Chapter 2 - Aleksander
ALEKSANDER
Moscow meetings are always a gamble—you never know if you’ll walk out with a handshake or a bullet.
Tonight was supposed to be simple—finalize the merger between Antonov Holdings and Zaroksiv Shipping, a neat little corporate front to move certain assets quietly through the Baltic.
Kirov Zaroksiv had insisted on the face-to-face, which should’ve been my first warning.
I hate that puny little sucker. But unfortunately for me, he’s a big deal in Moscow.
At least here, I am out of the shadows of my mother.
But I don’t want to think of that.
By the time I arrive at the glass-walled office overlooking the frozen river, he’s already pacing, tie loose, temper brewing.
“You want twenty percent more than we agreed,” he says, slamming his palm on the table.
I don’t flinch. “You were paid for silence, not the other way around.”
That seems to fluster him more as he grows redder by the second.
His men shift behind him—three of them, heavy coats. I know exactly why they are there.
Mine stand quieter behind me. Smarter. Waiting.
“You got twenty percent more protection than anyone else alive. Don’t confuse generosity with negotiation.”
He slams a hand against the table, sending a folder skidding. “I don’t need your protection, Aleksander. My people stand with me.”
I meet his glare. “Your people stand wherever the money is, Kirov. And you’re running out of it.”
He looks like he wants to lunge. I almost hope he does. But he doesn’t. He just gives me a funny little smile instead. “You’re going to regret this.”
We stare at each other until the clock strikes nine. By then, the merger is dead and my patience has joined it.
“Clean this up,” I tell Nikolai, on the way out. Nikolai just nods. He has been with me for almost a decade now, a loyal shadow. “And find out who promised him protection.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Something tells me Kirov messed up the deal on purpose,” I say.
“Why?” Nikolai asks, frowning.
“We’ll find out sooner or later.”
Outside, the night is thick with snow and exhaust. My charter is waiting for me to fly out of Sheremetyevo.
Unfortunately, my good luck ends there because thanks to a storm rolling into Paris, the charter ends up cancelling all the private flights flying out of Paris.
A pilot calls, apologizing, but I just hung up.
I hate delays. I hate being cornered. And now, because of Kirov’s tantrum and the weather’s bad timing, I am being forced to fly commercial.
A lesser man would call it irony.
I call it punishment.
I somehow manage to snag the last first-class ticket on a Paris connection. I should be grateful. Instead, I spend the next six hours moving through airports and people I don’t care to see, a walking storm of my own.
Paris is pure chaos. The terminal buzzes with grounded passengers and impatient announcements in three languages. My phone keeps vibrating with messages from Moscow—my informant updating me about Kirov’s sudden “disappearance.”
I feel restless. Something is wrong.
And then I run into her.
Literally.
A small body, soft and warm, colliding with my chest hard enough to knock the phone from my hand.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Her voice is quick, flustered—familiar in a way that makes my pulse stumble. I reach out automatically, steadying her by the waist.
“It’s alright,” I say quietly. My voice comes out lower than I intend.
She clutches a paper pharmacy bag to her chest, the top edge crumpling under her fingers. For a fraction of a second, she looks up—and though the light hits her at an angle, I catch a glimpse of familiar lashes, the curve of her cheek, a faint beauty mark near her temple.
Something inside me stills.
It can’t be.
But it is.
A harsh metallic shriek cuts through the air, startling the crowd. Red lights begin flashing above the departure gates, voices shouting in French, the kind of chaos airports do best.
She turns instinctively toward the noise, blonde hair brushing her cheek. When I blink, she’s gone—disappeared into the moving wall of people.
I stand there for a moment, hand still half-raised, the echo of her scent clinging to my sleeve.
Coincidence? Maybe.
But I’ve never believed in those.
What the hell is Bella doing here? I can barely think straight.
I walk, but I’m not really seeing the crowds or the gate numbers.
All I see is her—that night—Bella straddling me in that hotel, head thrown back, hair wild, tits bouncing as she rides me hard and desperate, her breath catching every time I drive up into her.
I remember her nails raking my chest, the heat and slick of her body squeezing around me until I lose control.
It’s been four years, but just one accidental touch in a Paris terminal and I’m fucking hard for her, like nothing’s changed.
The rest of the world blurs. All I want is her again.
