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𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐤, the low glow of the single lamp casting flickering shadows across the room as her fingers moved swiftly over the keys of the typewriter, each metallic click echoing through the dimly lit office. The room smelled faintly of ink and smoke, remnants of the meeting Thomas had with the men earlier that evening. Midnight had long passed, but the weight of unfinished work kept her tethered to the chair. Letters from business associates, coded telegrams, and confidential papers were spread in an organized mess before her. She reached for the ledger, her fingers gliding over the worn pages as she calculated the latest shipments, ensuring the numbers aligned between the Shelby Company's official books and those meant to stay hidden.
Every detail had to be perfect. Every document she handled was a piece of a larger game, one where lives were at stake and fortunes shifted with a single signature.
Valentina had fallen into the rhythm of the work, her hands moving across papers and ledgers as easily as if she'd been born into this life. What once felt foreign now felt natural—like breathing. This work was a far cry from the life she could have fallen into, the kind of life she saw women trapped in late at night. Here, behind the desk, she had control, using her mind and skills instead of being forced to sell herself for survival. It was a quiet power and one she preferred without question.
"You're working late again, Vee," Thomas muttered as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, hanging his coat on the peg by the door.
"Yeah, you're paying me for overtime, Mr. Shelby," Valentina quipped, her voice steady, though her fingers kept dancing over the typewriter keys. The rhythmic clacking was oddly soothing, a familiar sound she'd grown accustomed to. She didn't bother looking up—she'd spent enough nights like this, immersed in work, comfortably ignoring the looming presence of her boss.
Without warning, Thomas dropped something onto her desk—a navy blue pocketbook with a soft, deliberate thud. Valentina's fingers froze mid-type, her eyes narrowing as she glanced down at the embossed text on the cover: British Passport.
Her brow furrowed in mild confusion. "You're going out of the country?" she asked casually, eyebrows raised.
"No," he said, his voice even, betraying nothing. "Open it."
Something in his tone made her pause. She rolled her eyes for effect, but there was a pit forming in her stomach as she reluctantly flipped the passport open. Her breath caught in her throat the moment she saw the photo staring back at her—her photo. It was her face, captured in a way that felt too intimate, too close. She remembered having this picture taken a few years ago, but she had no idea how he'd gotten it.
Her hands began to tremble as she turned the page, her eyes scanning the details: Valentina Smirnov. Her heart skipped a beat. Her name, her birthdate—all the information had been altered. She was staring at a version of herself she no longer recognized.
