Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I don’t believe in fate. I believe in facts."

My name is Vivian S. Vasilieva, though most call me Vivi. I’ve worked for Interpol’s Special Ops Division—ISOD—for five years, and the job leaves little room for anything else. But I’ve never needed anything else.

In this line of work, you don’t look for comfort or distractions. You look for patterns, for order in a world that rarely makes sense. The truth doesn’t hide behind emotions or politics—it’s there, beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered. I don’t waste time on why someone commits a crime or romanticizing the chaos. I just follow the thread that always leads to the guilty party.

I’m a detective. My job is simple—catch the bad guys. Mistakes cost lives, hesitation is your enemy, and trust is earned only when it’s too late. I don’t make friends, and I don’t make family. The people I work with know that. They trust me to get the job done. I was trained to see motives, tensions, and histories in a room full of people. When I look at a suspect, I don’t just see a criminal. I see a puzzle—one where every action is a key to their undoing.

I don’t care about politics or headlines. In this job, the world doesn’t get cleaner the more you try to clean it. We shine a light in the dark, but we don’t choose who stays in the light and who gets dragged into the dark. You just keep going. Because if you don’t, you become part of the system. I’m not here for recognition or glory. I’m here to make sure the truth comes out. My job usually keeps me in the shadows—gathering intel, finding those invisible threads that tie everything together. But every so often, a case demands a different approach. Every so often, the situation calls for me to get close—to become part of the story. And that’s how I ended up here.

Chapter Text

Vivi had always found peace in the snow. The way the white blanket softened the edges of the world, turning the harsh lines of reality into smooth curves. The muffled silence, broken only by the crunch of boots against the snow or the occasional rustle of tree branches swaying under the weight of the cold. In a city that always seemed to pulse with urgency, the park was her rare oasis of stillness.

She pulled her coat tighter around her, settling herself onto a bench near the edge of the frozen pond. It wasn’t yet dark, but the sky had that pale, quiet quality that only winter afternoons possessed. The sun was barely a glow behind the thick clouds, casting a faint light that seemed to add a sense of calm to the otherwise harsh world around her. For a moment, Vivi just sat there, closing her eyes, letting the cold air fill her lungs as she let go of the weight of the world.

There was no case to solve right now. No crimes to chase. Just her, the snow, and the emptiness that only a few hours of peace could bring.

But, of course, that peace couldn’t last forever.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, breaking the silence. She groaned softly, already knowing who it was. The ISOD badge on her screen was unmistakable.

Vivi sighed and pulled the phone out of her pocket, the sharp chill of the metal reminding her how detached she was from the calm world she’d found for herself in the park.

“Hello, Vivi,” came her boss’s voice, smooth and urgent, the kind of tone that immediately made her sit up straighter.

“Sir?” she replied, her tone steady despite the unsettling feeling creeping up her spine.

“Get to the office. We have a situation,” her boss, Director Hargrove, said. “A murder. At the President’s party.”

Vivi’s heart skipped a beat, but her voice remained calm. “Details?”

“There are no details yet, but we need you on it immediately,” Hargrove continued. “I’m sending you the file. Report to the scene first, and we’ll brief you once you’re there.”

Vivi stood up slowly, her eyes moving from the peaceful, snow-covered park around her to the busy streets beyond. She was used to the call—used to her moments of peace being interrupted by the demands of the job—but it didn’t make it any easier to let go. She had barely started to enjoy this small moment of quiet, and already it was slipping away.

“Understood,” she said, her mind already shifting gears, moving away from the park and into the gritty, chaotic world of murder and politics. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

Without waiting for a response, she hung up, her eyes scanning the park for a brief moment before she turned on her heel, already walking briskly toward the exit. The snow crunched beneath her boots, and the cold air felt sharper against her skin as her pulse quickened. Another case, another night where the world would be turned upside down, and she'd be the one to clean up the mess.

She didn’t mind, really. She was built for this.

But a small part of her longed for the peace of the park, for just a few more moments of calm before the storm.

As she walked, the weight of the job settled in, and she found herself thinking of the President’s party. The high-profile affair, the whispers of scandal and power-hungry individuals—all thing as she’d sworn to stay away from. And yet, now, she was being pulled straight into it.

She reached the street and hailed a cab, the engine’s roar cutting through the silence of the winter air.