What the fuck are the odds? I spot her again. She’s up at the Air France counter, talking fast, clutching her bag like it’s a lifeline. I hang back, dropping my cap low, letting the brim shade my eyes. No need for her to see me—not yet.
She’s asking about flights to New York. I edge a little closer, blending into a crowd of businessmen and families arguing over seat assignments.
I dig my ticket out of my pocket. Same airline, same route. The universe really does have a sick sense of humor.
I call Nikolai. He answers on the first ring. “Yes?”
“I need you to work your magic. There’s a passenger here—Isabella Thomas. She needs to be on my flight to New York. I want her upgraded, booked, bribed—whatever it takes. You have two minutes. If it takes three, start updating your resume.”
He sputters. “Two minutes? But—”
“One minute, fifty-five seconds,” I cut in, watching the agent start to shake her head at Bella. “If you’re late, you’re overseeing the Jersey City deal.”
“You know how much I hate that city, boss.”
“One minute, forty.” I glance at Bella, who looks like she’s about to cry.
He groans. “You know you can’t fire me. But don’t worry, I got your precious ticket.”
I hang up, smirking as I watch the agent’s screen flicker. In less than a minute, Bella’s face shifts from defeat to confusion, then relief.
“You got yourself a seat in first class,” I say. “My treat.”
I hear Nikolai chuckle. “You can’t pay me to sit there. I’m fine where I am, thanks, boss. I’ll see you in New York.”
I hang up. I haven’t seen Nikolai since the day of the deal. I assume he’s with a woman, and I don’t want to intrude on his personal time. Once we’re in New York, he’ll return to my side as my shadow. Here in Paris, I’m no one important.
I lean back against the pillar, feeling the thrill settle into my bones. Bella’s on the flight now. She just doesn’t know what she’s in for.
Just as I’m about to put my phone away, I see her turn from the counter—and she’s not alone. She leans down and scoops up a little girl from a stroller, maybe three or four years old, with sleepy golden curls and cheeks still pink from crying.
For a second, it doesn’t register. Then it hits me—Bella has a kid?
The memory slams into me—New York, four years ago, her mouth on mine in a hotel room with city lights spilling over our bodies, her laugh muffled against my throat. I tried to find her after that night, but she vanished, changed numbers, gone like smoke.
And now, after all these years, she shows up with a daughter?
My heart thumps, cold and strange. I study the kid’s face—her eyes, her mouth—searching for something familiar, some proof that I’m not dreaming or paranoid.
It makes no sense. Was she married? Divorced? Who the hell is this kid’s father?
I step back into the shadows, watching her walk away, the little girl’s arms tight around her neck.
I sink back behind a column, just watching them go, my heart pounding hard and ugly in my chest. All this time, I thought I was just missing her. Turns out, she had a secret.
And now I want to know everything.
It can’t be my kid. That’s impossible. Not since the accident. I told myself that years ago—no matter what the doctors say about miracles, I know my own body. That night in New York was just that—a night.
Still, seeing Bella cradling a little girl rattles me.
My chest feels too tight, like someone’s twisting the memory of old injuries into something fresh and raw.
The questions are still there—who the father is, where she went, why she left—but now they’re tangled up with something colder. A reminder of everything I can’t have.
As boarding starts, I hang back, making sure Bella doesn’t catch sight of me. I let other passengers push ahead, blending into the line, my cap pulled low, my expression carefully blank.
I watch her from a distance as she wrangles bags and soothes her daughter, still so damn beautiful it almost hurts. She looks tired, but strong. The years changed her—maybe more than they changed me.
One thing hasn’t changed, though—the way just being near her makes me want everything I’m not supposed to want.
As I hand my ticket to the attendant and step onto the plane, I make a silent promise—I’m going to get answers.
I wait until the last possible minute to board, giving her a head start. The jet bridge is all fluorescent lights and hushed conversation, a cocoon of anticipation before the long haul to New York.
The moment I step into the plane, the noise dulls to a hush.
First class here isn’t just a seat—it’s a small world of its own.
The suite cabins are partitioned by sliding doors, each space fitted with leather, soft gray textiles, champagne flutes already gleaming on side tables.
Lights glow golden and dim, the scent of something floral drifting on air-conditioned breeze. Privacy, comfort, money well spent.