Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
ALEXANDER
My father’s office is as pristine as ever, silent, sterile, untouched by warmth. It’s a perfect reflection of the man who occupies it.
He doesn’t look up right away as I take a seat right across from him; he just continues writing, the soft scratch of his pen the only sound in the room.
I already know what this is about. It’s not about the company or investments.
It’s about Lucas.
Finally, he sets the pen down, folds his hands on the desk, and lifts his eyes to meet mine. The glint of his glasses catches the light, but not enough to dull the severity in his gaze.
It’s the kind of look that used to put ice in my veins when I was Eleven.
But not anymore.
Now I meet his stare with calm indifference. My expression flat and unreadable—just enough to remind him I haven’t been afraid of him since the day he handed me a gun for my eleventh birthday and told me to prove I was a Petrov.
And I did.
That was the first time I took a life.
And then my fear died; whatever warmth he expected from a son burned out of me completely.
“The boy you brought to your mother’s dinner on Saturday,” my father says, his voice sharp, clipped—like he’s trying to cut something out of me. “He’s the son of a drug addict and a former sex worker.”
I say nothing. My jaw tightens, but I hold his stare.
“I looked into him,” he adds, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Lucas Miller. He uses his mother’s surname because she doesn’t know the name of his father. Neither does Lucas. No birth certificate. No record. No clue who the man even was.”
He pauses. Watches me. We both know he’s not finished.
“He grew up in a run-down trailer park in Connecticut. He’s Deaf and mute, also a community college student, scraping by. Do you want me to keep going?”
Lucas isn’t mute—he’s nonverbal, but I don’t have the patience to correct him.
And I almost laugh. The absurdity is too rich.
I wonder what else he looked into, maybe the color of Lucas’s boxer briefs when I slid them off on Saturday and got us both off with my hands, or how he melts and moans my name in that submissive way of his.
My father’s eyes search my face, cold and expectant, waiting for a reply, maybe?
When I don’t give him one, his blue eyes darken.
He leans forward.
“Tell me what you see in that, what you heard in any of what I just said, that made you think being with someone like him was a good idea. What about that kind of background makes him worthy of being your… latest fixation that you had to bring him to your mother’s dinner party and flaunt him around? ”
“He’s not a fixation,” I say, voice low but clear. “I am so clearly into him.”
My father’s face hardens. But I’m not done.
“I’m going to make him mine,” I continue, leaning forward just slightly, “and guess what, Father? He’s going to be a Petrov. Because I’m giving him my last name.”
He doesn’t flinch. Not even a twitch of surprise.
If anything, his eyes sharpen, narrowing behind his glasses like he’s dissecting me under a microscope.
“So that’s your plan?” he says, voice cool, measured. “To drag the Petrov name through the mud for some… charity case?”
I don’t answer; he knows better than to bait me with empty words; he knows I don’t speak lightly.
I stay silent. I’ve learned that silence unsettles him more than anger ever could.
He leans back slowly, his fingers steepling in front of him.
“And it’s because of this boy that you disobeyed me, got your hands dirty again —and have someone tied up in your grandfather’s dungeon?”
My jaw tightens.
So he knows.
Of course he does.
“I told you to leave that life behind,” he continues, voice sharpening, “I told you that as long as you work for my company, I don’t want your hands dirty anymore.”
“If you didn’t want blood on my hands,” I say, my fingers twitching against the armrest, “you shouldn’t have trained me to hold the knife.”
That gets him. His right eye twitches, and his face hardens
“You think this is about training?” he says, his voice almost loud. “This is about discipline, strategy, and power. You’re letting emotions steer you because of this boy. Cut whatever you have with him; he’s a distraction, a stupid one at that.”
Silence hangs heavy for a beat too long. I stare at him, jaw clenched, pulse steady but simmering. I can feel my rage building, his words still echoing in my ear; he said it like Lucas is some disposable distraction, like I’m still a teen willing to nod through his lectures.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the arms of the chair.
“You know why I agreed to work for you?”
He doesn’t respond—just stares, as if he’s waiting for me to come to my senses.
“It wasn’t because I wanted to. It was because Mom asked me to —she begged me to,” I continue, each word sharp and deliberate, “not because I wanted a role in your company. I never gave a damn about any of this. I most especially don’t need you.”
His face tenses, just slightly
“Just because you own shares from your maternal grandparents’ resort chain, my father’s industry, and his bratva organization, doesn’t mean you don’t need me or my company,” he says, voice sternly cold.
“I don’t care how many shares you hold, Alexander, or how on top of the world you think you are.
I am still your father, and you and your brothers will take over my empire one day, whether you like it or not. ”
“Then, if you want me,” I say heatedly, standing up, already tired of arguing with him, “don’t mistake my patience for submission, father, and don’t think for a second that I won’t walk away from all this the moment I feel like it.”
And with that, I storm out of his office.
