Chapter 5Claire
5
Claire
I sit at the kitchen table, hand around a mug of mint tea. The worn wooden surface beneath my tea holds years of family memories—homework sessions, holiday dinners, and late-night confessions. Now, it’s about to become the stage for the hardest conversation of my life.
Mom bustles in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Claire, honey, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Dad follows closely behind, his brow wrinkled with concern. They take their seats across from me, and I force myself to meet their gazes. “It’s about Jay.” I inhale deeply and exhale slowly. “He’s in jail.”
Mom’s hand flies to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Dad’s expression crumples, the lines around his eyes deepening with pain and disappointment. “What happened?” he asks, his voice rough.
I take a deep breath, preparing myself for their reaction. “He got caught up in some illegal gambling, but that’s not the worst of it.” I pause, the words sticking in my throat. “He... he gambled away Bloom House.”
Mom’s eyes widen in disbelief. “That’s not possible. How could he?—?”
“To a man named Valerian Rostova,” I continue, pushing through their shock. “He’s some kind of businessman, I think.” I purposefully hide the fact that he’s obviously a criminal too. This is already traumatic enough for them.
Dad’s fist clenches on the table. “We’ll fight this. It can’t be legal.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that simple. I don’t think we can go the conventional route here, Dad. He told me that in his world, a family shares the burden of one member’s sins. However, I’ve... I’ve made a deal to save the shop.”
Mom leans forward with hope in her eyes. “What kind of deal, Claire?”
“I’m going to work for Valerian.” I carefully omit the part about living at his mansion. “As his personal masseuse. I’ll work off Jay’s debt, and we get to keep Bloom House.”
“Absolutely not,” says Dad, his voice firm. “We’ll find another way. Take out a loan, or sell the house if we have to?—”
“No,” I interrupt, surprising myself with the hardness in my voice. “This is my choice. I won’t let you lose everything you’ve worked for because of Jay’s mistakes.”
Mom reaches across the table, grasping my hand. “Sweetheart, you don’t have to do this. It’s not your responsibility.”
“But it is,” I insist. “We’re family. We take care of each other, and right now, this is how I can take care of you.”
Dad shakes his head, his eyes glistening. “Claire, we don’t know anything about this man. It could be dangerous.”
“I know, but I’ve met him. He’s... intense, but I don’t think he’ll hurt me. This way, we keep the shop. Your legacy stays intact, and we can move on from this. It won’t even be that long.”
“Our legacy isn’t worth your safety,” she says with a sniff.
I squeeze her hand. “I’ll be careful, I promise, but this is the best solution we have right now.”
Dad stands abruptly, pacing the small kitchen. “There has to be another way. We could talk to a lawyer, see if there’s any legal recourse?—”
“And risk angering Valerian?” I counter. “Dad, you don’t understand how powerful he is. Jaw messed around with the wrong people and this goes way beyond legal action. Doing a little extra work is the safest option for all of us.”
Mom’s voice is quiet when she speaks. “How long will you have to work for him, exactly?”
I hesitate, trying to do mental math. “I’m... not sure. Until the debt is paid off, but I forgot to ask the amount. I did get him to agree to credit me five hundred bucks per hour of massage time. So, if Jay owes twenty-five-thousand, that’ll take...”
Mom blurts out, “Fifty hours.” She looks at Dad. “That’s not so bad.”
“Unless it’s way more than twenty-five-thousand,” says Dad with a twist of his lips. He stops pacing, turning to face me. “And what exactly does this job entail? Are you sure it’s just massage therapy?”
The implication in his tone makes my cheeks burn. “Yes, Dad. I’m a professional. That’s all it is, and I’ll find out the exact debt. I’m an adult, and I know what I’m doing.”
An uncomfortable silence settles over the kitchen. I can see the worry on their faces, and the fear for my safety warring with the desperation to save their life’s work.
Finally, he sighs heavily. “I don’t like this, Claire. Not one bit.”
“I know, but I’m going to do it anyway. Jay can’t pay this off when he’s behind bars, and things could get much worse if we don’t just get this debt out of the way. I need you to trust me.”
