Page 1 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

Chapter One

Laurel

As I pull my car up to the towering iron gates of the Volkov residence, for a second I honestly wonder if my GPS has made a mistake.

It's more fortress than house. I Googled Mr. Leonid Volkov. Of course I did. You don’t walk into a private meeting with one of Prudence Elementary’s parents without a little late-night curiosity.

The search results confirmed what I already knew: absurdly wealthy, quiet about it, very hard to find real information on. Not surprising. You don’t send your kid to Prudence unless you are wealthy.

Still… seeing it in person hits differently.

The gates loom ahead, matte black and spiked at the top, flanked by high stone walls topped with cameras.

I roll slowly toward the gate, the metal bars towering above my windshield. Before I even have time to look for a buzzer, a voice crackles through a hidden speaker.

“State your business.”

I jump, a small, humiliating gasp catching in my throat. My heart kicks hard against my ribs as I scramble to roll down the window.

“I—um, I have an appointment with Mr. Volkov,” I say, forcing my voice to steady.

A brief pause.

“Your name?”

“Laurel Harper,” I reply. “I’m… Alexei’s teacher.”

Another pause, longer this time, and then the voice returns. “Mr. Volkov is expecting you.”

The iron gates begin to slide apart with a low, mechanical groan.

I inhale slowly as I drive forward, my tires crunching softly over the gravel drive. My chest tightens when I notice the men stationed across the grounds, broad-shouldered, dressed head to toe in black, carrying guns.

They look downright terrifying, and panic spikes in my chest. For one wild second, the urge to throw the car into reverse nearly wins. I glance into the rearview mirror. The gates are already closing behind me.

No. This meeting is long overdue. I need to talk to Leonid about Alexei. About the way he’s always withdrawn. As his teacher, it’s my responsibility to have these conversations when a child’s behavior signals he isn’t coping well.

One of the men lifts his hand and motions for me to continue forward. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, and obey. Thank God I sent Tasha my live location.

As the driveway curves, the full mansion comes into view, and my breath catches.

The structure is massive, all glass walls and pale stone, geometric and modern, like something straight out of an architectural magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the sunset in fractured gold. Soft landscape lighting illuminates manicured hedges, water features, and smooth stone pathways that wind through perfectly trimmed greenery.

I sit there for a heartbeat, listening to my own breathing. Get it together, Laurel. It’s just a meeting. If you owned a place like this, you’d probably hire gunmen too.

I cut the engine, step out of the car and straighten up, my pumps crunching softly against the smooth stone driveway. I’m in my usual pencil skirt and blouse, my hair packed in a neat bun. My little Honda feels absurdly small and out of place next to the gleaming black SUV parked nearby.

As I approach the massive front doors, I press the small silver button beside the double doors, and a soft chime echoes somewhere deep inside the house.

I wait, shifting my weight from one heel to the other. Seconds stretch without anyone answering, so I ring again. Still silence.

My brows knit. In a place like this, cameras everywhere, armed men on the grounds, surely there’s a butler or someone. Maybe the staff stepped away. Or maybe… he expects guests to let themselves in?

The thought feels ridiculous, but so does standing out here like a lost delivery person.

I glance around, but there isn’t anyone in sight. Then I reach for the handle and turn. The door swings open without resistance.

Warm air rushes out to meet me, scented with polished wood, faint leather, and the subtle musk of expensive cologne. I hesitate on the threshold.