Flesh and Faith

Chapter 3: "Flesh and Faith"

The wind cut sharper than a blade.

It whispered through Moscow’s empty streets like a ghost, brushing against Sabrina’s cheeks as she stepped out of the car. Her breath fogged in the air, white and fleeting. Snow clung to the corners of cobblestone alleys, slushed and stained by city grime. The chill didn’t bother her.

She welcomed the cold. It reminded her she was still alive.

She ducked into a side chapel a few blocks from Antonov Enterprises. Not the one she usually visited—this one was smaller, older, quieter. The kind of place where the pews creaked and the air held the weight of unspoken prayers.

Kneeling down, she clasped her hands in front of her.

God, she whispered in her mind, "I don’t ask for peace. I ask for permission."

Her fingers tightened.

Let me avenge her. Let me be Your justice when mercy isn’t enough. Even if it breaks me.

Her hands dropped. She rose.

By the time she reached the Antonov building, her eyes were dry, her back straight, her heart caged behind steel.

The receptionist led her through a set of mirrored elevator doors, all polite smiles and “Mr. Antonov is ready for you now.”

She wasn’t expecting him to be in the room. Not yet. Not like this.

But there he was.

Valen Antonov.

Tailored suit. Handsome in the way wolves are handsome—sharp, silent, and dangerous when cornered. His hair was swept back, revealing a strong brow and even stronger jawline. Those grey eyes met hers, and for one jarring second, she forgot how to breathe.

Not because he was beautiful.

Because he looked at her like he already knew she was lying.

“Miss Ivanova,” he said, voice like winter silk. “You’re early. I like that.”

Sabrina smiled. Poised. Perfect. “Punctuality is respect, sir.”

He gestured for her to sit, watching her like a hunter watches a heartbeat.

They went through a few predictable questions. Background, PR experience, fabricated credentials she had rehearsed in her sleep.

And then—he leaned back, expression unreadable.

“One last question,” Valen said, eyes locked onto hers. “Why do you believe in God?”

She blinked. “I—I’m not sure I understand the relevance—”

“It’s relevant to me.” His voice was quiet. Steady. Dangerous. “So answer it.”

Silence spread between them, thick and tense. Her heart thudded in her chest, but her face remained still.

“Because faith is hope,” she said softly. “And hope is the only thing that ever made pain worth surviving.”

He studied her. Like he could see all the parts she kept hidden. Then, with a slow smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he said—

“God doesn’t exist.”

And with that, he stood.

“Welcome to the team, Miss Ivanova.”

She blinked at the closed door.

"God doesn’t exist."

The words still echoed in her head like a curse wrapped in silk.

Not because she hadn’t heard them before—she had. Too many times.

But because of who had said them.

So confidently. So casually. Like truth was his to declare.

Still, she smiled. Nodded. Said, “Thank you, sir,” like a good little assistant.

Because she had what she needed.

Access.

As she walked through the sleek corridor, lined with glass offices and frosted doors, her heels echoed like a drumbeat of progress. Until a sharp voice broke the rhythm.

“Nice necklace,” said a woman by the elevators.

Tall, model-gorgeous, clipboard in one hand, judgment in the other.

Sabrina turned. “Thank you.”

“You might want to take it off,” the woman added, eyeing the silver cross resting just above Sabrina’s collarbone. “Valen doesn’t tolerate religion. At all. Personal rule.”

Sabrina blinked once. Then let out a soft, dry laugh. “Are you serious?”

“I’m his executive assistant. I’m always serious.” Her tone held the stiffness of someone used to being obeyed. “Consider this a warning. Most don’t get one.”

Sabrina’s smile sharpened. “Well, I’m not most.”

“Exactly. Most were smart enough to listen.”

That did it.

Sabrina stepped forward, chin tilted just enough to challenge without breaking composure. “Tell me something,” she said lightly. “If your boss is powerful enough to make God disappear, why is He still the one people pray to when Antonov ruins them?”

The woman’s lips parted—offended, maybe even impressed—but before she could bite back, a new voice cut through the air.

“Is there a problem?”

They both turned.

Valen stood a few feet away, one hand in his pocket, gaze fixed on Sabrina like she’d just dropped a grenade in his hallway.

The assistant straightened. “Sir, I was just reminding—”

“I heard.” His eyes didn’t leave Sabrina. “She can wear the necklace.”

Silence.

The assistant blinked. “But that’s against—”

“She’s not most people.”

He turned and walked off without waiting for a response.

Sabrina’s breath caught—not from fear. From the way his words wrapped around her like something dark and forbidden.

She could feel the tension humming in the air, the kind that came before lightning struck.