Chapter 47
CHAPTER
FORTY-SEVEN
Alexei Volkov. Russian born, more money than he could count, and nothing better to do with his time than devising ways to exert power over people.
But it was more than that.
Hudson was fairly certain the man was a sociopath.
“You know them?” Natalie asked her father.
“We know of them,” Ravenscroft said. “Alexei Volkov runs a rival shipping operation out of Baltimore. We’ve had . . . disagreements about territorial boundaries.”
“Disagreements violent enough that he’d send people after your daughter?” Hudson kept his tone respectful but pointed.
Ravenscroft’s eyes hardened. “Volkov doesn’t play by civilized rules. If he thinks hurting Natalie will give him leverage over me, he won’t hesitate.”
The explanation was plausible. Too plausible. Hudson couldn’t tell if it was the truth or a convenient cover story.
“Which is why you’re not staying here.” Ravenscroft turned to Natalie. “Pack a bag. You’re coming to the estate where I can protect you properly.”
Her eyes widened. “Dad, I don’t think—”
“This isn’t a discussion, Natalie.” Ravenscroft’s voice carried the weight of command. “Someone broke into your house. Now they’ve tried to grab you from your own driveway. I’m not leaving you here to remain a target.”
Natalie’s jaw tightened as if she were preparing to argue.
Hudson caught her eye and gave a slight shake of his head.
Fighting this would look suspicious. Someone in her shoes would accept her father’s protection.
Even if that protection felt more like imprisonment.
Natalie climbed the stairs to her bedroom, her father’s command ringing in her ears.
She didn’t want to go to his estate. Didn’t want to be under his roof, under his control, pretending everything was normal when she was secretly gathering evidence against him.
But refusing would raise questions she couldn’t answer.
She pulled a suitcase from her closet and began packing—enough clothes for a few days, toiletries, her laptop. All the while, her mind raced through the implications.
Living at her father’s house meant constant proximity to him. It meant trying to maintain her cover while surrounded by his security, his staff, his world.
It meant abandoning—at least temporarily—the life she’d been trying to build for herself. The independence she’d been working toward.
For months now, she’d been planning to leave Ravenscroft International. To start her own PR firm, build something that was hers rather than an extension of her father’s empire. She’d been quietly researching office space, reaching out to potential clients, saving money for the leap.
Her father didn’t know. She hadn’t told him yet, hadn’t found the courage to say the words that would hurt him: I don’t want to work for you anymore. I need to prove I can succeed on my own.
Now, with everything that was happening, that dream felt impossibly distant. Like something from another life.
Natalie folded a blouse with more force than necessary, remembering all the times her father had tried to control her personal life too. The endless parade of “suitable” men he’d introduced her to at company events and charity galas.
Matthew Whitfield from the Maritime Trade Association—handsome, ambitious, and so boring she’d nearly fallen asleep during dinner. Her father had been thrilled when Matthew asked for her number. She’d given him a polite rejection after two dates.
Then there was Jonathan Rutter, whose family owned Rutter Maritime.
That introduction had been purely strategic—her father hoping a romantic connection might smooth over business tensions.
Jonathan had been nice enough, but she’d felt like a chess piece being moved across a board rather than a woman on an actual date.
And David . . . something—she couldn’t even remember his last name. He’d worked in shipping logistics, had impressive credentials, and had spent their entire date talking about himself without asking her a single question.
Her father’s taste in men for her had one consistent theme: They all advanced his business interests. None of them had made her laugh. None of them had looked at her like she was more than Richard Ravenscroft’s daughter and a potential business asset.
Not like Timothy—Hudson—had looked at her.
Natalie paused, a dress half-folded in her hands.
Even now, knowing everything had been a lie, she could still remember the way he’d smiled at her in that cooking class. The way he’d actually listened when she talked, like her words mattered. The way he’d made her feel seen.
Had any of it been real? Or had he just been better at pretending than Matthew or Jonathan or David?