11. The Hearing
The Hearing
Zhenya Romanov
Gray morning light was just creeping past the edges of the curtains when I opened my eyes.
Beside me, Nikolai had somehow migrated to the very edge of the mattress. One careless roll and he was going to hit the floor.
“How do you even sleep like this…” I rasped under my breath.
Reaching over, I caught him by the shoulder and dragged him back toward the center. He let out a faint grumble, rolled onto his other side, and settled right back down without ever opening his eyes.
I left him to it.
The shower took five minutes. By the time I’d shaved and pulled on a black t-shirt and dark trousers, the apartment was already coming alive.
Lev was waiting at the top of the stairs when I stepped into the hall.
“There you are,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Dmitry is downstairs.”
So much for a quiet morning.
A cup of black coffee sat untouched beside him, his eyes fixed on the morning paper. He had one leg crossed neatly over the other, his walking stick propped against the side of the armchair.
He didn’t bother looking up as I walked in.
“Father.” I took the seat opposite him. “You could have called ahead.”
“You know I don’t do appointments.”
“It’s barely morning. I just woke up.”
He bypassed the complaint entirely. “Where is the boy? I haven’t seen him.”
“Perhaps if you hadn’t arrived at dawn, he’d actually be awake.”
His fingers tapped the armrest once. “I read your proposal to oversee Romanov Insurance while your brother remains unavailable.”
“I assumed you had.”
“It was thorough.” He paused, folding the paper. “However, Mikhail submitted a proposal of his own.”
Of course he did. Predictable.
“I want a fair hearing,” Dmitry continued. “The board convenes in three days.”
He pushed himself up, retrieving his walking stick. “You’ll have one chance to convince them.”
“I only need one.”
He turned toward the foyer.
“Father.”
He stopped without turning back.
“If the board votes against me… will you step in?”
“I built this company to outlive my personal preferences. If your petition fails, it fails.”
“And if it succeeds?”
“Don’t make me regret backing you.”
He took a step, but before he reached the hall, quick footsteps rattled down the stairs.
“Zhenya!”
Nikolai came jogging down with my phone in hand, drowning in one of my black t-shirts that hung almost to his thighs. “Your phone’s been ringing nonstop—”
He froze the second he spotted my father standing in the foyer.
His eyes widened. Straightening up in an instant, he gave a quick, formal bow. “Good morning, sir.”
Dmitry looked him up and down for a quiet second. Then his eyes flicked back to me.
“…Perhaps it isn’t so early after all.”
Without another word, he walked out.
* * *
Thursday arrived faster than it had any right to.
Lev had the new three-piece suit delivered before sunrise—charcoal grey, cut precisely the way I liked it. As I adjusted my cufflinks in the mirror, I caught Nikolai watching me from the edge of the mattress.
He’d been quiet since waking up, sitting with one leg tucked beneath him in an oversized sweater, his eyes tracking every movement I made.
“Important day?” he asked.
I fastened the last button on my waistcoat. “The most important one this year.”
His expression shifted, turning serious. He slid off the bed and walked over to me, reaching up to smooth an invisible crease from my lapel. “Then… good luck.”
Before I could reply, he rose onto his toes and pressed a quick kiss to one cheek, then the other.
“For luck,” he murmured, stepping back down.
I looked down at him for a split second. “I’ll need more than luck today.”
“You’ll win anyway.”
The absolute certainty in his voice forced a faint smile out of me. “I’ll be back before dinner.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I gave my tie one final adjustment, gathered the file from the dresser, and headed for the door. Today wasn’t just about taking control of Romanov Insurance. Today was about showing every member of the board exactly who held the future of this empire.
* * *
Romanov Holdings loomed over central Moscow like it owned the skyline—and perhaps it did. The headquarters was the pulse of the entire operation, where every decision governing Romanov Oil, Pharmaceuticals, Insurance, and Manufacturing was finalized.
The reception space outside the main boardrooms was already buzzing when I arrived. Directors spoke in hushed tones over coffee, legal teams shuffled through thick briefs, and financial analysts hovered near the digital displays reviewing performance metrics.
The volume dipped the second I stepped out of the elevator. Not complete silence—just a noticeable shift in temperature.
I gave a brief nod to a few familiar faces before pushing through the heavy double doors into the boardroom.