Chapter Text

The ISOD building was always a maze of steel and glass, each hallway designed to echo the quiet hum of urgency that filled the air. As Vivi stepped off the elevator, the sharp click of her boots against the marble floor seemed to carry with her the weight of what was coming.

Director Hargrove’s office was at the end of the hall, his door always slightly ajar. Vivi didn’t need an invitation to enter; she knew the routine well.

Hargrove was seated at his desk, his face a mixture of concentration and stress, his hands steepled in front of him as he scanned a series of documents on his screen. His office was minimalist, a reflection of the man himself—efficient, sharp, no room for distractions.

“Vivi,” he said without looking up. “I trust you got the message.”

Vivi didn’t sit down. She never did until she was invited. Instead, she stood at the edge of his desk, folding her arms across her chest. “You don’t waste time, do you?” she remarked, the edge of her voice betraying a faint curiosity.

Hargrove finally looked up, meeting her gaze. His eyes were dark, almost unreadable. “This isn’t the time for small talk, Vivi. We’ve got a high-profile murder, and we’re no closer to finding the killer than we were hours ago. The President’s life was just threatened at his own party, and there’s a good chance this isn’t the first time someone’s been targeted.”

Vivi nodded, her mind already piecing the information together. “The President was the intended target, but someone else got killed first?”

Hargrove’s jaw tightened. “A man named Viktor Ivanov—security detail at the party. His death was a distraction. The real goal was to take out the President. But we don’t know why, or who was behind it. At this point, all fingers are pointing toward one man—Mattheo Raskolnikov.”

Vivi felt her pulse quicken at the name. Mattheo Raskolnikov—the notorious mafia boss, ruthless and untouchable, known for running operations under the radar, controlling everything from businesses to illegal enterprises. His name was whispered with fear across Europe.

“Raskolnikov?” Vivi repeated, her brows furrowing in disbelief. “The man whose empire is built on hotels, bars, and gambling?”

Hargrove leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of his desk. “That’s the one. But here’s the thing—there’s a new angle we need to consider. Raskolnikov is too clean. Too perfect. His businesses are legal, his image is impeccable. But there’s something about this whole situation that doesn’t add up. We’ve got our eyes on him because he has the resources and connections to pull off something like this—but we need to be sure.”

Vivi’s gaze narrowed. “You want me to go undercover.”

“Exactly,” Hargrove replied, his voice steady. “I need you to infiltrate his inner circle. Get close to him. You’ll apply for a job as his personal assistant—his secretary. Get close enough to watch him, see if he does anything suspicious. If he’s guilty, he’ll slip up. And if he’s innocent, we’ll know for sure. But we can’t afford to take any chances.”

Vivi didn’t hesitate. She knew the drill. This was her job—to slip under the radar, to blend in, to become a ghost in a room full of strangers. She had done it before. And she would do it again.

“Do you want me to report directly to you?” she asked.

Hargrove’s eyes hardened. “No. You’ll be on your own for this one. You’ll report through your secure comms. I don’t want anyone else to know what you’re doing—not the team, not anyone in the office. This has to be clean. If Raskolnikov finds out we’re watching him, it’ll be over before it even begins.”

Vivi nodded, absorbing the weight of the mission. “Understood. What’s my first step?”

Hargrove slid a file across the desk. “You’ll need to start by applying for the position. His secretary is leaving for personal reasons, so the job is open. You’ll have to act quickly. I’m sending you the details—his schedule, the event guest lists, everything we know about his operations. But the rest is up to you.”

Vivi picked up the file and glanced over the contents. It was a detailed dossier on Mattheo Raskolnikov, the people closest to him, and the various businesses he controlled. But there was one section that caught her attention—his personal history. Raskolnikov was a man of few public details, his life shrouded in secrecy. And yet, beneath the cold exterior, something told her there was more to him than met the eye.

“Any chance this could be a setup?” she asked, a thought forming in her mind.

Hargrove’s lips tightened. “It’s possible. But right now, we don’t have time to second-guess. You’ve got one shot to get in, Vivi. Don’t screw it up.”

“I don’t plan on it,” she replied, her voice resolute.

She stood, the weight of the task settling on her shoulders. This wasn’t going to be easy. But then again, nothing ever was.

“Good luck,” Hargrove said, his voice sharp as she turned to leave.

Vivi gave him a curt nod before stepping out of the office, the door closing quietly behind her.

