I clear my throat. This is a disaster.
A sexy, half-naked, attitude-loaded disaster.
“We’ll discuss it later,” I say tightly, snapping my fingers once. “Out. Both of you.”
“But, Papa—” Alya starts.
“Now.”
They both scurry, Lev still glancing over his shoulder like he’s trying to solve a puzzle only adults understand.
I pause at the doorway, glance back once. She’s still standing there, defiant and chaotic and gorgeous in that barely-there slip, arms crossed beneath her chest like she doesn’t even notice what she’s doing to me. Maybe she doesn’t. That’s the worst part.
“Breakfast,” I say, voice clipped. “Seven-thirty. Sharp.”
Then I shut the door before I embarrass myself further. Or drag her back into that bed and undo every ounce of control I’ve got left.
The house is already awake by the time I make it to the kitchen. Anya and the other maids move quietly, setting plates and pouring coffee like they’re preparing for a royal audience. It’s too much, but routine keeps this place running. Keeps people sharp.
Lev sits at the table, legs stretched under it, foot tapping a steady rhythm against the marble. Always in motion, that one. If he sits still too long, he might combust.
“Papa, good morning,” Nikolai says, already in his uniform, neat down to the last button.
He slides into the seat beside Lev, spares him a glance, and, without saying a word, kicks him under the table. Lev grunts but straightens his posture, grumbling under his breath like he’s the victim of some terrible injustice.
Good.
A man should be reminded to sit like he means it.
The maids bring out the first round—fruits, neatly sliced, the good kind the children actually eat. Mango, berries, not that garbage hotel buffet melon. Then pancakes. Protein-heavy, just like I told them. The kids need fuel to carry the weight of our name, whether they know it yet or not.
I scan the table, same as every morning. No knives too close to the edge, nothing out of place. I trust my staff, but trust is never blind.
Alya is on my right, tapping her spoon against her cup in a steady beat. Energy burns in her this morning, bright and restless. She’s waiting for something.
Timur steps in through the side entrance like a storm cloud with legs, scanning the room as if he expects to find a body under the table. Knowing this family? Not an unreasonable assumption.
Then the door opens. Andshewalks in.
My blood jumps first—hot and fast, punching through my veins like I’ve been hit.
It’s not that her clothes are inappropriate.Technically,they’re fine—sharp, professional, like she’s ready to close a multi-million-dollar deal before lunch.
Black skirt, snug around her hips, high at the waist. Not scandalous, but enough to make a man pause. White blouse, the silk soft enough that when she moves, it hints at her shape underneath, clear as day.
Pizdets.
My jaw tightens before I even catch myself. She’s not doing anything wrong. She’s not even trying. But she doesn’t have to.
And she’s going to walk into her office wearing that—letting them look.
If anyone at her work stares too long, I’ll dig their fucking eyeballs out with my bare hands and leave them blind for the rest of their miserable life.
“Good morning,” she says, bright but cautious, testing the temperature of the room like someone dipping her toes into unfamiliar water.
As Bella moves toward the table, Alya pipes up, bright and certain. “Bella! Sit here next to me!”
Bella pauses just a fraction, then follows Alya’s invitation, slipping into the seat at my right beside Alya, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
