Chapter 7 - The Recovery in the Mist
Ten minutes later, inside Viktor Volkov’s private oak-paneled study away from the noise of the auction, the black drive sat on the center of a glass desk.
It was a heavy, palm-sized steel rectangle, glowing with a tiny red standby light.
Adrien pulled a small diagnostic reader from his jacket, plugged it into the drive’s primary port, and watched as a series of green authorization lines swept across his handheld screen.
"Encryption intact," Adrien reported, looking up at me with a nod. "The core shutdown preserved the physical sectors. Data has not been extracted."
I took the drive, slid it into my velvet clutch, and snapped the silver clasp shut.
Viktor Volkov stood by the window, looking out into the dense white fog rising off Lake Geneva. He looked ten years older, his hands resting heavily against the marble sill.
"You have what you came for," Volkov said without turning around. "Now get off my mountain."
"One last detail, Viktor," I said, stepping up beside his desk.
I pulled out a single sheet of paper from my clutch and laid it beside the empty desk lamp.
"What is that?" Volkov demanded coldly.
"A receipt," I replied smoothly. "For the damage your men caused to my emerald dress at the Starlight gala. Three hundred thousand dollars, payable to the Starlight Children's Foundation within twenty-four hours."
Volkov turned his head, staring at me with a look of pure, unadulterated disbelief. "You... you forced me to surrender a billion-dollar defense technology... and you are collecting three hundred thousand dollars for a torn dress?"
"It was an original piece from Milan, Viktor," Adrien reminded him, his arm sliding around my waist as he led me toward the double mahogany doors. "My wife takes her wardrobe very seriously."
As we walked out through the grand gates of the Château de Caux, the cool night wind off the lake blew the white fog across the stone driveway.
Uncle Mikhail was waiting beside our armored sedan, wearing his dark wool coat, a quiet cigar lit between his fingers.
"Drive secured?" Mikhail asked, blowing a ring of gray smoke into the night air.
"Drive secured, Uncle," I said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "And the concrete?"
Mikhail let out a low, rumbling chuckle. "The wine cellar will be a solid block of cement by morning. He won't be drinking vintage French wine in that house for a decade."
Adrien opened the rear door of the car, guiding me inside before sliding in beside me. The heavy armored door closed with a reassuring, vacuum-sealed thud, cutting off the damp cold of the Swiss mountains.
Adrien pulled me close into his arms, resting his chin on top of my head as the car smoothly accelerated down the winding mountain road toward Geneva Airport.
"It’s over," Adrien whispered, his hands winding through my hair, pressing a warm kiss against my temple. "The company is clean. The drive is home. Damian is behind bars, and Volkov is broken."
"Not completely over," I murmured against his neck, enjoying the solid warmth of his body. "We still have a gala to finish."
Adrien pulled back slightly, frowning with gentle confusion. "What gala?"
May you like
I looked up at him, a mischievous, radiant smile breaking across my face.
"The real Petrova-Sterling Gala," I said. "The one we’re throwing next month at our estate in Manhattan... where every single person who stood by and watched Bianca Vance tear my dress is going to receive a formal invitation to witness our victory."