Her mind was already racing as she made her way to her desk. The next few days were going to be a blur—disguising herself, learning the ins and outs of Raskolnikov’s world. But she wasn’t worried. She had done this before. She could handle it.

What she didn’t expect, however, was how close she would get to him. How much she might actually begin to question what she was being asked to do.
And how much danger she would put herself in along the way.

Chapter Text

Vivi hadn’t expected the mansion to be quite so imposing.

From the moment her cab had turned off the main road and onto the long, winding driveway, the grand estate had loomed before her, its silhouette a dark, imposing presence against the fading winter sky. The mansion was enormous—more castle than home—and surrounded by a high stone wall that gave it an air of isolation. There were no neighboring houses, no signs of life except for the sleek black cars parked in front of the grand entrance.

She had imagined something like this, of course. It’s what you’d expect from a man like Mattheo Raskolnikov. A man who had built an empire. But to see it in person, to feel the weight of it as she stepped out of the car, was something else entirely.

“Here you go, Miss Vasilieva,” the cab driver said, opening the door for her. “The mansion, just as you asked.”

Vivi nodded, handing him the fare and a tip before gathering her bag. She didn’t let her gaze wander for long; there was no time to get lost in the beauty of the place. She had a job to do.

The mansion was quiet. Too quiet.

As she walked up the steps, her heels clicking on the stone, she took a deep breath. The cold air bit at her skin, and she fought the instinct to shiver. She wasn’t nervous—at least, she told herself she wasn’t—but there was something unsettling about stepping into a world that was so far removed from her own.

The door opened just as she reached the top of the steps, and there, standing in the entrance with an air of unspoken authority, was Mattheo Raskolnikov.

Vivi had expected a cold reception, but what greeted her instead was the calm, composed gaze of a man who was both aware of his power and unbothered by it. His dark hair was combed back neatly, his sharp features illuminated by the soft light spilling from the foyer behind him. He was dressed in a black suit, the sharp lines of his clothes only emphasizing his tall frame. His presence filled the space, but it wasn’t the kind of presence that demanded immediate attention—it was a quieter authority, the kind that made you want to look, to listen, without quite knowing why.

“Miss Vasilieva,” he said, his voice low but not unfriendly. “Welcome.”

Vivi held his gaze for a moment, taking in the slight nod of his head, the way his eyes held a certain level of curiosity—but not quite warmth. She wasn’t expecting warmth. She wasn’t sure she even wanted it. Not yet.

“Thank you, Mr. Raskolnikov,” she replied smoothly, her voice steady. She didn’t reach out to shake his hand, not out of rudeness, but because she knew this wasn’t the kind of man who needed pleasantries. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

He stepped aside, allowing her to enter. The door closed silently behind her, sealing off the world outside. She glanced around, taking in the opulence of the entrance hall—polished marble floors, grand chandeliers, and walls lined with dark, polished wood. The space felt cold, not just because of the stone and marble, but because of the silence that seemed to hang in the air.

“I trust your journey was pleasant?” Mattheo asked, his tone still even, but with a hint of politeness that might have seemed incongruous coming from someone with such a reputation. But then again, she had read about him. He wasn’t the brute that people made him out to be. Not entirely.

“Yes,” Vivi replied, her eyes scanning the room as she spoke. “The weather’s been harsh, but the trip was fine.”

“You’ll be staying here,” he continued, gesturing toward the grand staircase that swept upward to a second floor. “The office is on the left. I’ll show you to your room shortly. Your things will be brought in by my butler shortly as well.”

She glanced at the staircase, imagining how the space would feel after spending hours in it, day after day. “I appreciate your hospitality,” she said, the words as polite as they were calculated. “I’ll do my best to get my work done properly and well.”

His lips curled ever so slightly into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t far from one. “I’m sure you will, Miss Vasilieva. And I trust I’ll be able to rely on you to handle matters efficiently.”

“I wouldn’t have accepted the job if I didn’t think I could,” Vivi replied.

There was a moment of silence between them as their eyes locked. He didn’t say anything else for a beat, and Vivi didn’t offer more than what was necessary. She knew how this game worked. She was here to observe, to learn, to wait for the cracks in his armor.

Finally, Mattheo stepped aside, his voice cutting through the silence. “Follow me, please. I’ll show you to your room.”

As Vivi followed him, her footsteps steady and sure, she couldn’t help but notice the way his presence seemed to fill the entire space. He wasn’t just a man who lived in a mansion—he was the mansion, the weight of his every movement, his every glance, pulling at the edges of the world around him.

