Mr. Viktor
1020 Words
2 Years ago
Alice Alphonso.
Not the Senator. His niece. Beautiful, aloof, and every bit the politician’s blood. She glided through the crowd in a white gown that cut through the gold like a blade of light, red lips curving in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Amara waited, timing her moment. When Alice turned away from the cluster of men orbiting her, she moved, gracefully, like she belonged here.
“Ms. Alphonso?” Amara began, her voice smooth but low. “I read your recent interview with Global Charity Digest. Moving words about ‘rebuilding trust in philanthropy.’”
Alice’s gaze flicked over her like she was assessing a wine she didn’t order. Then, something in her expression softened into interest... or calculation. “And you are?”
“Amara Hale. The Herald Tribune. I cover international aid initiatives.”
A lie. But a polished one.
Alice smiled. “Of course you do. Let’s talk somewhere quieter.”
She led Amara through a side hallway gilded with portraits of forgotten benefactors until they reached a private suite; dim, perfumed, with a bottle of aged scotch waiting like a secret already told.
“Forgive the theatrics,” Alice said, pouring two glasses. “This gala is mostly for show. The real donations happen behind locked doors.”
Amara accepted the glass but didn’t drink. “You wanted to talk.”
“Not wanted,” Alice said simply. “Needed.” She reached into her clutch, pulling out a small flash drive, the silver casing gleaming under the chandelier’s breath. “This holds correspondence... names, account numbers, shipments. It’s proof that my uncle is running more than charity. You wanted your big story, Ms. Hale. Congratulations.”
Amara’s heart skipped, but her expression didn’t flinch. So easy? She leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly. “And what’s in it for you?”
Alice’s smile curved, feline. “His downfall, of course. But I’m not so naïve as to think justice pays rent. What I want is... access. To your sources. The ones in East Africa. The ones who’ve survived.”
It was Amara’s turn to freeze. That wasn’t a random request; it was dangerous, specific. “You want their identities?”
“I want what’s owed,” Alice said quietly, the smirk never faltering. “I give you the story that wins your Pulitzer. You give me what I need to clean the house.”
Something cold coiled in Amara’s stomach. She knew manipulation when she saw it. “You’ll have my thanks,” she said flatly, taking the flash drive and standing.
Alice’s eyes gleamed, a soft laugh spilling from her lips. “You’ll have more than that, darling. You’ll have power. But power always has a price.”
When Amara left the suite, the weight of the flash drive in her clutch felt heavier than gold. The hallway was dimmer now, quieter. A man stood a few feet ahead: silver hair, crisp suit, posture like a blade.
Something about him tugged at her memory.
Where had she seen that face?
She didn’t linger. Her heels clicked against the marble, each step a reminder of how badly they hurt. She cursed under her breath, eyes darting down to adjust the strap,
...And collided with a wall.
Only it wasn’t a wall.
A strong arm wrapped around her waist, steadying her before gravity won. The contact burned through silk and skin, and the scent hit her first, dark spice, oak, and something dangerously masculine. Expensive, understated, addictive.
Her breath caught. “What the hell is that scent?” she thought, dizzy. “And how can I… ”
Her gaze snapped upward, and the rest of the thought fell away.
Amber. His eyes were molten amber, too sharp, too knowing, too alive. Tousled brown hair framed a face that looked sculpted for sin, not salvation. And those eyes… they weren’t looking at her like she was a stranger. They were studying her like he already knew how she tasted.
“Careful,” he said, voice a low rumble that carried a foreign lilt. Russian, smooth and dangerous. “These floors don’t forgive mistakes.”
Amara found her footing and her voice… Barely. “Neither do I.”
The corner of his mouth curved. “Good. Then we understand each other.”
He released her, and the warmth left with him. Her pulse refused to slow down.
“Viktor Volkov,” he introduced, offering a gloved hand that looked more suited to command than charm. “And you are?”
“Someone who doesn’t shake hands without reason.”
He chuckled softly, like he hadn’t heard that one in years. “Then give me one.”
She hesitated, and then, against logic, against instinct, placed her hand in his. His fingers brushed her skin like a promise he had no right to make.
“Amara,” she said finally.
“Amara,” he repeated, her name rolling off his tongue like something too intimate to be spoken aloud. “A name meant to be whispered.”
Her throat bobbed. She hated that her heart reacted before her mind could scold it.
Before she could respond, his eyes flicked toward the main hall. “Come. I think you’ll find this conversation... educational.”
He nodded toward the corridor leading back to the gala, where laughter and music bled through like temptation itself. “Some of the most generous men here tonight have exciting hobbies. I suspect you’d appreciate knowing who they are.”
It was bait. She recognized it instantly, and yet her pulse quickened anyway.
“Lead the way, Mr. Volkov,” she said, matching his tone.
His smirk deepened... slow, deliberate, like a dare, and he offered his arm.
As she slipped her hand through it, she caught the faint tremor in her breath, the electric thrum between them that made every sound in the room fade.
Goosebumps chased the path of his warmth along her skin.
Her reporter’s instinct screamed trap.
Her body whispered stay.
And for the first time that night, Amara Hale didn’t know which voice she’d obey.
- Writer
