The other attorney finally finds his voice. “Mr. Vasiliev, if you’d like to discuss the finer points?—”
I wave him away, impatient. “I’ll call if I need you. Leave the documents.”
He fumbles to gather his things and all but scurries out, closing the boardroom door behind him. Silence settles, thick as concrete.
Ilya leans back, arms crossed, eyeing me. “Really? You’re going to do this alone? Was that smart?”
I don’t answer. I’m still staring at the contract, like if I look hard enough, the words might rearrange themselves, turn this into something I can fight. But it’s all there. I know it.
I drag a hand over my face, my jaw tight. The windows blur as my thoughts circle, heavy and slow. For the first time in a long while, I have no plan.
My phone vibrates against the table, screen lighting up with a message. It’s Alena. Of course.
Ilya glances at the name and snorts. “Still talking to her? I thought you were done.”
I grunt. “She doesn’t go away.”
Ilya watches me, eyes narrowed in that way that means he wants to say more but is holding back. He knows when to push, and when to let me stew. Right now, I need the silence.
I stare at the polished table, at the stack of papers that might as well be a pile of chains. My chest feels tight, pressure building with each minute ticking by. My life—my future—balanced on signatures and the whims of a man who’s already dead.
Ilya sighs, breaks the silence. “You want my advice?”
I shrug. “You’ll give it anyway.”
He nods. “Stop brooding. Move. Pick someone, anyone. Money helps. Looks help. No shortage of women who’d say yes.”
He makes it sound simple. It never is.
I stare at the contract, then out at Manhattan’s sprawl. “It’s not just anyone. Grandfather will have people watching. The board. The family. I need someone who’ll…fit. Not cause trouble.”
Ilya picks up the pen and spins it between his fingers. “And you? You’re going to trust anyone in this city with your life, your future?”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing to say. Ilya knows as well as I do—trust is a foreign language in our world.
The boardroom feels colder, more empty with every passing second. I try to picture a wedding. A wife. An heir. All I see is the face of a stranger.
Ilya stands, smoothing his jacket, his tone softer now. “You’ll figure it out, Aleksei. You always do.”
He heads for the door, pausing just before he leaves. “Just… don’t pick Alena.”
The door clicks shut.
I press my fists to the table, force myself to breathe.
One week.That’s all I have.
And for once, I have no idea where to start.
I leave the office as dusk settles over Manhattan, the city smeared in the gold and bruise-purple light of evening. My driver knows better than to speak. The car weaves through traffic, the world outside a blur of faces and neon, none of it touching me.
When we pull up to my building—glass, steel, a fortress against the world—I barely see the doorman as I step inside, ride the elevator up, and unlock the door to the penthouse.
Everything is spotless. Everything is expensive. Everything is mine, but nothing ever really home.
She’s waiting in the kitchen, a small figure at the island, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. My mother. Still beautiful, her hair swept up, her eyes the same blue as the frozen Volga I remember from childhood. She watches me cross the room, a crease of worry between her brows.
“Did you eat?” she asks, her accent softening the words.
