Chapter Sixteen
Nikolai
Lauren is asleep.
I brush a strand of hair from her face and watch her in the quiet—the particular stillness of her, the way sleep smooths out everything she carries when she’s awake.
She looks like she did four years ago. Like none of it happened.
Blyad.
I should get up. Check the cameras, run the circuit, log back into the security feed. Lying here with the outside world sealed off is probably the single worst tactical decision I’ve made since coming back from the dead, and Aslanov has a habit of moving when I’m distracted.
I don’t get up. Not yet.
She stirs—a slow surfacing, her eyes opening halfway, finding me.
No alarm, no jolt. Just a quiet smile, like waking up next to me is something her body remembers even when her mind is still catching up.
She brings her mouth to mine, unhurried, and I let myself have it.
One more minute. I’ve earned one more minute.
Then Hannah’s voice cuts down the hallway.
“Mommy?”
Lauren is up before the echo fades. She pulls on the nearest item of clothing, drags her hair back, and is out the door in the same motion. It shuts behind her with a soft click.
I listen to her voice in the next room—low, warm, orienting Hannah toward breakfast or a cartoon or whatever the morning requires. The sounds of a routine I’ve never been part of.
I turn to look at the empty side of the bed.
Four years of that view, and it still costs me something.
I swap the pillows. Hers still holds her warmth, the faint scent of her shampoo—coconut, something floral. I let myself have that too, for exactly as long as it takes to remember that sentiment is a luxury I can’t afford right now.
I sit up.
Hannah doesn’t know who I am. Lauren is managing two separate realities under the same roof, keeping them from colliding, and that’s costing her more than she’ll say. What happened earlier exists in a sealed compartment—real for the two of us, invisible to the world outside this room.
That’s not sustainable. It’s not what either of us wants.
But it’s what’s possible right now.
Aslanov first. Everything else after.
I reach for my phone and check the feeds. All clear. Then I get up, because there’s work to do, and wanting a different life doesn’t make the current one wait.
Four years I spent in survival mode, stripping everything down to what was necessary.
Aslanov took my empire, my name, my life beside these two—and I let him, because the alternative was worse.
But patience has a limit, and I’m reaching mine.
Every day we stay in this penthouse is another day he’s out there, consolidating, preparing.
Lauren comes back in and closes the door behind her.
She’s wearing a loose shirt, buttons done up carelessly, hair still down from sleep. I file the image away and say nothing about it.
“Hannah okay?”
“She’s fine.” Lauren sits at the foot of the bed, pulling one knee up. “But she’s restless, Niko. She’s been cooped up in here for a week with no school, no friends, no routine. I can see it starting to affect her.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” She says it without sharpness—just tired honesty.
“She needs structure. She needs to be learning, socializing, moving through her day with some kind of purpose. She can’t play with those dolls indefinitely.
” A beat. “Neither can I, frankly. The dramatic storylines she invents for them are starting to concern me.”
That pulls something close to a smile out of me. “She gets that from her mother.”
Lauren points a warning finger at me. “Don’t.”
I raise my hands.
“Claire,” she says, getting back to it. “You already saw what happened yesterday—Hannah took to the tutoring immediately. Claire has the experience, she has the patience, and she’s already here.
I think we should make it a proper arrangement.
Daily sessions, structured. It would give Hannah’s days some shape. ”
I consider it. My instinct is toward caution—fewer variables, fewer points of exposure.
But I’ve already run Claire through everything available to me.
Passport records, employment history, financial background, travel.
Former kindergarten teacher who transitioned into estate management in her thirties.
Clean record, stable life, no affiliations I could find.
I wouldn’t have brought Lauren and Hannah here otherwise.
“Fine,” I say. “Talk to her.”
Lauren’s expression relaxes. “Thank you.”
“But it stays contained to the penthouse.”
“Obviously.” She gives me a look that says she didn’t need clarifying on that. Then she stands, smoothing down her shirt. “I’ll go ask her now, before Hannah dismembers another Barbie.”
She’s almost at the door when I say her name.
She turns.
I hold her gaze for a moment. Blyad. There’s too much to say and none of it is ready yet.
“Nothing,” I say. “Go.”
She watches me for half a second longer than necessary, then slips out.