They reached the top of the stairs, and Mattheo turned toward one of the hallways, his pace measured. He glanced over his shoulder as he walked, his dark eyes assessing her once more. “This is a quiet house,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’ll find that there is little to disturb you here.”

Vivi nodded, suppressing the urge to respond with something sharp, something that might reveal more than she intended. She was here to observe, not to reveal herself.
“Thank you,” she said instead.

At the end of the hallway, he opened a door to a room that, like everything else in the mansion, was sleek and polished. The furniture was modern and minimalist, and the space felt cold, though there was a large bed with dark sheets, a desk, and a few carefully placed accessories that spoke to a man with little regard for comfort. But it was clean, efficient. It would work.

“This will be your room,” Mattheo said, standing in the doorway. His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he stepped back, giving her space to enter. “If you need anything, let me know.”

“I will,” Vivi said, giving him a brief nod before stepping inside.

As she closed the door behind her, Vivi took a deep breath and let the weight of the moment sink in. She was here, in the lion’s den, and it was only a matter of time before everything started to unravel.

It was already getting late so she decided to hit the hay. Vivi laid her bags onto the floor beside the huge drawer before laying in her new bed. She was too tired to even change into pajamas — still in her dress suit at the moment. She killed the lights and stared into the darkness slowly drifting into slumber.

Chapter Text

Vivi woke with a jolt. The shrill buzz of an alarm tore through the quiet, dragging her from a dreamless sleep. Disoriented, she blinked against the dim light and turned to glance at the clock on her bedside table. 5:00 AM are the numbers which glow with quiet authority. What kind of human functioned at that hour?

“What in the world…” she muttered groggily, sitting up and silencing the alarm with a weary hand. The room was still cloaked in winter darkness, the curtains heavy with sleep and cold. She stretched slowly, trying to clear away the fog in her head. “Why so early…?”

Twenty minutes later—after forcing herself into routine, washing her face, brushing her hair, pulling on a soft beige blouse—she padded downstairs. The mansion was hushed, the silence thick. Every step on the marble floor echoed just a little too loudly, like the house itself was still asleep.

In the kitchen, she spotted a folded note on the counter. Its presence was precise, deliberate. She unfolded it, eyes scanning the elegant, familiar script:

Sunny side up eggs. Bacon. Two slices of toast.
— M. R.

She raised a brow. “He has good taste,” she murmured, sliding the note aside and opening the fridge.

Cooking grounded her. The sizzle of bacon, the careful turn of an egg in the pan—those small, familiar acts created a strange kind of normalcy in a place that often felt anything but.

By the time the breakfast was plated, footsteps echoed down the stairs. Steady. Calm. She didn’t need to look up to know it was him.

“Good morning, Mr. Raskolnikov,” she said, setting the plate down on the long dining table. “Here’s your breakfast, per your request.”

He took his seat with composed ease, his dark eyes briefly scanning the food. “Just call me Mattheo, Violet.”

She hesitated. “But… that’s informal, sir.”

“I give you permission,” he replied simply, cutting into his egg with the grace of someone completely at ease.

“Alright then… Mattheo.” The name felt strange in her mouth—too personal. She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

“Wait, Vi. Aren’t you going to eat?”

She looked back over her shoulder. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I just… don’t want to.”

He set his fork down and rose from his chair. Crossing the room, he stopped in front of her, holding a piece of toast between his fingers. His expression was calm, but there was something unyielding behind his gaze.

“Eat.”

She blinked. “Mattheo, this isn’t necessary—”

“I wasn’t asking.” His tone was quiet but resolute.

Vivi hesitated. Then slowly, she opened her mouth and took a bite, her eyes locked with his. He didn’t smile, but there was something in his expression—some quiet sense of satisfaction—as he pressed the rest of the toast into her hand.

“You better finish that.”

She nodded faintly. “Okay.”

With that, she turned and walked away, the toast warm in her palm, her face warmer still. The corridor stretched before her, cold and quiet, but her thoughts were loud.
There was something in the way he said her name—Vi. Not Violet. Not Miss Vasilieva. Just Vi. It was casual, even gentle, and it unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
At the far end of the hallway, she stopped by a tall window. Snow drifted silently outside, blanketing the grounds in soft white. She watched it fall for a moment, her breath fogging the glass.

