Chapter Ten - Makar
The soft glow of the desk lamp bathes the papers in front of me in warm light, the faint scent of leather and aged whiskey lingering in the air. My office is quiet, a rare and fleeting luxury in my world. The evening’s events weigh on my mind, but I let the silence settle, savoring the calm before the inevitable storm of interruptions.
It doesn’t take long.
A knock sounds at the door, sharp and deliberate.
“Enter,” I call, my voice steady.
Andrei steps inside, his face carefully blank, though the tension in his shoulders betrays him. He shuts the door behind him, his movements precise but not rushed, and stands before my desk.
I glance up, leaning back in my chair. “Andrei,” I say smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. “How was the trip to the clinic?”
His expression hardens ever so slightly, and I chuckle, already knowing the answer. “I heard she tried to escape,” I add, my tone light with amusement.
Andrei doesn’t flinch, but I see the flicker of unease in his eyes. “She did,” he admits reluctantly. “Didn’t get far, though.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk and steepling my fingers. “Tell me,” I say, my smirk widening. “Did she run like a terrified rabbit, or did she put up a fight?”
“She screamed bloody murder,” Andrei replies, his voice clipped. “Tried to get the nurse to help her. Made a scene.”
“And?”
“No one moved,” he says simply, his tone edged with irritation.
I can’t help but laugh, the sound low and genuine. “She has spirit,” I say, shaking my head. “I like that.”
Andrei blinks, clearly caught off guard by my reaction.
“Relax,” I say, waving a hand dismissively. “Neither of you will be punished. Not this time.”
Andrei’s shoulders ease slightly, but his jaw tightens. “She’s reckless,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “Dangerous. If she keeps this up—”
“She won’t,” I interrupt, my voice firm. “She’s learning. Slowly, perhaps, but she’ll get there.”
He looks skeptical but doesn’t argue.
I reach for the glass of whiskey on my desk, swirling the amber liquid before taking a sip. “Let her have her spirit, Andrei,” I say, my tone almost conversational. “It makes things more interesting.”
Andrei’s lips press into a thin line, but he nods. “As long as it doesn’t get out of hand.”
“It won’t,” I reply, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “I have no intention of letting her get away, Andrei. She’ll learn her place. Eventually.”
He hesitates, then nods again before stepping back toward the door. “Let’s hope you’re right, Boss,” he says quietly.
“Something else?” I ask, my tone sharp enough to cut through his hesitation.
He turns back to face me, pulling a folder from the inside of his jacket. He holds it out without a word.
I raise an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued, and take the folder from him. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, the meaning behind it already clear before I open it.
“These are the results,” Andrei says, his voice steady but lacking its usual edge.
I flip the folder open, scanning the neatly printed words and numbers on the page. It doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for—confirmation written in cold, clinical language.
One month pregnant.
I close the folder slowly, the movement deliberate, and set it down on the desk in front of me. The words linger in my mind, louder than any thought, louder even than the distant hum of my office.
It’s mine.
Andrei clears his throat, breaking the silence. “What now?” he asks, his voice hesitant.
What now? The question echoes in my mind, heavy with implications.
I lean back in my chair, my gaze drifting toward the shadows pooling in the corners of the room. A child. My child. The thought feels foreign, like a language I can’t quite grasp.
I’ve built my life around control—every move calculated, every risk mitigated. And now, this. A life I didn’t ask for, one I never planned for, growing because of one reckless night.
Hannah.
Her name surfaces alongside the memory of her face—those defiant eyes, the sharpness in her voice when she called me a monster. She’s young, spirited, and reckless. She doesn’t belong in my world, and yet… she’s here, tied to me in a way that neither of us can escape.
Andrei shifts uncomfortably, clearly waiting for a response.
“Boss,” he presses, his tone cautious. “What do you want to do?”
I exhale slowly, leaning forward to rest my elbows on the desk. My fingers tap against the wood as I weigh the options in my mind, each one more unpleasant than the last.
“We’ll marry,” I say finally, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
Andrei blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Marry?”
“Yes,” I reply, my tone firm. “I won’t have my child born a bastard.”
The word settles, heavy with finality.
Andrei recovers quickly, his brow furrowing. “You’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious,” I snap, irritation flaring at his doubt. “This isn’t a decision I make lightly, but it’s the only option. The child will have my name, my protection. That much is non-negotiable.”
He hesitates, his expression unreadable. “Hannah?”
I tilt my head slightly, my gaze narrowing. “What about her?”
“Will she agree to this?”
I laugh softly, the sound devoid of humor. “She doesn’t have to. She’ll do what’s necessary. For her own survival.”
Andrei nods slowly, but I can see the flicker of doubt in his eyes.
