My father’s face hardens. But I’m not done.
“I’m going to make him mine,” I continue, leaning forward just slightly, “and guess what, Father? He’s going to be a Petrov. Because I’m giving him my last name.”
He doesn’t flinch. Not even a twitch of surprise.
If anything, his eyes sharpen, narrowing behind his glasses like he’s dissecting me under a microscope.
“So that’s your plan?” he says, voice cool, measured. “To drag the Petrov name through the mud for some… charity case?”
I don’t answer; he knows better than to bait me with empty words; he knows I don’t speak lightly.
I stay silent. I’ve learned that silence unsettles him more than anger ever could.
He leans back slowly, his fingers steepling in front of him.
“And it’s because of this boy that you disobeyed me, got your hands dirty again —and have someone tied up in your grandfather’s dungeon?”
My jaw tightens.
So he knows.
Of course he does.
“I told you to leave that life behind,” he continues, voice sharpening, “I told you that as long as you work for my company, I don’t want your hands dirty anymore.”
“If you didn’t want blood on my hands,” I say, my fingers twitching against the armrest, “you shouldn’t have trained me to hold the knife.”
That gets him. His right eye twitches, and his face hardens
“You think this is about training?” he says, his voice almost loud. “This is about discipline, strategy, and power. You’re letting emotions steer you because of this boy. Cut whatever you have with him; he’s a distraction, a stupid one at that.”
Silence hangs heavy for a beat too long. I stare at him, jaw clenched, pulse steady but simmering. I can feel my rage building, his words still echoing in my ear; he said it like Lucasis some disposable distraction, like I’m still a teen willing to nod through his lectures.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the arms of the chair.
“You know why I agreed to work for you?”
He doesn’t respond—just stares, as if he’s waiting for me to come to my senses.
“It wasn’t because I wanted to. It was because Mom asked me to —she begged me to,” I continue, each word sharp and deliberate, “not because I wanted a role in your company. I never gave a damn about any of this. I most especially don’t need you.”
His face tenses, just slightly
“Just because you own shares from your maternal grandparents’ resort chain, my father’s industry, and his bratva organization, doesn’t mean you don’t need me or my company,” he says, voice sternly cold. “I don’t care how many shares you hold, Alexander, or how on top of the world you think you are. I am still your father, and you and your brothers will take over my empire one day, whether you like it or not.”
“Then, if you want me,” I say heatedly, standing up, already tired of arguing with him, “don’t mistake my patience for submission, father, and don’t think for a second that I won’t walk away from all this the moment I feel like it.”
And with that, I storm out of his office.
***
Lucas hasn’t come to our ASL sessions in two days. I haven’t seen him since that mess of an argument on Sunday morning—or whatever that was supposed to be. A conversation? A confession? A push, a pull? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he walked away, and I let him.
I haven’t texted. Haven’t called. Not because I don’t want to, but because I know he needs space. I saw it in his eyes and in the way he folded into himself. Like he was preparing to bediscarded before I could even think about holding on. So I’ve been giving him room to breathe, to think. I won’t pressure him.
But all I know is he’s going to be mine. I’ll be patient, I’ll be gentle if that’s what he needs, but he’s already taken root inside me, and I don’t know how to want anything else.
Still, this silence… his absence… It’s not just space anymore. It feels like distance. Like retreat. Like something in him is quietly deciding to back away for good, and I don’t know how to stop it.