The mission was supposed to be simple. Observe. Report. Stay distant.

But as she took another thoughtful bite of toast, she felt it again—that subtle, invisible shift.
Something was changing.

And it wasn’t just the atmosphere.

Chapter Text

Vivi spent the rest of the morning familiarizing herself with the estate. Mattheo hadn’t given her a schedule—no official tasks, no list of appointments. Only that breakfast note and the unspoken expectation to be ready for anything.

The mansion was elegant, but cold. Not in temperature, but in atmosphere. The high ceilings and tall windows let in pale winter light, but the marble floors and minimalist décor created a space that felt more like a curated fortress than a home. There were no photographs on the walls, no tokens of memory or sentiment. It was beautiful, yet devoid of warmth.

She wandered down one of the longer hallways, each polished door concealing its own secrets. Some, she would eventually need access to. Others—like the locked one at the very end—she suspected would take time, and trust, to reach.

Hours passed quietly, and she found herself in the office off the west wing, methodically organizing a stack of papers left on the desk. They were legal documents tied to Mattheo’s various businesses—a bar in Milan, a hotel in Prague. All above board on the surface. But Vivi had lived long enough in this world to know that men like Mattheo Raskolnikov didn’t build empires with clean contracts and charm alone.

A sudden voice cut through the silence. “Settling in?”

She jumped, though he hadn’t meant to startle her. He stood in the doorway, suit crisp, his hair just slightly tousled as if he’d run a hand through it moments before. He hadn’t made a sound. And yet—he was simply there, as if he’d materialized out of the shadows.

“I am,” she said, steadying herself as she set the folder down. “Though your house could use a bit more warmth.”

He smirked and stepped inside. “I prefer it quiet. The world outside is loud enough.”

He drifted toward the shelves, fingers grazing the spines of leather-bound books. He didn’t look at her directly, but Vivi had the distinct feeling that he was observing her more closely than anything in the room.

“You’re efficient,” he said at last. “I like that.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t talk much either.”

“Would you prefer it if I did?”

This time, he turned to face her. “Not particularly. Silence tells me more about a person than words do.”

The silence that followed didn’t feel uncomfortable. If anything, it was charged—subtle, layered. She stood behind the desk. He stood in front of it. Between them, something hovered just out of reach.

“You’ll find this job isn’t like the ones you’re used to,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks with slow precision. “I value loyalty. I reward discretion. But if you cross me…” He smiled faintly, though the expression never touched his eyes. “Let’s just say I don’t tolerate betrayal.”

She gave a small nod. “Understood.”

“Good.” He glanced at his watch. “You’re off for the afternoon. Rest. Explore if you like. Just… stay out of the east wing.”

Her expression remained neutral, but her attention sharpened at the mention. The east wing. The one area she hadn’t reached yet.

“Of course,” she replied. “Anything else?”

Mattheo turned as if to leave, but paused at the doorway. “You can call me if you need anything. My number is saved under ‘M.’”

With that, he disappeared down the hall, his footsteps fading into silence. Vivi exhaled slowly once he was gone and looked back at the desk. Something had shifted—a folder nudged slightly out of place during their conversation. She stepped closer and saw a name on the top page, partially revealed: Marcus Raskolnikov. Her heart skipped. He hadn’t mentioned a brother—not yet.

Chapter Text

The alarm rang at exactly 5:00 AM.

Vivi opened her eyes in an instant, trained already to rise without resistance. The bedroom was dim and cold, the soft gray light of early dawn filtering through the heavy curtains. She moved like clockwork—brushing her teeth, tying her hair into a loose, neat twist, and slipping into a muted cream blouse paired with slacks. No perfume. No lipstick. Professional. Forgettable. Just the way she liked it.

Downstairs, the mansion was silent, still cloaked in the hush of sleep. The polished marble reflected her steps as she made her way to the kitchen. She worked quickly—eggs, toast, crisp bacon—and brewed two cups of espresso, one slightly sweeter than the other. Mattheo preferred his dark.

By the time 6:15 rolled around, the hallway stirred with motion. She didn’t need to look up when she heard the soft thump of polished shoes.

"Morning, Vi," came his voice, low and smooth.

He never called her Violet. Not since the second day.

"Good morning," she replied, placing his plate on the long dining table.

Mattheo Raskolnikov entered the room with the presence of someone used to being watched. Tall, tailored, and far too calm for the early hour, he took his seat at the head of the table, glancing briefly at the breakfast with a nod of approval.

