Chapter 44 Nikolai
NIKOLAI
Istand at the window of my study, watching the morning light filter through the curtains while my mind catalogs strategies with cold efficiency.
The photograph from last night still burns in my memory.
Aria, nearly naked on that beach, the intimacy captured in brutal clarity.
Every news outlet in the city is running with it, dissecting our most private moments like they're public property.
My phone vibrates against my thigh. Yaroslav, my tech specialist.
"Tell me you have something," I say without preamble.
"Better than something, Boss." His voice carries that edge of satisfaction that means he's found a solution.
"I can create forensic evidence that the photographs have been digitally manipulated.
Metadata alterations, pixel inconsistencies, shadow angles that don't match the time stamps. Enough to plant reasonable doubt."
"How long?"
"Forty-eight hours for a complete package. Documentation that will hold up to expert scrutiny."
"Do it." I end the call and turn to find Aria standing in the doorway.
She's wearing one of my shirts, the fabric hanging to mid-thigh, and despite everything, my body responds with heat that has nothing to do with strategy.
Her dark hair is still damp from the shower, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, and the bandage on her temple reminds me how close I came to losing her last night.
"We need to talk," she says, her voice steady despite the exhaustion pulling at her features.
"I know." I cross to her, my hands finding her waist and pulling her against me. She comes willingly, her body fitting against mine like she was designed for this purpose. "I'm handling it."
"How?" Her fingers trace the edge of the bandage on my forearm where the bullet grazed me. "More violence? More bodies?"
"No." I capture her hand, bringing it to my lips. "This requires a different approach. We're going to control the narrative before it controls us."
Understanding flashes across her face. "An interview."
"Yes." I guide her to the leather sofa, settling beside her with my thigh pressed against hers. "A carefully staged conversation with a journalist I trust. Someone who will tell our story the way we want it told."
"And what story is that?" Her dark eyes search mine, looking for deception I'm not offering.
"The truth." My thumb brushes across her knuckles. "You jumped into a storm-tossed ocean to save my life. We were stranded on an island, thinking we might die there. Romance bloomed from survival. It's not a lie, Solnyshka. It's just selective truth."
She's quiet for a long moment, her teeth worrying her lower lip in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach. "What about the photographs? People have seen them. They know what we looked like together."
"My tech specialist is creating evidence that they've been digitally manipulated, doctored to appear more intimate than reality.
" I watch her process this information, see the calculation happening behind those dark eyes.
"It won't erase what's out there, but it will plant doubt, make people question what they've seen. "
"That's brilliant." Her voice carries reluctant admiration. "Morally questionable, but brilliant."
"Welcome to my world." I lean closer, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. "The interview happens tomorrow. I'll coach you on what to say and how to present our story. We paint a picture of survival and unexpected connection."
"What if I mess it up?" The vulnerability in her voice makes my chest constrict. "What if I say the wrong thing and make it worse?"
"You won't." My hand cups her jaw, tilting her face up to meet my gaze. "You're stronger than you think. You survived the island. You survived last night. You can survive a journalist."
Her lips curve into something that might be a smile. "When you put it that way…"
I kiss her because I can't help myself, because the taste of her grounds me in a way nothing else does. She responds with heat that makes my blood sing, her fingers threading through my hair and pulling me closer. When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, I rest my forehead against hers.
"We do this together," I murmur. "You and me against the world."
"Together," she echoes, and the word feels like a promise.
And finally, I admit, if just to myself, that I love this woman with everything in me. I know I would and will do anything in my power to protect her and give her what she wants and needs. And if that makes others think I'm weak? So be it.
The next morning arrives too quickly. I've spent hours coaching Aria on her responses, running through potential questions until she can answer without hesitation. She's a quick study, her mind sharp despite the exhaustion pulling at her features.
The journalist arrives precisely on time, a woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a reputation for fairness that's rare in her profession. She's also someone who owes me a favor, which makes her the perfect choice for this particular story.
"Mr. Alekseev." Elena extends her hand, her gaze moving between Aria and me with professional assessment. "Thank you for agreeing to this interview."
"Thank you for coming." I guide her to the sitting room where we've arranged comfortable chairs and soft lighting. Everything calculated to create intimacy without appearing staged.
Aria settles beside me on the sofa, her hand finding mine with a naturalness that doesn't feel rehearsed. I thread our fingers together, feeling the slight tremor running through her body that she's trying to hide.
Elena positions her recorder on the coffee table between us. "Shall we begin?" The cameraman steps closer, aiming his camera at us to catch every nuance of our expressions.
"Please." I keep my voice warm, approachable, nothing like the cold Pakhan who issues orders and eliminates threats.
"The photographs that surfaced recently show you and Miss Levin in what appears to be a very intimate situation on a deserted island." Elena's tone is neutral, but I hear the question underneath. "Can you tell me what happened?"
