom dropped out of my world. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s about Lev.” Another pause, this one heavier than the first. “His father was attacked today. He…he didn’t make it.”
The words hit me like physical blows, each one landing with enough force to steal my breath. Mike Antonov was dead. Lev’s father—the man who’d raised him after losing his wife and youngest son in that fire all those years ago—was gone.
“That’s not possible,” I said, and my voice sounded strange and distant in my own ears. “I just got back to Chicago. I haven’t even seen him yet.”
“Oh God.” The words came out as barely a whisper. “I have to call him.”
“Honey, wait—”
I was already scrolling through my contacts, my fingers shaking as I searched for his number. It had been five years since I’d used it, five years since I’d heard his voice outside of those brief, professional interactions when Maxim was in town. But it was still there, still saved under “L” like a secret I couldn’t bring myself to delete.
The phone rang once, twice, three times. On the fourth ring, it went to voicemail—his voice, clipped and professional, asking me to leave a message.
“Lev, it’s Anya. I just heard about your father. I’m so sorry. Call me back when you can.”
I hung up and immediately tried again. Same result. Voicemail after four rings, like he was seeing my name and choosing not to answer.
“He’s not picking up,” I told Irene, panic creeping into my voice.
“He probably needs space right now. Grief isn’t something Lev Antonov does in public.”
She was right, of course. Even I knew that much about him. Lev was the kind of man who buried his emotions so deep even he forgot where he’d hidden them. The idea of him falling apart where anyone could see it was almost laughable.
Almost.
My phone buzzed with an incoming call, and for a moment my heart leaped. But it wasn’t Lev. It was Maxim.
