21
My stomach is doing flips. Even the memory of ice-cold vodka doesn’t sit right.
Mission accomplished, yes, check it off the list, but I royally fucked it up.
Alaska. Us. I look at my hands; my fingertips sting from clenching so hard, and there’s a sticky heat in my chest. Breathing has turned into a goddamn chore.
How am I supposed to look Alaska in the eye after what I said?
Rashel, the only one who knows the mess I’m in, won’t let go of me.
She grips my elbow, my wrist, watches me with that hawk eye that says, “Don’t even think about it.
” Her bun is pulled so tight her scalp has to hurt, and her patience is short.
Her hand hangs heavy on my arm, firm, and when she says, “Keep moving,” it’s the one order I follow without a peep.
She’s glued to me, ready to stop me if I get it into my head to kidnap the twins—which would be the last headline Irina needs.
I keep my distance, same as always: the obedient shadow.
I don’t bother, I don’t speak, I don’t exist. I stare at the floor, count the fucking tiles so I won’t look anywhere else, bite the inside of my cheek.
I’m wrecked. My heart’s thudding up into my throat, my knees warn me with a subtle tremor.
Even so, I breathe deep through my nose, jam my hands in my pockets, and let my body move on autopilot. My brain, I swear, is on strike.
Every time Alaska shoots me one of her looks, my stomach shrinks.
She stays quiet, and I repeat to myself, “Okay, Natasha, explain this mess.” My pulse is spiking and my mind is in full panic mode.
I was a coward, yeah, I admit it. But it was my only fucking plan to keep from shattering completely.
I left her before this shit could blow up in my face.
I hate myself for the decision, and at the same time, it’s a relief.
What the hell is that, Nat? Fear, relief, and guilt. One hell of a cocktail.
I’m in regulation uniform: a pant crease sharp enough for an ad, boots with just the right shine, hair slicked back with gel, and the earpiece in—even if the only thing piping through it today is my anxiety.
I put on my best model-bodyguard face. No one—no one—can notice that under this blazer my chest is on fire.
I square my jacket, count to four like Rashel taught me so I won’t make a fool of myself, and tell myself, “Nat, forward, for fuck’s sake.
” At least I’m good at that: I walk straight, with rhythm.
When there’s no therapist, the runway will do.
We step into the Popov mansion and, man, the silence is thick.
The walls throw back the echo of our steps, it smells like floor wax and expensive flowers, and the carpets swallow the rest. Cold light bounces off the walls, everything gleams, and though soft music hums in the background, tension vibrates under my feet. Nothing squeaks here—except me.
Of course all eyes go to them; inevitable.
Alaska walks with her chin up, hair loose, eyes sharp the way they get when she’s focused and ready to fire off a dart.
Vega beside her is the same genes with a different vibe: lips pressed, shoulders tight.
The household staff moves, opening doors without a sound, tuned to the scene.
I’m measuring the choreography. God, what a picture.
All that trouble for this, and now my pulse is trembling in my wrist, hidden in my pocket.
Mission accomplished. I brought Irina Popova her sisters—two for the price of one.
Anyone else would be asking for a promotion and popping champagne.
I’m wound tight as a wire, measuring every step.
Is this glory or banishment? The answer depends entirely on Irina’s mood, on what she knows, on what she wants to know.
My breathing buzzes in my ears, I keep a smile on standby just in case, and I remind myself that today we all win.
Even me, the one who loses the most. Hell of an irony. And true.
Irina, Queen Popov. And I swear that nickname isn’t just for the ’gram.
She earned it with an icy stare and a dangerous Rolodex.
I’ve seen the kind of politicians who talk down at you with their chins way up go speechless in front of her, and CEOs swallow hard like someone jammed a cactus down their throats.
But today I see her and she’s not the ice queen who freezes you solid.
Her eyes are shining, her smile cuts through that hard mask, and I catch a little tremor in her fingers.
I get this dumb urge to throw a blanket over her and say, “Relax, boss, this is a good thing.” I hold back, of course; with Irina, I stand straight and don’t waste a single gesture.
She’s in an immaculate suit, tailored to the millimeter, fabric that smells like serious money.
