A touch of shadow

Three days had passed.

Sofie hadn't seen Aleksei since that afternoon. He gave instructions through his secretary. No glances, no words. Only his signature on documents, cold and mechanical, as if written by a complete stranger.

She didn't know what was keeping him away. Her? Himself? Or perhaps... his wife?

Sofie shut down her computer and placed the translations into her folder. She was just about to leave when the phone on her desk rang softly. Internal number. She looked at the display.

Solovyov's office.

She hesitated, but picked up the receiver.

— Yes?

— Come to my office. Now. — Aleksei's voice was composed. Not a request — a command. But beneath that layer of control — something trembled.

She gathered her things and walked toward his office. With each step, her heart pounded harder. The door was ajar. She knocked.

— Come in — she heard.

The room was dim. The blinds were drawn, and the only light came from a lamp beside the bookcase. Aleksei was sitting in an armchair, turned slightly away from her, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. His sleeves were rolled up — for the first time, she saw his tattoos clearly. They were black, sharp, brutal. Some looked like military insignias, others — like symbols she didn't understand.

— Sit — he said, without looking at her.

Obediently, she took a seat across from him. She wanted to say something, but he was quicker.

— Do you know why I called you here?

— No. — Her voice faltered a little.

Finally, he looked at her. His gaze was no longer cold. It was tired. Stern. Real.

— I want you to know. I'm not a good man, Sofie.

She froze.

— You don't have to...

— I do. — He stood. Walked over to her. Sat on the edge of the desk, close. Too close. — The people I work with... they're not like you. You're not from this world. And that's exactly why... why you need to be careful.

— Aleksei...

— My wife is a political arrangement. She has a name that opens doors. And I have the power to close them. Our marriage is a deal. Cold, empty. And irrelevant.

He gently took her hand. His fingers were warm. Strong. Trembling just slightly.

— You're the first person who looks at me... differently. Not as a threat. Not as a tool. And that terrifies me more than anything I've faced before.

The silence was heavy. Sofie didn't pull her hand away. She looked into his eyes, not turning away.

— So what now? — she asked quietly.

Aleksei leaned in closer. Just a few more centimeters. And...

A knock at the door.

He pulled back instantly. The voice of the secretary shattered the tension.

— Mr. Solovyov, your wife is here.

Sofie froze.

Aleksei looked at her once more. This time briefly. Firmly. He walked away without a word.

He left her with a trembling heart and a question that returned, stronger than ever:

Was it worth falling in love with someone who carried more darkness than light?

The door closed behind him softly, almost soundlessly, yet to Sofie it echoed like the slam of a prison gate. She was alone. In his world. In his air. With his touch still lingering on her skin like a trace of fire.

She rose slowly. The desk was empty, as if the man who had stirred emotions in her she never thought herself capable of had never been there. She ran her fingers over his glass — still warm. The alcohol smelled dark, smoky, and... strangely familiar. As if that scent already belonged to her, though she had no right to claim it.

She glanced at the door. The hallway was silent.

She shouldn't have done it — but she did. Instead of leaving, she walked toward the bookcase. Not in search of secrets, but... to understand him better. Anything that could help her understand who this man really was — the one who in one moment seemed her greatest threat, and in the next — a refuge.

On the top shelf, she saw something that didn't fit the decor at all. A small, almost childlike photo. Worn corners. A boy. Maybe ten years old. Dark eyes, serious expression. In the background, an old apartment block with peeling walls. And a note on the back: "Aleksei, Moscow, 1994."

She felt something tighten in her throat. She placed the photo back exactly as she had found it.

And then...

— Sofie?

She turned around abruptly. A woman stood in the doorway. Around forty. Tall, slender, dressed in an elegant, dark dress that looked more like a uniform than an outfit. Her red hair was perfectly styled, and her gaze was cold as ice.

— I'm sorry... I... was just leaving — Sofie stammered, taking a step back.

The woman smiled without a trace of warmth.

— I see. Assistant, yes?

— Translator.

— Ah. Even worse — she murmured quietly, with barely noticeable disdain. — You know my husband has a tendency for... unnecessary fascinations?

Sofie felt the ground slip from under her feet. She stood straight, refusing to let herself tremble, though her fingers clenched tightly around the strap of her bag.

— I'm here professionally — she replied coldly.

— Of course, darling. But trust me — professional relationships with Aleksei very often end in... personal consequences.

And before Sofie could respond, the woman passed her by gracefully, leaving behind only the scent of expensive perfume and the bitterness of an unspoken threat.

Sofie left the office with her stomach in knots. And only one question pulsed in her mind, like an echo:

What have I gotten myself into...?