"You never sleep in," he remarked, sipping his espresso.

"Routine is important," she said simply.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "That it is."

Breakfast was quiet, punctuated only by the occasional clink of silverware. Vivi stood nearby with a tablet in hand, already reviewing the day’s schedule. Business meetings, shareholder updates, an afternoon call with an overseas investor. Nothing out of the ordinary.

After breakfast, they moved to the study, where she set up his files, and he read through contracts in practiced silence. She noted how he moved with intent, how his attention never wandered. In moments when he wasn’t looking, she studied him too—not with curiosity, but with calculation. Every habit, every preference. It was part of the job.

By 10:00, they were in the car, heading to the Raskolnikov Holdings office downtown. Vivi sat beside him in the backseat, tablet in hand, briefing him on updates from the morning. He rarely interrupted. When he did, it was to ask a question she already had the answer to.

In the office, she stayed one step behind. Silent in boardrooms, sharp in whispers. When someone underestimated her, she let them. Mattheo never did.

At noon, he allowed her a fifteen-minute break. She used ten to sip a quick coffee, five to call in updates to her fake handler.

The rest of the day passed in a smooth, efficient rhythm. Meetings. Signatures. Conversations in low tones with powerful people. And Vivi—always just to the side, present but quiet, learning the pulse of the empire she was now embedded in.

By evening, they returned to the mansion. Dinner was lighter, taken in the smaller dining room. Mattheo didn’t speak much during meals, but tonight, he glanced up between bites.

"You’re adjusting well," he said.

"I’ve had stranger assignments," she answered, careful not to let it slip too easily.

His eyes flicked up, curious, but not pushing.

After dinner, she reviewed emails and prepared documents for the next morning while he retreated to the piano room. The soft echo of his playing drifted down the corridor. Surprising, she thought. A man like him, with hands used to closing deals and signing papers, playing something that sounded like memory.
By the time she retired for the night, it was nearly 11 PM. She paused at her window, looking out over the snowy grounds. The mansion behind her was quiet again, wrapped in order and routine.

Nothing had cracked yet.

But she knew better than to trust stillness.

Not in a house built by a man like Mattheo Raskolnikov. Even if she had this gut feeling that he isn’t what they said he was.

Chapter Text

Mattheo woke at 5:27 AM.

He never needed an alarm. His body was as disciplined as his mind—conditioned by years of routine, deadlines, and the ever-present hum of responsibility. He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and stared out the frost-kissed window of his bedroom. Snow again. He preferred it that way. Snow muffled the world. Keep things quiet.

By the time he descended the stairs at 6:14, he could already smell breakfast.

She was punctual. Always.

“Morning, Vi,” he said as he entered the kitchen.

She didn’t flinch. Just placed the plate on the table with the same careful grace she used for everything. "Good morning."

Vi. Not Violet. That had felt too formal, too distant. She didn’t wear distance well—it was too deliberate, too controlled, like everything about her. He watched her from the corner of his eye as he sat, noting the pale blouse, the neutral tones, the sleek hair. Professional, composed, quiet.

Too quiet.

He didn’t distrust her—not exactly. But he’d lived long enough to know when someone was managing themselves. She walked like someone who counted steps, like she was always measuring the floor beneath her feet.

Still, he said nothing. Just sipped his coffee, dark and bitter, and observed.

The day unfolded in clean, methodical order. She briefed him on the itinerary in the study, her voice low, efficient. She never stammered. Never rambled. Every word had purpose.
Most assistants he’d hired were either too eager to please or too afraid to speak. Vi was neither. She was still. Like the surface of a lake that’s hiding something deep.
By 10:00, they were in the car. She sat beside him, not too close, not too far, reading off updates with just enough inflection to sound natural—but not quite warm. That was her game: invisible competence.

He respected it.

He didn’t trust it.

In the office, she handled calls, coordinated timing with the other executives, and handed him papers before he could even ask. She had a way of anticipating things. He appreciated that, but part of him also wondered—how much had she already learned? How deep had she looked into him before she took this job?

At lunch, she didn’t eat. Again.

“Fifteen-minute break,” he reminded her.

“I only need ten.”

Of course she did.

By the time they returned to the mansion, the light outside had dimmed to silver. Snow drifted like ash from a slow fire, and the air smelled of pine and something colder. He watched her from the dining table as she moved around the kitchen. Focused, precise. Like someone who didn’t know how to be idle.

