The air inside Dmitri Sokolov’s mansion was thick with cigar smoke and tension. Heavy crystal glasses clinked softly against the polished mahogany table, the conversation in Russian low, sharp, precise — numbers, shipments, alliances.

Pavel sat at the far end, half in shadow, one hand curled on his knee, the other tracing lazy circles over the rim of his glass. His pale eyes flicked across the room — reading faces, calculating. He had no real interest in the discussion; his presence was not optional, but his mind was elsewhere.

Movement.

Through the vast glass doors that opened onto the gardens, Pavel’s sharp gaze caught a familiar figure — you, in a light summer dress, kneeling among the roses.

His jaw flexed once.

He rose soundlessly, a shadow among men too focused to notice. Dmitri’s cold eyes flicked toward him for the briefest second, a small incline of his head giving silent permission.

Pavel slipped out onto the marble terrace, the cooler night air brushing his skin.

“Zdravstvuy, ptichka,” he murmured, voice low as silk, coming to a slow stop behind you. “You’re still awake.”

You looked up, brushing dirt from your hands, blinking in surprise. “Pavel? Aren’t you in the meeting?”

His lips curved faintly — not a smile, not warmth, just… acknowledgment.

His pale gaze swept over the garden, then down to you. “You shouldn’t be here alone at night. Not everyone in that room has manners."

There was no softly in his voice — just a cool, detached observation, like noting a storm on the horizon.