Aria takes a breath, and I feel her body steady against mine. "There was a storm. The yacht went down. I saw Nikolai go overboard, and I jumped in after him."
"You jumped into a storm-tossed ocean?" Elena leans forward slightly. "That's incredibly brave."
"Or incredibly stupid." Aria's lips curve into a self-deprecating smile that looks genuine because it is. "I didn't think. I just moved. He was drowning, and I couldn't watch that happen."
"We washed up on an island," I continue, my thumb tracing circles against Aria's palm. "No supplies. No shelter. No idea whether anyone would find us. We thought we might die there."
"How long were you stranded?"
"Three weeks." The words come out rougher than I intend. "Twenty-one days of survival. Building shelter, finding food, trying to stay alive."
Elena's gaze moves to our joined hands. "And during that time, you fell in love?"
The question hangs in the air, weighted with implications. Aria's fingers tighten around mine, and I see her throat work as she swallows.
"I don't know if it was love at first," she says quietly. "But there was something. A connection. When you're facing death together, when you're depending on each other for survival, barriers come down. You see people for who they really are."
"And who is Nikolai Alekseev when he's not running a business empire?" Elena asks, her pen moving across her notepad.
Aria glances at me, and the expression on her face makes heat flood through my veins.
"He's someone who quotes Russian poetry while building a shelter.
Who knows about art and architecture. Who took the impact when we hit the rocks to shield my body.
" Her voice drops to something intimate. "He's more than what people think."
The way she defends me, even now, even knowing what I am, makes something crack open in my chest. I lift her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that's both possessive and tender.
"The photographs suggest a very physical relationship," Elena says carefully. "Some have questioned the timing of your pregnancy announcement."
"The baby is mine." The words come out cold, absolute. "Anyone who questions that can take it up with me directly."
Elena's eyebrow raises fractionally at the threat underlying my tone, but she doesn't back down. "There are rumors that the photographs have been digitally altered. That they've been manipulated to appear more intimate than reality."
"We're having that investigated." I keep my voice level, controlled. "But regardless of what the photographs show, the truth is simple. Aria saved my life. We survived together. And yes, we became intimate. That's not a scandal. That's human nature."
"What about your business operations?" Elena shifts topics smoothly. "There are allegations of organized crime, territory disputes, violence."
"I run a legitimate import-export business." The lie comes easily, practiced over years of deflecting similar questions. "The allegations are exactly that. Allegations. Never proven. Never substantiated."
Aria's hand tightens around mine, and I feel her body tense slightly. She knows I'm lying, knows exactly what my business entails, but she doesn't contradict me. She sits there looking like the perfect supportive partner.
The interview continues for another hour, Elena asking questions we've prepared for and a few we haven't. But Aria handles herself with grace, her responses genuine enough to be believable while carefully avoiding anything that might incriminate me or the organization.
When Elena finally packs up her equipment and leaves, promising the article will run tomorrow and air first thing in the morning, I pull Aria against my chest and breathe in the scent of her hair.
"You were perfect," I murmur against her temple.
"I feel like I just lied to the entire city." Her voice is muffled against my shirt.
"You told them what they needed to hear." My hands slide down to her waist, pulling her closer. "There's a difference."
She pulls back enough to meet my gaze, and the conflict in her dark eyes makes guilt twist in my chest. "Is there? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like I just helped you cover up who you really are."
"You helped us survive." I cup her jaw, my thumb brushing across her lower lip. "That's all that matters."
The article runs the next morning, and the response is immediate.
Social media explodes with sympathy for our survival story, with admiration for Aria's bravery, with romantic speculation about love blooming from tragedy.
The narrative shifts exactly as I planned, the photographs reframed as evidence of human connection rather than scandal.
By afternoon, my phone is ringing constantly. Interview requests. Book deals. Movie offers. Everyone wants a piece of our story, wants to capitalize on the romance that captured public imagination.
I'm reviewing the latest batch of requests when Cyril appears in my study doorway, his gray eyes cold with something that makes my stomach tighten with instinct.
"We have a problem, Boss." His voice is carefully neutral, which makes the words that follow hit like bullets.
"The interview worked too well. There are reporters camped outside your gate.
Dozens of them. Cameras, satellite trucks, the whole circus.
It's making it impossible to conduct business without being photographed. "
I move to the window and look down at the street below. He's right. The media presence is overwhelming, a sea of cameras and microphones all pointed at my home like weapons.
"The other families are getting nervous," Cyril continues. "They're saying the attention is dangerous. That you're compromising operational security for a woman."
My jaw tightens as I watch another news van pull up to join the circus outside my gate. "How nervous?"
Cyril's expression goes carefully blank, and the sudden absence of emotion tells me everything I need to know. "Nervous enough that three captains have requested a formal council meeting. They want to discuss whether your judgment has been compromised."