She stands, circling the table to wrap me in a tight hug. “We always trust you, sweetheart. We’re just scared. First Jay, now you…”
I lean into her embrace, drawing strength from her warmth. “I’m scared too, but I’m also determined. I’m not going to get into trouble like he did. I’m going to fix this.”
Dad joins our hug, his strong arms encircling both of us. “You shouldn’t have to,” he murmurs.
“I know, but I want to for our family.”
“It’s a good thing Jay is going to be in prison for a while,” he says, tone laced with anger. “I might just about cool off enough to forgive him by the time he’s released.”
I nod my agreement, glad they aren’t going to bail out Jay this time. I don’t want to see my brother suffer, but every time we help him, we’re enabling him.
My parents might forgive him, but I don’t think I’m ready to even consider that until I’m finished paying off his debts.
The sleek black limo glides to a stop in front of Valerian’s mansion. I grip my suitcase so hard my hand hurts. The huge house is even more impressive than the building with the penthouse. House isn’t the right word. Mansion, for sure. It’s like a physical manifestation of the power Valerian wields.
Ivan opens the car door. “We’ve arrived, Miss Bennett.”
I step out, and the crisp night air nips at my exposed skin, but it’s not the cold that makes me shiver.
Sergei retrieves the rest of my luggage from the trunk. “This way, please.”
They flank me as we approach the grand entrance. Ornate iron gates swing open silently, revealing a path lined with meticulously manicured topiaries. The scent of roses mingles with something darker, expensive cologne and cigar smoke.
The massive front doors open before we reach them. An older man in a dark suit greets us. “Welcome, Miss Bennett. I’m Anatoly, the butler, and I’ll see to your needs. Mr. Rostova is expecting you.”
I swallow hard, forcing myself to nod. The foyer is a study in opulence—gleaming marble floors, a crystal chandelier that probably costs more than my parents’ house, and artwork that belongs in a museum. It’s beautiful, but the grandeur feels suffocating rather than impressive.
“This way.” The butler leads us deeper into the mansion.
We pass silent staff members, who avert their gazes as we walk by. Their rigid postures and carefully blank expressions concern me. What kind of life do they lead here, under Valerian’s watchful eye?
We enter a spacious study. Floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves line the walls, interrupted only by a massive fireplace.
And there he is.
Valerian Rostova stands with his back to us, silhouetted against the fire. He turns slowly, and his gaze locks onto mine. My breath sticks in my throat like a lump of dry bread.
“Claire.” My name on his lips sounds like a caress and a threat all at once. “I trust your journey was comfortable?”
I lift my chin. “It was fine, thank you.”
He moves closer, and I resist the urge to step back. “I’m glad to hear it. Shall we discuss the terms of your employment?”
The way he says “employment” makes my skin prickle. I nod stiffly.
Valerian gestures to a pair of leather armchairs. “Please, sit.”
I perch on the edge of the seat, my back painfully straight. Valerian settles into the chair across from me, his movements fluid and controlled. He studies me for a long moment, and I force myself to meet his gaze.
“Let’s establish some ground rules, shall we?” His voice is deceptively calm. “First, you will be available to me at all times after your workday ends. Evening or night, whenever I require your services, you will provide them without question.”
My jaw clenches. “And what exactly do those services entail?”
A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Massage therapy, of course. What else did you think I meant?”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Nothing. Please continue,” I mutter.
“You will have your own suite of rooms,” he says. “You’re free to use the gym, the pool, and the gardens. However, certain areas of the house are off-limits. My security team will make those boundaries clear.”
I nod, committing the information to memory.
“You won’t leave the premises without my express permission,” Valerian continues. “Ensure you send me a copy of your daily calendar the night before, and Sergei and Ivan will drive you wherever you need to go. Your meals will be provided, and any personal items you require can be purchased and delivered. Is that understood?”
“Yes.” The word comes out harsher than I intend.
His gaze bores into mine. “One last thing, Claire. While you’re here, you belong to me. Your time, your skills, your very presence—they’re mine to command. Do we have an agreement?”
Every instinct screams at me to run, to tell him exactly where he can shove his “agreement,” but I think of my parents, of Bloom House, and of everything I’m here to protect. I exhale raggedly. “We have an agreement, Mr. Rostova.”
