plans

Victor’s deep voice rolled across the table like velvet-lined iron.

«Моя принцесса,» he murmured, Russian thick and tender on his tongue, “if that is what you wish, I will make the arrangements.”

The words struck you like a hand squeezing your chest. Arrangements. Andrea. The kids. For a moment your throat closed, but then you realized you had understood his Russian without effort. Every syllable made sense, every nuance clear. Somewhere in the blur of days and endless recordings, the language had stopped being foreign. It had become yours.

“Спасибо, моё солнышко,” you replied softly. The endearment slipped from your lips unbidden, instinctive, like muscle memory that wasn’t your own. Solnyshko. Little sun.

Victor’s dark eyes flashed, his face breaking into a wide smile. He reached across the white linen tablecloth, his enormous hand engulfing yours. His thumb brushed the back of your knuckles with a surprising gentleness.

“You haven’t called me that since leaving the hospital,” he said in a low voice, almost reverent.

Heat rose in your cheeks. You should have pulled your hand back, but instead you let it linger in his grasp. It wasn’t just the warmth of his palm—it was the look in his eyes, the softness that made the iron beneath less frightening.

You had never called him that before. Steve had never called him that. But Yulia had. And in this strange in-between state of being, her words, her instincts kept bubbling up inside you.

Tilting your head coyly, you asked, “Should I… call you something else?” The innocent lilt, the slight cock of your head—it wasn’t calculated. It was Yulia, alive in your gestures.

Victor chuckled, squeezing your hand more firmly. “Do not tease me, звезда моя,” he murmured, eyes glinting. (My star.)

Your lips curled into a smile.

And in that moment, you understood something Yulia had always known: for all his gruffness, Victor craved these tokens of affection. He was a bear who melted under the warmth of a girl’s pet names. No wonder she had called him solnyshko. No wonder she had leaned forward during their video calls, making sure he had a perfect view down her neckline, rewarding him with glimpses of her body like it was currency.

You found yourself doing the same now—straightening slightly, your breasts pushed forward against the silk blouse he had gifted you, the hollow of your cleavage perfectly framed. His eyes flicked down, then back up, approval written plain across his face.

It should have felt like performance, manipulation. But there was a strange logic to it, like you weren’t acting at all, merely continuing a role Yulia had long ago begun.

The longer you lived in her body, the more natural it became. You no longer stumbled in your heels, no longer flinched at the stares when you wore her dresses. Instead, the stares thrilled you. There was power in the click of high heels on marble, in the cling of tight fabric and expensive jewelry against soft curves. It wasn’t Steve Meadows who enjoyed it—it was Yulia’s confidence seeping into your bones, but it was yours now too.

Victor, as if sensing your thoughts, leaned back with a satisfied smirk. “How would you like to go shopping tomorrow morning,” he said in slow, careful English, the way he had been forcing Yulia to practice, “before meeting Andrea?”

Your breath caught. Andrea. It was real—he wasn’t stringing you along.

“Yes, please!” you burst out, your English halting, heavy with accent, but giddy nonetheless. You almost bounced in your chair, the excitement bubbling too big to contain.

Victor’s smile widened. He loved it—your enthusiasm, your broken English, the way Russian slipped in around the edges. He loved being the center of it, your anchor.

“Of course, my Princess,” he said, stressing the words possessively, deliberately, his thumb brushing your hand once more before he released it.

Once, that tone of ownership would have made you bristle. Steve would have bristled. But now, the part of you that was Yulia—hungry, instinctive, **** to be adored—thrilled at it. His possessiveness didn’t repel you. It made you feel wanted in a way Andrea never had. Needed. Claimed.

And for a heartbeat, the image of Andrea’s face blurred against Victor’s smile, leaving you unsettled… but secretly, shamefully, warm inside.