Then the tip of one red nail touched the plastic, and there came the soft, unmistakable click of the power button.
That tiny sound was enough.
Every restraint inside Alina burned out in a single instant. What remained was not rage in the usual sense. It was clarity.
She rose to her feet in one smooth motion. No screaming. No tears. No flailing outrage. Just a calm, efficient movement, almost mechanical in its precision.
There was no panic in her eyes. Only cold focus.
Ludmila, still savoring her easy victory, didn’t even have time to pull her hand back. She only saw Alina step forward and blot out the light from the window.
In the next second, Alina’s right hand shot out. Her long, practiced fingers—so used to exact movements over a keyboard—closed around Ludmila’s forearm in a grip so firm it was almost shocking.
This was not a slap, not hair-pulling, not some wild emotional scene. It was a hard, controlled hold that gave Ludmila no room to maneuver.
Startled by the pain, Ludmila let out a short, ridiculous squeal. Her face changed instantly from smug satisfaction to plain animal panic. She tried to jerk free, but Alina’s grip held.
Without changing expression, Alina stepped back and pulled. Using her whole body, she drew the older woman away from the desk and toward the front door.
Ludmila stumbled forward, losing her balance in her narrow dress shoes, and had no choice but to shuffle after her.
“You little—what do you think you’re doing?” she gasped, breathless with outrage.