He recognized that.

After dinner, he left her with the last of the contracts and retreated to the library.

He never told anyone he read. It wasn’t a hobby. It was a form of distraction. Habit. A rhythm that required nothing but his mind and silence.
Yet tonight, his mind wandered.

He thought about the way Vi stood in doorways. How she never leaned on anything. How her answers were honest, but rarely personal. How she looked out windows when she thought no one was watching—always toward the gate, never the garden.

She was watching him. Learning him. He was sure of it.

And still... he let her.

Because even if she was here under false pretenses—even if she was sent by someone with questions—she was doing her job better than anyone else ever had.

He could handle a spy, if that’s what she was.

But what unsettled him was how easy it had become to let her into the routine. To hear her footsteps in the hall and feel... steadier. To know she’d brewed his coffee just right. To look up in a meeting and see her already passing him the next page.

That wasn’t something he could afford.

Not again.

At 11:05, he stood outside her door for a breath too long before walking away. He told himself he was checking that the house was secure. But even he didn’t fully believe that.
She was good at pretending.

But so was he.

And for now... the game remained quiet.

Chapter Text

The mansion was unusually still for a Saturday afternoon, the distant hum of the city just a faint buzz beyond the windows. It was the kind of day that had no agenda—no meetings, no calls, no pressures. Just the quiet hum of routine that existed without expectation.

Vi wandered through the hallways of the mansion, arms wrapped around herself in an uncharacteristic moment of stillness. Saturdays were supposed to be her day to unwind, but her mind was always buzzing with something. She should have felt relief, a break from the chaos, but there was a knot in her chest she couldn’t ignore.

Mattheo was in his study when she passed by, his office door ajar. She paused, fingers brushing against the wooden frame, hesitant. He hadn’t seemed to notice her presence yet, but she knew he'd never truly miss her if she simply slipped away.

But then, his voice broke through, cool and calm, with a hint of something warmer that she hadn’t expected.

“Vi, you coming in?”

She felt the familiar rush of warmth flood her cheeks at the sound of her name. He never called her “Violet” anymore. Just "Vi." There was something deeply personal in the simplicity of it that made her heart flutter in a way she didn’t want to admit.

She stepped inside, leaning against the doorframe, her eyes darting over the space. “What are you doing?” she asked, trying to sound casual, but the way he was sitting there, his gaze sharp but lazy, made her second-guess herself.

“Nothing,” Mattheo replied with a subtle smirk, his fingers lazily tapping the edge of the desk. “I was going over some things, but I might’ve gotten distracted.” His gaze locked with hers, and for a brief moment, there was something there—a fleeting spark, something unspoken. “You want to keep me company?”

She couldn’t help it. A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You might get even more distracted.”

“I’m already distracted,” he shot back smoothly, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Might as well make it worth my while.”

Something about his casual confidence, the way he held her attention without even trying, made her heart race just a little faster. She shook her head, stepping further into the room, her curiosity piqued.
“Distracted by what?” she asked, her tone playful but genuinely curious. She was already regretting the way her pulse picked up in response to his teasing.

Mattheo stood up, his height suddenly feeling imposing, but his presence still somehow effortless. He took a step toward her, and without breaking eye contact, he picked up a book from the shelf and tossed it onto the desk.

“This,” he said simply, glancing at the cover, then back at her, “is the problem with a day off. It’s too quiet. You end up overthinking everything.”

Vi’s eyes flicked between the book and him, her mind running in all directions. “Is that a confession?”
He leaned against the desk casually, his body close but not threatening. “No. I’m just saying that a day off might not be as peaceful as you think.”

Her heart skipped a beat at how close he was. They’d shared countless moments—some tense, some formal—but this felt different. The air between them thickened, charged, even in the quiet of a room with no plans. She opened her mouth, her voice unsteady. “You’re always thinking, Mattheo.”

His expression softened, something deeper, more real in his gaze now. “I think because you make it hard not to.”

Her breath hitched, and she suddenly felt small under his intense gaze. It was impossible to ignore the chemistry between them, something thick in the air, something they’d both avoided acknowledging up until this moment.

He reached out slowly, almost cautiously, and tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed against her skin, light, almost absent, but it left a trail of warmth behind. His touch lingered, and she found herself frozen, her heart pounding in her chest.

