21. Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
Sergei
“Sergei?” Nadia’s voice cuts through the thick haze of sleep.
I consider not responding, as I savor the sensation of holding Aurora in my arms. Her long, silky hair is partly trapped between our bodies, partly spread across my coma-induced arm resting on the pillow beneath her head.
My other hand is wrapped around her waist, and my body urges me to memorize the contours of her form, aware that the chances of this happening again are close to none.
But as my babushka used to say, “Hope dies last.” For the first time in a long while, I feel it. I hope this isn’t a fleeting moment or a dream my subconscious would replay on a loop, but rather the beginning of something real.
I open my eyes, noticing the light peeking through the sides of the blinds and Misha’s nightlight, now changed from yellow to green, signaling it’s time to wake up.
“Aurora?” Nadia says louder.
Aurora stirs and sits up abruptly, breaking contact with me. The absence leaves a dull ache behind.
“Oh my god,” Aurora exclaims, scooting to the edge of the bed. “We fell asleep.” Her eyes dart nervously between Nadia and me as I pull myself up to sit. “Nothing happened!” she says, gesturing frantically between us.
I rub my eyes for a moment before standing and asking, “Where’s Misha?”
“Watching Nu Pogodi in the kitchen,” Nadia replies. “Pavel said you were late and not answering your phone. He felt uncomfortable coming up, so he asked me to make sure you’re fine.”
“I’ll go check on Misha,” Aurora mumbles, slipping past me and Nadia on her way to the kitchen.
I stand from the bed and notice Nadia’s amused expression.
“Don’t say anything,” I tell her.
“Not a word,” she replies with a smirk, miming a lock on her lips. “I rescheduled your 9 a.m. with Sullivan International Media to later today.”
“Spasibo,” I say, thanking her before heading to my room to get ready. I dress in a hurry, pulling on my shirt and yanking up my pants. As I rush out, tie in hand, I catch snippets of Aurora and Misha’s conversation in the hallway.
“Are you already leaving?” I ask, trying to sound casual as I approach.
“Yes. Mish wanted to go to the park,” Aurora replies, focused on fastening one of Misha’s shoes.
Misha, perched on the edge of the bench, taps a dinosaur toy on her back.
“I think we should talk,” I say.
Aurora finishes tying the other shoe and glances down, realizing they’re on the wrong feet. She hurries to fix them and stands up. “Go wait by the elevator, sweetie,” she tells Misha. As he shuffles away, she finally meets my gaze.
“About this weekend—” I begin.
“I think it’s best if we forget it ever happened,” she cuts in. “You’re my employer, and I’m your son’s nanny. It’s not wise for us to be anything more.”
Any hope I had flickers out like a fire doused with water, leaving behind a single wisp of smoke that curls into the air.
“I see.” I wrap the tie around my hand, the motion precise and deliberate, like a boxer preparing for a match.
“Don’t you agree?” she asks, her eyes filled with an emotion I can’t quite pinpoint.
Her question is redundant. It doesn’t matter whether I agree or not. If this is how she feels, this is how it’s going to be.
“That would be easier,” I manage to say, turning toward my room. “Goodbye, Aurora,” I add over my shoulder before closing the door behind me.
“Ibelieve we can roll out the digital passport as early as next month,” Boris, my IT director, says as he rubs his hands together.
“The programmers need to tweak a few minor details, but we should be ready for beta testing soon.” The idea behind the digital passport is to encourage our guests to return and explore different rooms, creating an incentive for them to book again.
“The research team found that discounts and giveaways for guests who reach various travel tiers could be beneficial,” Willow, the young marketing team leader, adds.
“We need your approval on the benefits packages.” They hold up a red folder, packed with the documents for review.
They know I prefer paper over digital copies for extensive materials.
“I’ll read it tonight and get back to you tomorrow,” I say, glancing at my watch as Nadia enters the room.
“Your two o’clock is here,” Nadia announces, prompting my staff to gather their things and exit the conference room. She leans in, whispering, “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? Or should I ask Sasha to sit in?”
Nadia’s concern for me isn’t new, but today it feels particularly heightened, likely due to this morning’s events. While having Sasha, my publicist, sit in could be beneficial, I just want to wrap things up and go home.
“Sergei?” Nadia calls, her voice laced with genuine concern.
“Let him in,” I say, standing and moving toward the window.