The room was as imposing as ever. A massive walnut table stretched down the center, flanked by heavy leather chairs, with the Romanov crest carved into the paneling behind the chairman’s seat.
Mikhail was already there. He was sitting near the far end, one ankle resting casually over his knee as if this were a routine afternoon meeting. He looked up, a sharp grin spreading across his face.
“Morning, brother.”
I pulled out my chair at the opposite end without acknowledging the greeting.
His smile didn’t fade. “I was beginning to think you’d reconsidered.”
“I rarely disappoint an audience.”
He leaned back, resting his arms on the chair. Neither of us said another word.
One by one, the remaining board members filed in, placing their folders on the polished wood and pouring water into their glasses. At precisely nine o’clock, the doors swung open again.
Every conversation cut off immediately. Every director stood.
Father walked in without rushing, the measured strike of his walking stick echoing off the hardwood floor. No one made a sound. He made his way to the head of the table, taking his seat before giving the room a single glance. Only then did the rest of the board sit down.
No greetings. No pleasantries.
“This special session of the Board of Romanov Holdings is now in order,” Father stated, his voice carrying clearly down the length of the table.
The corporate secretary stood up, opening a black binder. “Agenda item one: Petition submitted by Mr. Zhenya Petrovich Romanov, requesting temporary executive oversight of Romanov Insurance during the medical incapacity of its Chief Executive Officer, Mr. Vladimir Romanov.”
She glanced down at the paper. “The counter-petition, submitted by Mr. Mikhail Romanov, requests that executive authority remain under the existing leadership structure pending Mr. Vladimir Romanov’s recovery.”
Father folded his hands over the head of his walking stick.
“Each petitioner will present his case,” he said, his eyes resting briefly on me before moving across the table. “Zhenya… you have the floor.”
Standing up, I buttoned my jacket as every eye in the room shifted to me.
“My petition has nothing to do with ambition,” I began. A few brows arched across the table. “If ambition were my objective, I would have submitted it years ago.”
I rested my palms lightly against the polished wood. “This board is well aware that Vladimir Romanov remains hospitalized. Unfortunately… Romanov Insurance cannot be.”
The display behind me lit up, pulling up the first slide. Three months of metrics—projected revenue, outstanding claims, pending acquisitions.
“Our insurance division currently oversees assets exceeding eight hundred billion rubles,” II said, clipping each word as I worked my way around the table.
“Every day decisions are delayed costs this company money.”
A second slide replaced the first, showing a backlog of executive signatures, international contracts, and pending government negotiations.
“With Vladimir unconscious, those approvals have ground to a halt. Romanov Insurance requires an active executive—not eventually, but now.”
I looked directly at the directors, bypassing the screen entirely.
“I am not requesting permanent control. I’m requesting temporary oversight until Vladimir returns or the board decides otherwise.
If my petition succeeds, every major decision will remain subject to your review.
No restructuring, no liquidation, no executive replacements. The company operates as it always has.”
The screen updated to a ninety-day timeline detailing quarterly audits and performance evaluations.
“I’ve built mandatory reviews into the petition every ninety days. If this board concludes I have failed, I step down. No appeals or negotiations.”
A faint murmur rippled through the room. One of the senior directors leaned forward, adjusting his glasses. “You’ve included accountability measures against yourself.”
“I have.”
“Why?”
“Because oversight without accountability is simply a dictatorship.”
Silence reclaimed the room. Father watched from the head of the table, his expression completely blank—neither approving nor disapproving.
I closed the file in front of me. “My proposal asks for responsibility, not privilege. The Romanov name wasn’t built by waiting for circumstances to improve; it was built by acting before they became disasters. My presentation is concluded.”
As I took my seat, a slow smile spread across Mikhail’s face. He stood, unbuttoning his suit jacket.
“An impressive speech, brother,” he said smoothly, adjusting his tie. “Now… allow me to explain why handing Romanov Insurance to you would be a catastrophic mistake.”
Mikhail moved with the ease of someone who had rehearsed this performance long before entering the room. He didn’t touch the presentation remote, nor did he look at the projector screen. He simply buttoned his jacket and offered the table a relaxed smile.
“My brother has always known how to make an entrance,” he said, earning a few restrained chuckles. “And, as always, he gives an excellent speech. The trouble is that corporations aren’t run on speeches—they’re run on experience.”