Dirty Demands (Forbidden Silver Foxes #16)

Chapter 1

ALEKSEI

I have closed billion-dollar deals with nothing but a handshake and a smile, but the news on the table right now almost knocks the breath from my lungs.

My grandfather’s attorney, a thin man with nervous eyes, slides a thick folder across the polished boardroom table. “You understand the terms, Mr. Vasiliev?”

I let out a slow breath, scanning the document, my jaw tight. “My grandfather’s estate. What is this—some kind of joke?”

He doesn’t flinch. “It’s binding. You have to be married. With a child. Within twelve months. Or the inheritance goes to your cousin.”

A sharp laugh escapes me, humorless. “So, I’m supposed to find a wife, seduce her, and produce an heir… on a clock?”

“Those are the terms.” His voice is soft, apologetic. “Your grandfather wanted to ensure his legacy.”

I lean back, staring out at the Manhattan skyline beyond the glass. Below me, the city pulses with life fueled by ambition, greed, and hunger.

I know all about hunger.

I let my head thunk against the back of the chair and stare at the ceiling, as if a solution might be hiding up there in the gilded moldings.

Next to me, Ilya—my best friend since childhood, my Harvard-educated legal counsel, and the only man alive who can drink me under the table—flips through the stack of papers with a smirk. Of course he’s enjoying this.

“Tell me this is a joke,” I say, only half kidding. “Did Dedushka actually pay a lawyer to write this? Is this… performance art?”

Ilya’s lips twitch. “If it is, it’s very high concept.

” He snorts, and begins reading aloud. “Clause 4b: ‘Said heir must be of Vasiliev blood, born in wedlock, and not, I repeat, not the result of scientific interference, petri dish, or other unholy methods.’” He looks up, deadpan. “No cloning yourself. Sorry, mate.”

I glare at the attorney, who suddenly finds his fingernails extremely interesting. “So. You’re my legal expert, Ilya. Surely you can find me a way out. The old man loved loopholes.”

Ilya closes the folder with a satisfying snap. “Unfortunately for you, Aleksei, this is tighter than your grandmother’s handshake. You want the inheritance, you play by the rules.”

I groan. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder, not even trying to hide his laughter. “Look at the bright side. At least you’ll finally stop scaring away every woman you meet with your existential rants and your—what was it—‘smoldering ennui’?”

“Smoldering ennui is a sign of depth,” I counter. But he’s already texting someone.

“Yeah, well, I’m here because I care for you, and also for the fact that my firm is charging you by the hour,” he says, still typing.

“You are,” I say drily.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ll have one of the senior partners take another look at this.”

But I don’t miss the look on his face. There’s no getting out of this.

“Any other gems in there?” I ask, nodding at the contract, as if I haven’t already memorized every clause. Years of reading the fine print, and it’s this—this absurdity—that outsmarts me.

Ilya shrugs, flipping to the signature page.

“You must marry within a week. Produce an heir within a year. Maintain a ‘respectable public image’—your grandfather underlined that, twice. I assume that means no more boxing matches with rival CEOs, no more disappearing to Saint Petersburg for weeks without telling anyone.”

I snort. “If he didn’t want a scandal, he shouldn’t have started a Bratva dynasty.”

Ilya grins, tossing the pen onto the table. “You need a woman who can handle you, Vasiliev. Someone who’ll say yes to a marriage of convenience, keep quiet, and give you an heir without falling in love with your money… or your enemies.”

My headache pulses behind my eyes. “And where do I find such a mythical creature? Is there a catalog?”

He spreads his hands. “You’re the boss. Maybe ask your assistant to make a list. Oh, wait—never mind. You fired your last one for eavesdropping.”

I let out a humorless laugh. The silence stretches, broken only by the hum of the boardroom lights and the distant sounds of Moscow waking up. In one week, my life has to become… presentable. Respectable. And legally binding.

Ilya stands, straightens his jacket, and leans in, dropping his voice. “Listen, Aleksei. You might hate this, but you’re not alone. I’ll help where I can. But the rest is on you.” He flashes a wicked smile. “You’d better start interviewing. Fast.”

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.

I shake my head. “Wasn’t hungry.”

She gestures to a bowl of soup on the stove, the same recipe she’s made since I was a boy. I sit, let her ladle it out, and let her fuss because it makes her feel needed.

She sits beside me, silent while I eat. When I push the bowl away, she puts her hand on mine, gentle but firm. “Aleksei. I know you. I know when something is wrong.”

For a long time, I say nothing. Then the words come out rough. “He wants me married. With a child. By next year.”

She doesn’t flinch. She only sighs, eyes sad but knowing. “Your grandfather was always a hard man. Too hard.”

I look at her hands, the lines of age and the strength there. “How did you do it? With him? With all of this?” I wave at the city, the weight of our name.

She smiles, just a little. “You learn to live with what you cannot change. And you do what you must, for family.”

I close my eyes, feeling the truth of it settle like another stone on my chest.

She squeezes my hand. “You do not have to do it alone, Alyosha.”

I nod. The silence grows warm between us, full of old memories, things we never say out loud.

When she leaves, I linger at the window, watching the city lights flicker on. Somewhere in this mess, I need to find a wife. Someone who fits, and who will not make this harder than it already is.

I need help. Not from family, not from friends.

An assistant. Someone who can take care of the details, the meetings, the sorting, the chaos. Someone efficient, invisible—someone who won’t ask questions.

Maybe that’s where I start.

I watch the night swallow Manhattan, and for the first time today, I almost feel hope.

And maybe a little dread, too.