Despite being clear in the morning, the sky has darkened, and the clouds now cast an ominous shadow over the city. The news reports this has been the wettest fall Las Vegas has seen in years, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s a sign of things to come.
“Mr. Chernov?” A smooth voice with a hint of a British accent pulls me from my thoughts.
I turn to find Benedict Parker approaching.
He’s dressed in his usual casual attire: a loose collared shirt worn open to reveal a T-shirt with some ridiculous design—this time, a giant octopus in a red beanie—paired with khaki pants and white sneakers.
His hair is a bit longer than the last time I saw him.
It brushes his eyes, giving him a boyish appearance that encourages most people to underestimate him.
But I know better. Ben is one of the sharpest minds I’ve encountered and an exceptional writer. He’s someone I’d easily see myself being friends with, and I don’t have many of those. I extend my hand for a shake and gesture toward the chair. “Ben, I thought we were past the formalities.”
“Well, I figured given the formal setting, you might appreciate a bit of schmoozing,” he replies, flashing a broad smile, his noticeably white teeth gleaming.
“Sergei is fine for now. If your questions become too annoying, we’ll shift back to Mr. Chernov,” I say, settling into the chair diagonally across from him.
Most of Ben’s questions are the usual ones I’ve been asked a hundred times before: “What inspired the idea for the hotel’s theme?
” “What brought you to Las Vegas in the first place?” “What leadership approach do you take with your staff?” and “Do you have any plans to expand to other locations?” I can answer those in my sleep.
But then he asks his final question, and I find myself momentarily taken aback. “How are you balancing your hotel’s responsibilities with your personal life?”
“I was told this interview is about the hotel’s official opening,” I reply, keeping my tone steady.
Ben sighs, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “It is about the hotel, but…” he hesitates.
I straighten, pulling my shirt sleeves down and smoothing them. “But?” I ask, my tone sharpening.
He falters for another moment, and I already know where this conversation is headed.
The shadow of Alessia’s death and my alleged involvement looms heavily between us.
Those questions have been the most persistent since the tragedy.
Questions that have made my investors and board members doubt my suitability as CEO.
But this is my hotel, and I refuse to let anyone take it from me.
Inhaling deeply to steady my frustration, I prepare to tell Ben that I won’t be answering any more questions about Alessia or her death.
“Aurora Sinclair,” he says, and the air in my throat turns to liquid stone, settling there like a weight.
“The magazine received a tip with a photo of you.” He pulls out his phone and slides it toward me.
“It shows you carrying this woman on your shoulder at a gas station. Someone ‘investigated,’” he air quotes the word, “and found out that she’s your son’s nanny. ”
I don’t need to look at his phone to know exactly what I’ll see. I was there, after all, picking her up from inside the car after she defiantly moved to the backseat, daring me to react.
And react, I did. But I should’ve known better.
“There was… a snake,” I say, holding Ben’s gaze, not daring to move a muscle.
The corner of his mouth twitches upward, and he gives a slow nod, understanding that it’s the best explanation he’s going to get from me.
“I’m being pressured to include her in my story,” Ben apologizes, taking back his phone. “I’ll do what I can on my end to minimize her exposure.” He rises from his chair, his usual easygoing face now etched with concern.
He doesn’t need to spell it out. I can already imagine the headlines: “New Woman in Chernov’s Life Pulling Double Duty” with all the obvious innuendo. “How Soon Is Too Soon?” and “Will She Be Next?”
“But if you have any strings to pull to keep her out of it…” Ben says, heading for the door. “I’m sorry, mate.”
As I start to process Ben’s words, weighing all possible angles and responses, it occurs to me that trying to kill the story might backfire, making it look worse.
“Chernov kills the story.”
I never want to be associated with the word “kill” again. The investors and the board will go ballistic.
Letting this story see the light of day will be tricky. How will people respond? Could the photo be explained as innocent?
But at the end of the day, I can withstand any potential fallout this photo might bring.
What I can’t risk is the impact on Misha and Aurora.
Misha might not face any immediate repercussions, but Aurora—how will this affect her?
Could it harm her chances of securing that internship she desperately needs next year?
What if people question her judgment for getting involved with the father of a child in her care?
I can’t let this jeopardize her future. I’ll do whatever is necessary to protect them, to protect her.
“Ben,” I call after him. “Thank you,” I add, and he nods before leaving.
I’ll protect her. This time, I’ll make sure she’s safe—even if it’s from me.