He didn’t pull away immediately, and in that quiet space, everything between them seemed to be heightened—each breath, every movement, every tiny second stretching into something that felt bigger than just a Saturday. It was a feeling she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time, but now, with him so close, it was almost impossible to ignore.

“Are we really doing this?” she whispered, a playful but nervous smile tugging at her lips.
Mattheo’s lips twitched upward. He leaned in slightly, his voice low, a hint of amusement—and maybe something more—beneath it. “What exactly do you think we’re doing, Vi?”

Her heart raced. “I don’t know. But I think we’re on the edge of something.”

Mattheo’s smile deepened, his gaze softening. “Maybe we’re just finally being honest with each other.”
For a heartbeat, the world outside the room seemed to fall away. It was just them, in that moment, with nothing but the space between them—and yet everything they didn’t say was as loud as the words they couldn’t quite bring themselves to say.

Vi held her breath, waiting for him to say something more, but instead, Mattheo’s fingers lingered at the back of her neck, the warmth of his touch grounding her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.
Then, he pulled back slowly, his face still close to hers, but the playful edge in his voice returning. “Maybe we should take this one day at a time, don’t you think?”

She nodded, unable to hide the slight grin spreading across her face. “One day at a time sounds just fine.”

Mattheo gave a half-smile, the usual mystery in his eyes still there, but something softer—something genuine. “Good. Because I’m starting to think you might be the distraction I need.”

And just like that, the tension in the room broke. She laughed softly, the sound more real than she’d expected, as Mattheo gave her a final glance before turning back to his desk.

But Vi knew, as she left the room, that something had changed. And even though she couldn’t name it yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this day, with its quiet and unexpected moments, would be one she’d never forget.

Not now, not with Mattheo Raskolnikov as her distraction.

Chapter Text

Two weeks. That’s how long Vivi had been living under the same roof as Mattheo Raskolnikov. Long enough to memorize the distinct cadence of his footsteps across the marble floors. Long enough to know he preferred his espresso black with one sugar in the morning, but none at night. Long enough to know he sometimes paced the halls at 2 a.m., murmuring into his phone in Russian—too softly for her to make out the words, but sharp enough in tone to jolt her upright in bed.

But not long enough to determine if he was the man she had been sent to expose.

“Is that the third time you’ve sighed in the last hour?” Mattheo asked without looking up from his book.
They were seated in the sunroom—though lately, it had been nothing but gray skies and shadows. The sun hadn’t broken through the clouds in days.

“I don’t sigh,” Vivi replied, flipping a page in the leather-bound planner he’d given her to update. “I exhale thoughtfully.”

He glanced at her, one brow raised in mild amusement. The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “Ah, I stand corrected.”

Somehow, they’d found a rhythm. Unusual, yes—but steady. Mornings began with quiet breakfasts. Afternoons were spent tucked away in separate offices, poring over files, financial reports, and coded messages. Evenings often led them to the library—he’d read; she’d pretend not to watch him.

She kept telling herself it was still a mission. That she was observing. That she was just waiting for the cracks to show in his perfect image. But every time something fractured, it wasn’t threatening—it was disarmingly human.

“You’ve stopped asking questions,” Mattheo said after a long pause.

“I ask plenty of questions,” she countered.

“Not the ones that matter.”

She glanced up. His gaze had shifted, fixed directly on her now—unblinking, steady, unreadable. Her chest tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Alright,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Why don’t you tell me something that matters, then?”

He tapped a cigarette against the edge of an ashtray but didn’t light it. “The truth is... I don’t like people in my space.”

“Shocking,” she deadpanned.

“And yet,” he continued, unfazed by her tone, “you’re still here. And I haven’t asked you to leave.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged. Weighted with something neither of them had the language for.

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Some part of her wanted to believe him—that he wasn’t hiding anything, that this mission had been a mistake from the start. But another part—the one trained to survive—knew better. Men like Mattheo Raskolnikov didn’t rise from the shadows without stepping on someone else’s throat. No matter how softly he said her name in the mornings.

“I’m making dinner tonight,” he said suddenly, rising to his feet.

She blinked. “You cook?”

A faint grin ghosted across his lips. “Try not to sound too shocked.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her alone in the fading light.

Vivi stared after him, planner still open in her lap, pen suspended in mid-air.

Two weeks ago, she entered this mansion to catch a criminal.

Now… she wasn’t sure if she was still the hunter—or the one being hunted.