“Excellent.” He stands, moving to a nearby bar cart. “Care for a drink?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
Valerian pours himself a glass of amber liquid. “You should try to relax, Claire. This doesn’t have to be unpleasant.”
“Forgive me if I’m not jumping for joy at being a prisoner in a gilded cage,” I snap before I can stop myself.
His eyebrows raise slightly. “Careful, zvetochek . There are far worse cages I could put you in.”
The threat, veiled as it is, makes my blood run cold. I force myself to soften my tone. “I apologize. It’s been a long day.”
Valerian nods, seemingly satisfied. “Of course.”
“What does that mean? The word you used?”
“Little flower.” He lifts one side of his mouth in a partial smile. “Considering your family business, it seems appropriate.”
I nod, unexpectedly flustered by the endearment in spite of it being included in a threat. Before I can think of a reply, he speaks again.
“Please, join me for dinner.” Valerian gestures toward an ornate dining room. “My chef has prepared a selection of Russian and American dishes.”
I think about refusing, but my stomach growls. With a small blush, I nod instead and follow him through the house.
The dining room takes my breath away. A crystal chandelier sparkles above a long mahogany table with at least twelve place settings, but we bypass it for a smaller alcove down the hallway. It’s still grand but on a smaller scale, and currently only set for two. Fine China and gleaming silverware catch the light. The aroma of rich, savory food makes my mouth water.
“I hope you’re hungry.” Valerian pulls out my chair.
I slide into the seat, smoothing my skirt. “I am, thank you.”
A footman appears with the first course, which is a delicate mushroom soup garnished with fresh dill. The earthy aroma mingles with notes of cream and white wine.
“This is incredible,” I say after my first spoonful. The flavors dance across my tongue.
“Mikhail trained at Le Cordon Bleu before working in Moscow’s finest restaurants.” Valerian watches me over the rim of his wine glass. “I stole him away with an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“Did that offer involve breaking his kneecaps if he declined?”
Valerian’s lips twitch. “Actually, it involved a salary that would make Gordon Ramsay weep, though the other option was available.”
I shouldn’t laugh at that, but I do. The wine must be getting to me.
The next course arrives of tender beef stroganoff alongside perfectly seared salmon.
“Tell me about your family,” he says between bites. “Beyond what I already know from my background check.”
“You ran a background check on me?” My fork hovers above my plate, the knowledge taking some of the enjoyment from the aroma of perfectly seared salmon wafting up.
“I run background checks on everyone in my orbit.” He looks at me with an intensity that roots me to my chair before he taps his fingers once against his wine glass. “Standard procedure.”
“There’s nothing interesting to tell.” I concentrate on dissecting my salmon into precise, geometric portions, watching the pink flesh flake apart. “My parents own a flower shop. My brother’s in jail. You know all this.”
“What I know are facts.” He sets down his fork with a delicate clink. “I want to know who they are. Who you are.”
I raise my head, examining his expression. Behind his usual mask of cool control, genuine interest softens the sharp angles of his face. The dinner candle’s flame reflects in his pupils.
“My dad taught me to ride a bike in the alley behind Bloom House,” I say, my voice going quiet with the memory. “He’d close the shop early on summer evenings so we could practice. The air would be sweet with leftover flowers, and Mom would bring out her homemade mint lemonade and ‘Hello, Kitty’ bandages for my scraped knees.”
“You were close.” His words come out more statement than question.
“We still are.” I lift my wine glass, letting the rich burgundy coat my tongue. The alcohol has warmed my cheeks, making me bold enough to turn the tables. “What about your family?”
Something dark flickers across his features, like a shadow passing over still water. His jaw tightens, and he runs his finger along the rim of his wine glass. “My parents, especially my father, were… reserved.” The words come out clipped, each one precise and well considered.
“I’m sorry.” The inadequacy of the phrase hangs between us in the soft evening light.
He waves off my sympathy with an elegant flick of his wrist, his ring catching the glow from the ceiling fixtures. “It was a long time ago. My father wasn’t particularly warm or paternal, but he taught me the family business.”
“The legitimate parts or the other parts?” The wine makes me bold enough to ask what sobriety would warn against. I lean forward, elbows on the table, watching his reaction.