***
Lucas hasn’t come to our ASL sessions in two days. I haven’t seen him since that mess of an argument on Sunday morning—or whatever that was supposed to be. A conversation? A confession? A push, a pull? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he walked away, and I let him.
I haven’t texted. Haven’t called. Not because I don’t want to, but because I know he needs space.
I saw it in his eyes and in the way he folded into himself.
Like he was preparing to be discarded before I could even think about holding on.
So I’ve been giving him room to breathe, to think. I won’t pressure him.
But all I know is he’s going to be mine. I’ll be patient, I’ll be gentle if that’s what he needs, but he’s already taken root inside me, and I don’t know how to want anything else.
Still, this silence… his absence… It’s not just space anymore. It feels like distance. Like retreat. Like something in him is quietly deciding to back away for good, and I don’t know how to stop it.
I keep playing that moment over in my head—his face when he said those words to me.
The tightness in his jaw, the crack in his expression.
I hadn’t known what to say, not really. The words had hit like a blindside punch, all the more brutal because he believed them.
He said it like a fact, not an apology. Like it was obvious. Like it was true.
He thinks he’s not good enough.
It’s the kind of thing I can’t get out of my head. It sits there, turning over and over, refusing to settle. Like a splinter in the softest part of me.
What the hell made him feel that way? What kind of life taught him that he has to apologize for simply existing? That letting someone care for him should be a threat?
There are stories in him I haven’t heard yet—wounds I don’t know how to name.
But I want to.
God, I want to.
I drag a hand through my hair, then reach for my phone. I stare at the screen, checking the time, knowing it’s almost time for our lesson, and Mike should be on his way to pick him up by now. I just hope he doesn’t tell Mike that he won’t be coming, just like he did the past two days.
Just then, my phone buzzes with a call.
“Hello, Mr. Alexander,” my doorman says, “your brother, Anton, is here to see you.”
“Send him up,” I reply.
I walk towards the bar and take out a bottle of whiskey.
The elevator door dings after a while, and heavy footsteps echo towards the living space. When he sees me at the bar, he raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. I gesture silently towards my balcony, and he nods.
We step outside and settle into the outdoor dining set, the city sprawled beneath us in glittering silence. I pour Anton a glass first, then mine. The bottle of Macallan rests between us on the table, like a silent referee.
Anton lifts his glass, takes a slow sip, and sets it down with deliberate calm.
“Father’s pissed,” he says flatly.
I exhale, then take a long drink.
“Good. Maybe that means I said something worth hearing.”
Anton sighs, eyes shifting toward me with quiet scrutiny.
“You’re being reckless.”
“With what exactly?” I meet his gaze. “The argument I had with Father or the fact that I care about Lucas?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, he says,
“With the fact that you’ve fallen head over heels for a particular boy.”
I can’t help the way my lips twitch into a smile. No denial. No defense. Just the truth, laid bare between us and the bottle of whiskey.
“And that’s reckless?” I murmur.
He shrugs, “It’s reckless since it’s making you go against father, and he’s been crashing out for days, saying shit about cutting you off.”
“You know I don’t care,” I say with a dry laugh.
“I do,” he replies simply, “Mom will rather die than see him cut you off, though.”
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching the way it catches the light.
“Mom likes Lucas.”
“I know,” Anton replies, leaning back in his chair. “But do you really think Lucas can handle all of this when he’s finally yours?”
“Handle what?” I ask, eyes narrowing slightly.
He arches a brow, deliberate. “Being with a Petrov. The attention. The constant surveillance. The media digging up everything they can find. Our father already pulling strings to uncover every inch of his past like it’s some sort of background check for war.”
My jaw tightens.
“I won’t let anyone fuck with him, Anton,” I say, my voice low and firm. “Not the press. Not our father. No one.”
He studies me, silent for a long beat. I let him. I want him to see it—that I’m not playing games. That whatever this is with Lucas, I’m in it—fully and Unshakably.
Then Anton exhales and gives me that crooked half-smile, the one he saves for the rare moments he’s genuinely amused. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lights one with steady fingers, and inhales like he’s carrying the weight of two younger brothers on his lungs.
“You and Maksim are going to be the death of me,” he mutters, smoke curling from his lips. “You with your obsession, him with his recklessness. And me—the poor bastard having to deal with it all.”
I open my mouth to respond, but my phone buzzes across the table. Mike’s name flashes on the screen. My heart stutters.
I answer it immediately.
“Tell me he’s with you.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Mike’s voice, steady but cautious:
“He’s not. He told me he’s not coming.”
My grip on the phone tightens, my jaw clenches so hard it feels like it could shatter.
“That’s enough stubbornness,” I mutter, rising from my chair and tossing back the last of my whiskey.
Anton watches me, one brow raised in mild surprise.
“Where are you going?”
I give him a sly smile, “Guess.”