chapter 7

As I turn, I catch a glimpse of a man standing a few feet away, watching me. He’s dressed in a full suit, which seems wildly out of place on a Saturday. Our eyes meet, and he quickly looks away.

What the hell?

I frown, glancing around. What’s a guy like him doing here? It doesn’t make sense.

But then again, none of this makes sense. My life hasn’t made sense in weeks.

I shake my head, trying to brush it off. “None of my business,” I mumble to myself as I turn around, continuing down the aisle.

But something about the man lingers in my mind. Maybe it’s the way he looked at me—like he knew something I didn’t, like there was some invisible string tethering him to me. Or maybe I’m just paranoid, which wouldn’t be surprising given the circumstances. After all, I’m living in a nightmare I didn’t choose.

I try to shake it off, losing myself in the racks of clothes. Ten minutes go by as I sift through Alice and Olivia pieces, trying to decide whether buying something new is even worth it. A dress catches my eye, and I’m almost certain it will fit, so I decide to grab it. I’ll need black heels to go with it, something simple.

But as I round the corner, there he is again. Same man, same uneasy feeling, but this time, he’s not alone. Another guy stands next to him, trying way too hard to look interested in the new Theory collection.

An alarm bell starts ringing in my head. It’s subtle, but years of watching my father’s associates—and the people who’ve shadowed him—have taught me how to spot an oddity. And these two? They stick out like sore thumbs.

I leave the dress on the counter and march straight toward them.

“What is it?” I demand, not bothering with pleasantries.

The first man blinks, feigning ignorance. “What?”

“You’ve been following me,” I say, my voice firm. “The security cameras will prove it. So, you can tell me what you want from me, or I can call the cops. Your choice.”

The second man clears his throat, dropping the pretense. His dress shirt is too crisp, too pressed for someone casually browsing a women’s section. His posture screams alertness. I was right. They’re not here to shop.

The first man straightens his tie, a telltale sign of someone trying to regain control. “Ma’am, Mr. Orlov sent us to keep you safe.”

I blink, caught off guard.

Dmitri sent them?

“He sent you two,” I say, gesturing at them, “tokeep me safe? Bodyguards?”

They nod, serious as ever.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I shake my head, refusing to believe it. But they’re standing here, in front of me, and I can’t deny the physical evidence. “Why?”

The word slips out, but I already know the answer. Of course. This has to do with that conversation Dmitri and I had about my work habits. Clearly, he listened and sent these guys—who couldn’t be more conspicuous if they tried—to follow me around like I’m some kind of helpless damsel in distress.

“Since when?” I ask, irritation seeping into my tone.

“Two days ago,” the first man responds.

Two days? Two whole freaking days, and I didn’t notice?

My hands clench into fists as I try not to let my temper flare. How the hell did I not see them?

“You’ve been following me to work?” I ask.

They nod.

“And I didn’t spot you?”

They shake their heads.

Suit Man speaks again, calm and measured. “We decided it was best not to draw attention. Staying too close would’ve alerted the security team in your building.”

I run a hand through my hair, feeling a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. I should’ve seen them. I should’veknown. But the real kicker? Dmitri—who hasn’t even bothered to show his face in three weeks—didn’t tell me.

I square my shoulders. “I’m Anastasia Petrov. My father is Nikolai Petrov, which means I’m more than capable of looking after myself. I don’t need you two.”

Suit Man shakes his head, unfazed. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re under strict orders from Mr. Orlov to watch you at all times. We’ve determined that this location is vulnerable to potential threats.”

“Threats?” I hiss, furiously. “This isBloomingdale’s! Who’s going to harm me here?”

I see them exchange glances, clearly not swayed by my anger. They’re immovable, just like Dmitri.

“Stay away from me,” I snap, but even as I turn and walk away, I know they won’t listen. They cling to my shadow like I’m a target under siege.

The frustration builds inside me, bubbling until I can’t enjoy the shopping trip anymore. After a while, I decide to cut my excursion short, heading for the exit with an irritated sigh. Glancing over my shoulder, I see them still trailing me, alwayskeeping their distance but never far enough to disappear. I turn back to the two men, who stand stoic and unmoving.

“Can you give me some space?” I hiss through clenched teeth. “You’re not helping.”

They don’t listen, of course. They’re just like their boss—impervious to reason, stubborn as hell. I toss my shopping bags to one of them, not in the mood to carry them myself. If they’re going to shadow me, they might as well make themselves useful.

“I’m done here,” I say. “Where are you parked?”

One of them opens the car door for me as if I’m some kind of royalty. I roll my eyes and slide into the backseat, settling in with a sigh.

As we pull away from Bloomingdale’s, a thought strikes me. “You know what?” I say, leaning forward. “I think I’d like lunch. There’s a place I know, it’s about twenty minutes from here.”

I rattle off an address, leaning back and closing my eyes. I don’t actually want to go there, but if they’re going to ruin my day, I might as well take them along for the ride.

After a full dayof dragging these bodyguards around with me, enduring stares from every corner, I finally decide it’s time to head home. I slide into the car, exhausted, and scroll mindlessly through my phone, trying to speed up the journey back.

That’s when I remember my father.

I haven’t heard from him since the day after the wedding. I’ve been so caught up in surviving this mess of a life that I didn’t even realize how long it’s been. He hasn’t called either, but that’s not unusual for him. Which is why I spent most weekends at home, making up for it.

Sighing, I dial his number, thinking of the last time we spoke—his voice thick with emotion, something I’d rarely heard from him. The phone rings once, and then nothing. Not unusual. He probably left it somewhere. I wait a few minutes before trying again. No answer.

Five minutes go by. Then ten. Fifteen. An hour passes.

Still nothing.

In all the years I’ve lived away from him, this has never happened. He doesn’t always answer on the first try, but by the third or fourth ring, he picks up. Always.

Something isn’t right.

I try again, heart pounding. My calls continue going to voicemail, and my mind starts racing. What could’ve happened? What’s different now? The uneasy feeling in my chest intensifies, and then a chilling thought creeps into my head—Dmitri.

I remember what he said three weeks ago, how my father was banned from coming to the house, how I wasn’t allowed to see him anymore.

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

I shake my head, chuckling bitterly. Dmitri didn’t make my father ignore my calls. Nikolai Petrov, despite all the twisted circumstances that landed me in this mess, would never let anyone—not even Dmitri—cut him off from his daughter.

But that thought lingers, gnawing at me. What if he did?

“No,” I mutter aloud, trying to convince myself. “Something else must’ve happened.”

I scroll through my contacts, finding Daria’s number—my father’s secretary. It’s the weekend, but I know she’ll help. She’s always been loyal, and if anyone can reach him, it’s her.

The moment she picks up, I don’t waste any time. “Daria, I’m sorry for calling you like this, but could you try reaching my father? I’ve been calling him, and I’m getting worried.”