His mouth curves into a faint smile. “As do I.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click. I don’t move for several seconds. Then I reach for the phone.
“Polina,” I state when she answers. “Run a comprehensive review on the name, Sergei Kovalchuk. No flags or alerts.”
“Already on it,” she replies immediately.
I end the call and make another.
“Mikel,” I say. “Adjust internal routing on channel seven. Quietly.”
“Done,” he responds.
I set the phone down and lean back, my eyes returning to the windows. Arkady believes power announces itself through presence and legacy. Through reminders of who came before and who deserves to follow.
I learned something different. Power is not declared, it’s demonstrated. And when necessary, removed.
The estate remains silent around me, unaware that a line has just been crossed and carefully marked for return.
And somewhere across the city, Rowan Hale continues her life without knowing how many calculations are already being made to ensure she remains untouched by what comes next. Not because she asked for protection. Because she belongs to me now.
Morning arrives without ceremony. The estate wakes gradually, systems cycling, guards rotating shifts, and the house breathing in the way only old structures do. I spend the early hours doing what Arkady believes I’m not doing enough of. Reviewing reports, issuing directives, and reaffirming control without display.
By midmorning, Polina confirms what I already expect. The name Arkady mentioned, Sergei Kovalchuk, matters. He isn’tdangerous yet, but he’s in place. His finances show caution, not greed, the mark of a man who believes staying quiet keeps him safe.
I authorize quiet pressure and move on.
Rowan crosses my thoughts at inopportune moments. When a junior captain hesitates before answering a direct question. When I pass the east wing and remember my father’s voice echoing down those halls. When the faint ache beneath my ribs tightens as I sit too long without moving. I don’t indulge the thoughts, but I don’t reject them either. They exist now. That’s enough.
By evening, I leave the estate again. This time, without security visible to the public eye. The restaurant my sister, Elyana, chose sits just outside the city, tucked along a tree-lined road where wealth announces itself through understatement. Warm light streams through large windows, reflecting off dark wood and stone. The air inside is filled with the scent of bread, citrus, and slow-cooked meat. Conversation hums at a comfortable volume, insulated from the world beyond the glass.
Elyana rises when she sees me. She wears a soft cream blouse and a simple necklace, her dark hair pinned back with one of the vintage clips she restores herself. She smiles, relief easing the tension in her shoulders.
“You look better,” she remarks as I take my seat across from her.
“Compared to what?” I counter.
She tilts her head. “Compared to last week.”
I allow a faint curve at the corner of my mouth, nothing more. The server arrives, and Elyana orders for herself. She knows the menu. She always does. When the server turns to me, I request the same.
We speak first of neutral things. Her work as a vintage jewelry curator and acquisition specialist, and the pieces she tracks down and authenticates for private collections and galleries. She describes a necklace she recently sourced, detailing its era and provenance, then laughs softly about a client who tried to challenge her assessment using internet printouts. I listen, offering brief responses, watching her hands as she speaks. She gestures more when she’s relaxed, less when uncertainty creeps in. Eventually, her movements slow.
“There’s something I didn’t mention last week,” she admits, her green eyes lowering briefly to the table.
I don’t interrupt.
“It’s probably nothing,” she continues, her finger tracing the rim of her glass. “But it felt off.”
I wait.
“My boyfriend, Evan, has been different,” she says. “We’ve been together about six months now. It’s not that he’s unkind or reckless, just… confident in a way he wasn’t before.”
“Confidence isn’t a crime,” I remark calmly.
“No,” she agrees. “But borrowed confidence is.”
That earns my full attention.