“You think this is a mistake,” I say, my tone challenging.
“I think it’s… unexpected,” he replies carefully. “If it’s what you’ve decided, I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Good,” I say, leaning back once more. “The sooner, the better.”
He nods again, turning to leave, but pauses at the door. “Boss… a wife and a child. That’s a lot of vulnerability.”
I meet his gaze, my expression cold. “Don’t mistake my decision for weakness, Andrei. Vulnerability is only a problem if it’s left unguarded. I don’t intend to leave anything unguarded.”
He holds my gaze for a moment longer before nodding and leaving the room, the door clicking softly behind him.
Alone, I reach for the glass of whiskey on my desk, staring into the amber liquid as if it holds answers I can’t find.
A wife. A child.
It’s not the life I wanted, but it’s the life I’ll gladly take.
My fingers tighten around the glass as my thoughts drift. She’s defiant, frustratingly so, but there’s something intoxicating about it. Even now, with her pregnant, she still challenges me at every turn. And the thought of her swelling with my child, of her belonging to me in every way that matters—it stirs something dark and undeniable in me.
My jaw tightens as I lean back in my chair, the glass held loosely in one hand. Control has always been the cornerstone of my existence. Everything I have, I’ve taken. Everything I want, I keep. Hannah is no exception.
The image of her flashes in my mind, her body soft and yielding under my hands. The curve of her belly, the life we created together growing inside her—it consumes me. The need to claim her, to remind her who she belongs to, burns low and steady in my chest.
A knock at the door shatters the thought like glass hitting the floor.
“Come in,” I say, my tone sharp as I set the whiskey down.
Vera steps inside, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her composure is impeccable, as always, but there’s a flicker of something in her expression—hesitation, maybe.
“I need to talk to you about Hannah,” Vera begins, her voice measured. “She’s scared.”
I arch an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Good. Fear keeps her in line.”
“No,” Vera says firmly, her gaze meeting mine without a trace of hesitation. “It’s not good.”
Her words hit like a slap, unexpected and unwelcome. I stand, my chair scraping against the floor as I cross the room. “Watch your tone, Vera,” I warn, my voice low and edged with steel.
She doesn’t flinch. Vera’s one of the few people who’s never been afraid of me, and it’s both a blessing and a curse.
“With respect, Mr. Sharov,” she says, her tone steady, “fear will only push her further away. She’ll never be happy here if all she feels is terror. A woman who isn’t happy won’t raise a happy child.”
My jaw tightens as her words settle over me like a weight. “Her happiness isn’t my concern,” I say flatly. “She’s here because I chose for her to be here. That’s all that matters.”
Vera shakes her head, her gaze unwavering. “You might think that now. What happens when that child looks at you with the same fear you see in her, is that the kind of family you want?”
Anger rises in me like a tide, swift and unrelenting. “Enough,” I snap, my voice cutting through the room. “You’re overstepping.”
“I’m doing my job,” Vera counters, her tone calm but firm. “I’ve been with this family long enough to know what works and what doesn’t. You want her to stay, to raise your child without resentment? Then you need to earn more than just her obedience.”
Her words, bold and challenging, surprise me.
I take a step closer, the space between us shrinking. “You speak out of turn, Vera.”
“You know I’m right,” she replies evenly, her expression unyielding.
For a long moment, the room is silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. My hands clench into fists at my sides, the urge to dismiss her battling with the truth in her words.
Finally, I exhale sharply, turning away from her. “Leave,” I say coldly, my tone brooking no argument.
Vera nods, stepping back toward the door. “I’ll continue to watch over her,” she says before leaving. “Think about what I’ve said, Mr. Sharov. For her sake, and yours.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and I’m left alone with the echo of her words.
I return to my desk, but the whiskey no longer holds any appeal. My mind churns, replaying Vera’s warning and the unsettling truth behind it.
Hannah’s fear doesn’t bother me—it’s expected, even necessary. The image Vera painted, of my child looking at me with the same wide-eyed terror, gnaws at me in a way I can’t shake.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling as my thoughts spiral. Hannah is mine, in every sense of the word.
Vera’s right about one thing—if I want her to stay willingly, if I want her to raise this child without resentment festering between us, then fear alone won’t be enough.
The realization sits uncomfortably in my chest, heavy and unfamiliar. For years, I’ve ruled with power and control, taking what I want without apology. With her, things feel different.
Her defiance, her fire—it draws me in, even as it frustrates me. And the thought of losing her, of watching her retreat into herself, makes my grip on control feel precarious.
I drag a hand down my face, a low growl escaping my throat.
Vera’s words echo again, refusing to be silenced. A woman who isn’t happy won’t raise a happy child.