His laugh is unexpected and rich, rolling through the room like distant thunder. The sound transforms his face, softening the sharp edges of his cheekbones, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Both. He believed in a comprehensive education.” He takes another sip of wine, but his smile lingers, a rare glimpse behind the mask. He shrugs. “My mother believed in maintaining an image and relished her role as my father’s partner above everything.”
“Including motherhood?” At his nod, I frown. “That’s unfair.”
He laughs lightly. “Life is unfair.”
The wine warms my blood as our conversation flows more naturally. “What else about you?”
He hesitates. “I speak five languages.”
My mouth drops open. “Wow. Five? Well?”
He laughs again. “Very well for Russian, English, French, and Italian,” Valerian lists off, swirling his wine. “My Mandarin needs work.”
“That’s incredible. I barely managed high school Spanish.” I sample the chocolate mousse that’s appeared for dessert. The rich flavor melts on my tongue.
“Languages came easily to me as a child. My father insisted on total immersion, different tutors speaking only their native tongue.” He watches me enjoy the dessert, a hint of satisfaction in his expression. “What made you choose massage therapy?”
“I wanted to help people.” The mousse is divine, and I take another spoonful. “There’s something powerful about being able to ease someone’s pain, even if just for an hour. My first client was this elderly woman, a retired dancer, with arthritis. After our session, she cried because it was the first time in years she could move her knees without pain. She still can’t dance, but with regular massages, she can walk better than she has in years. Of course, her other treatments help too, but my service makes a difference.”
“A noble pursuit.” His tone holds no mockery. “Do you enjoy historical romance novels for the same reason? The healing power of love?”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “How did you know about that?”
“Background check, remember?” His lips quirk. “Your library card gets quite a workout.”
“They’re an escape.” I set down my spoon and pull my shoulders back defensively. “And they’re well-researched. I’ve learned more about the Regency era from romance novels than I ever did in history class.”
“I prefer action movies myself.” He signals for more wine. “The plots may be ridiculous, but there’s something satisfying about watching things explode. ‘Die Hard’ is the best.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a ‘Die Hard’ fan,” I say with a slight laugh.
“The first three are classics.” His eyes spark with genuine enthusiasm. “Though the fourth one had its moments.” He frowns. “The fifth one set in Russia was govno .”
I don’t require a translation for that, being able to infer his opinion was negative even without understanding the word. “What about music?” I ask, curious about this unexpected side of him.
“Classical, primarily. Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff.” He names composers I vaguely remember from music appreciation class. “Modern music lacks... sophistication.”
“Says the man who enjoys watching Bruce Willis blow up things.”
His laugh rolls through the room. “Point taken.”
“I tried learning guitar once. Lasted about two weeks before my neighbors threatened to call the police.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. My rendition of ‘Wonderwall’ made cats cry.”
The conversation shifts as servers clear our plates. Valerian’s expression turns more predatory. “Tell me about your past relationships,” he says, and his words sound more demanding.
I stiffen. “Nothing serious. A few dates here and there. A couple of longer relationships. One guy I lived with in college, but it fell apart when he was offered a job in California, and I didn’t want to leave Philly.”
“No one else special?”
“No.” I keep my answer short, unwilling to discuss my romantic history in detail with a man who essentially owns me.
“Interesting.” He studies me over his wine glass. “I find commitment to be a bit inconvenient myself. My liaisons rarely last beyond sunrise.”
The crude implication makes my cheeks burn. “How fortunate for them.”
“Indeed.” His eyes darken. “Though perhaps it’s time for a change.”
A yawn catches me by surprise as the dessert plates are cleared away, saving me from having to respond to that loaded comment.
“It’s been a long day. I’ll show you to your room,” he says.
“I should give you a massage first.” The words come out slightly slurred. Maybe that last glass of wine wasn’t the best idea.
“Not tonight.” He stands, offering his hand. “You’re exhausted, and I prefer my massage therapists alert and coordinated.”
His palm is warm against mine when he helps me up. The contact sends tingles up my arm.
We climb the grand staircase in comfortable silence. The plush carpet muffles our footsteps. The closer we get to stopping, the more my stomach twists. Will he really respect this agreement to be strictly professional, or is he planning to try to join me in my bedroom?