The air inside the command room was thick with tension. Colonel Ivanov stood at the center, his sharp eyes sweeping over the soldiers with quiet menace. His presence was suffocating—an unspoken demand for obedience that made even seasoned officers shift uncomfortably.
In the corner, Anya kept her posture relaxed, her hands tucked into the folds of her coat. Her disguise was unassuming—dark clothes, a simple scarf, and round spectacles that softened her features just enough to blend in. But beneath the meek appearance, she was watching. Studying.
Ivankov was cruel, but Anya had seen enough of men like him to know his kind weren't just brutal—they were predictable. He ruled through fear, treating soldiers like disposable tools. Worse, he carried that same ruthlessness beyond the battlefield.
She had seen it earlier. A child—barely ten—had wandered too close to the camp, and Ivankov had spat cruel words at him, berating him for nothing. The boy had frozen, eyes wide with fear. That had been enough for Anya. This wasn't just about gathering intel anymore.
This was about sending a message.
Her fingers tightened around the teacup in her hands.
She had to pick the right moment.
The room hummed with murmured complaints as Ivanov droned on, barking orders like a man who thought himself invincible. Anya let the conversation flow, let the tension build. Then, just as Ivanov turned to address his officers—
She moved.
A calculated flick of her wrist sent the teacup tumbling from the table. The liquid splashed across Ivankov's pristine uniform, darkening the fabric.
For a moment, silence.
Then—
"What the hell?!" Ivanov's roar shattered the quiet.
The entire room tensed. Soldiers stiffened, some visibly bracing for impact. Ivanov's gaze snapped to Anya, his fury rolling off him in waves.
Anya didn't flinch. Instead, she let her lips part in a soft, apologetic smile. "Oh dear," she murmured, tilting her head slightly. "I seem to have made a mess."
Ivankov took a step toward her, his face twisting with disgust. "You imbecile—do you have any idea who you're dealing with?"
"Oh, I do." Anya's voice remained sweet, but there was a dangerous glint in her eyes. "A very, very important man. How terrifying."
Ivankov's hand twitched. If she had been a soldier, he would have struck her already. But she wasn't, and that only made his anger worse.
Before he could lash out, the door creaked open.
Damian stepped inside.
His gaze flickered over the scene—the overturned cup, the tea seeping into Ivanov's uniform, Anya standing with infuriating calm. His instincts screamed that something wasn't right, but he didn't know what yet.
"Is there a problem here?" Damian's voice was low, steady.
Ivankov sneered. "No problem. Just a foolish woman who doesn't know her place."
Anya turned to Damian, her expression shifting in an instant. Her lips curled into a soft, almost affectionate smile. "Oh, but that's not true," she said sweetly. "I do know my place." She reached out and, to Damian's shock, looped an arm through his.
Ivankov's brow furrowed.
Anya continued smoothly. "I was just explaining that my boyfriend here wouldn't appreciate how you've been speaking to me."
Damian's brain stuttered.
Boyfriend?
What?
Ivankov's sneer deepened. "Your boyfriend?" He looked Damian over with disdain. "How amusing."
Damian, still struggling to process what was happening, felt Anya's fingers tighten ever so slightly against his arm—a silent message.
Play along.
He didn't know why, but he did.
"She's right," Damian said evenly, stepping just a fraction closer to her. "I don't take kindly to men like you throwing their weight around."
Ivankov's jaw clenched. He couldn't act—not now, not in front of his men. A superior officer losing face over a spill? That would make him look weak.
With one last furious glare, he turned on his heel and stormed out.
As soon as the door shut, Damian stepped away from Anya. "What the hell was that?"
Anya smiled. It was small, unreadable. "That," she said, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve, "was me handling a situation."
Damian stared at her. He should have been angry, but instead, he felt something else. Something he wasn't ready to name.
He exhaled sharply. "You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"
Anya's smile widened, just slightly. "Oh, Damian," she murmured. "You have no idea."