I look down at my boots and curse not giving them a wipe before coming in.
Beside her, as always, Julia Sinmiedo. And the last name fits like a glove.
International supermodel, dark hair, killer body, swan neck, and zero filter.
Today her hair is glossy-magazine perfect, heels hitting the marble hard, nails shining.
She’s dressed for a runway, but she’s the warmest of the bunch: eyes lit up, giant smile.
She’s more excited than Irina, which is saying something.
The second the twins cross the threshold, she claps like crazy, makes noise, amps up the room.
"Finally!" she bursts out, and throws herself on us, a bear hug that cracks your spine.
Irina touches her forearm with that hand of hers that says, "Babe, protocol.
" Minimal touch, maximum authority. Anyone else would stop.
Not Julia—she breezes past it with love and shoots me a conspiratorial look, clocking my urge to drop the act.
I swallow a laugh and switch on neutral face number three from my catalog.
Right then, Svet shows up—their daughter.
Ten years old, curious, with that bold spark the family’s known for.
She sticks to Julia and looks at Alaska and Vega, trying to match names to faces at top speed.
She goes very still, taking in everything.
To her, they’re new—two women she couldn’t place, and today they have a name, a voice, a place.
I see the questions itching, the thrill, and the tiniest flicker of fear.
Sabina and Amaia are behind them, like key pieces on the family chessboard Irina runs.
Sabina: platinum blonde, razor-thin, with that carriage that says, "I’m the boss and I’m not asking.
" She doesn’t gesture—doesn’t need to. If she looks me up and down, I feel a pulse at the nape of my neck and straighten my jacket.
She has that command energy I respect and, I’ll admit, that turns me on a little.
But Nat, today is about control. I repeat it to myself, because Irina has eyes everywhere—even in the potted plants.
Amaia, the other half, is pure sun: redhead, springy curls, freckles begging for daylight. She smiles and the tension in my neck drops a notch. Also, that Basque rolled r she’s got—it feels… warm.
They look like they walked off a magazine cover, but today they’ve shown up in emotional-support-team-with-hairspray mode. They give up the spotlight, nod, applaud with their eyes. You can see the emotion, but they know their place: backing the scene without stealing the camera.
Next to them, Mikel, Sabina’s son. Twenty.
Almost si x? seven, a kid with immaculate blond dreads.
He’s dressed casual, but you can see the money: designer ripped jeans, white sneakers so clean they make you nervous.
He leans on the wall, a little shy, but polite.
He side-eyes me with that "you good?" look. I like him. He keeps the vibe low, and today that’s gold.
On the other end, my nephew Ivan. He’s twenty, too.
Intense stare, like he thinks he’s the lead in a gangster movie.
He’s my problem and my soft spot in one package.
He irritates me and owns me at the same time.
He crosses his arms, and I do the same. He lifts that Velikanov eyebrow—the cursed family heirloom—and clenches his jaw when something doesn’t track.
Controlled swagger. Today he’s going full designer thug: bomber jacket, thin chain, boots.
I laugh on the inside. He picked up that taste at home—what are you gonna do.
Mikel and Ivan get each other without a word—an unexpected but inevitable duo.
Me, the responsible aunt with a reputation for being a nag, I’m thinking if they pull a stunt, I’ll stop them cold and send them to cool off in the hallway.
I say it with love, okay? They give me gray hairs—mentally—but I like seeing them there, still half kids and already itching to dive into the mess.
They see the twins walk in and their radar locks on instantly.
They turn their heads at the same time, side-eye, half smile I already know how to read.
They don’t speak, but I know it: one for each.
My neck tightens. I feel my pulse climb.
Easy, Nat, you’re not here to play saint.
I bite my tongue and save my command voice for logistics, not for this game.
Even though my mean streak is itching to come out—hard.
"Don’t even think about it," I murmur through my teeth, low, with a smile that warns there’s no free-for-all today.
They get the message. Ivan straightens up. Mikel blinks fast. Good. Looking is fine. Saying something nice—if it’s respectful—is fine. Touching, no. Think first, yes. And you, Nat, breathe.