Chapter Thirteen
Arkady
I stare out of the window as I stand in my office, coffee untouched on my desk.
I pull out the key ring I’ve prepared for Mirabel, checking each one methodically. Thirty-seven keys in total. Each one labeled in my mind, if not on the metal itself.
One key is noticeably absent. The one to the Secret Room.
That space remains mine alone. A sanctuary I created after moving into Ashwater Heights—a place where Mishka’s ashes rest in their urn, where I can sit in the crushing weight of my guilt without witnesses. Where I can talk to a brother who’s been gone fifteen years.
I run my thumb over the signet ring on my finger, twisting it once, twice, fighting back the memories that are never far away.
The crack of the unexpected shot still echoes in my nightmares.
“Blyad!” I slam the drawer closed, forcing the memory back into its box. My control is slipping lately, these flashbacks coming more frequently since Mirabel entered my orbit. There’s something about her that threatens every wall I’ve built.
The intercom buzzes. Anfisa’s voice, measured as always. “The new housekeeper is waiting in the foyer as instructed.”
“Send her to my office.”
I straighten my cuffs, scan the room for imperfections, and move behind my desk. Power positions matter with her. Distance matters more.
Three sharp knocks on the door. Precise. Professional. Nothing like the edge of panic I see in her eyes whenever I get near her.
“Enter.”
She steps in wearing a simple black dress that’s clearly new—the tags are removed, but the creases haven’t been worn away.
When she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with a nervous gesture, something primitive stirs in me.
It’s not just her beauty—it’s the vulnerability she tries so hard to hide, the steel beneath the softness.
Her hair is pulled back, revealing the clean line of her jaw, the vulnerable curve of her neck.
“Good morning, Mr. Laurov,” she says, voice steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.
“Arkady,” I correct her, watching her reaction. “You will call me Arkady in private. Mr. Laurov when others are present.”
She hesitates, then nods. “Arkady.”
My name in her mouth does something to my cock that I’m already paying for. I open my desk drawer and retrieve an envelope.
“The second installment. As promised.” I slide it across the desk. Another ten thousand. “For your father’s treatment.”
Her eyes widen slightly, fingers hesitating before she takes the envelope.
“Thank you.” The words sound dragged from somewhere deep. “You didn’t have to.”
“I keep my promises.” I lean back, deliberately casual. “Has Anfisa shown you your duties?”
“Some of them. She mentioned you would finish the tour.”
“Da.” I stand, circling the desk until I’m closer than necessary. “We start now.”
I lead her through the west wing first, my shoes echoing against marble while hers make softer sounds, like she’s trying to leave no trace.
The cold opulence of the mansion seems more obvious compared with her warmth—chandeliers shine overhead, she traces her fingertips over the antique furniture as she passes.
I watch her from the corner of my eye as she takes in the scale of the mansion.
Every surface gleams—Anfisa made sure of it—but maintaining this level of perfection is a burden I’m now shifting to Mirabel’s shoulders.
“This is the main living area,” I tell her, gesturing to the space that could fit three normal apartments. “You’ll dust all surfaces daily. Vacuum twice weekly—more if needed.”
She nods, professional mask firmly in place as she takes mental notes.
“The kitchen requires cleaning after each meal. Floors mopped daily.” I continue through the list of tasks, watching her eyes grow wider with each addition. “The crystal chandeliers in the foyer must be cleaned once a month—there’s specialized equipment in the supply closet.”
We move through music rooms, studies, guest suites. With each new space, I add more duties, more expectations, building a mountain she’ll have to climb daily.
It’s cruel, yes. Testing her limits already. But I need to know if she’ll break. Need to know if she’ll run.
“The linens require special handling,” I explain as we pass the laundry facilities. “Temperature specifications are posted. Nothing hotter than sixty degrees for the Egyptian cotton. The silk sheets in my bedroom need hand washing.”
Her steps falter for just a moment when I mention my bedroom. A tiny tell that sends heat surging through me.
“You’ll be responsible for all washing, ironing, folding. My suits go to a specialized cleaner. My man will handle those.”
“Your man?” she asks.
“My second-in-command. You won’t see him much; he’s generally handling… operations.” I keep it vague.
“Of course.” She nods.
We reach the east wing. I stop before a heavy oak door, ornately carved, the weight of it substantial under my hand as I push it open.
“This is my private office. You’ll clean it only when I’m present.”
“I understand.” She meets my eyes, a challenge flickering there beneath the professional veneer. “Any other rooms with special requirements?”
The question hangs between us. She’s fishing, testing boundaries already. I suppress a smile.
“The east wing is mainly my living space,” I say instead of answering directly. “Your access is limited to necessary areas only.”
“And how will I know which areas are necessary?” The question comes with just enough edge to raise my hackles and my interest simultaneously.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the heavy key ring, the metal cold against my palm, the weight substantial.
“You’ll learn.” I drop it into her open palm, deliberately brushing my fingers against her skin. The contact sends electricity up my arm. Her sharp intake of breath tells me she felt it too. “Thirty-seven keys. Keep every room locked when not in use.”
She stares at the jumbled mass of metal, the keys jangling against each other. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You—” She stops short when I raise an eyebrow. “They’re not marked,” she adds.
“Very observant.”
“How am I supposed to know which key goes to which door?”
“Trial and error.” I step closer, crowding her personal space. “Unless you’re not up for the challenge?”
Her chin lifts, defiance flashing in those chocolate eyes. “I didn’t say that.”
“Good.” I turn, expecting her to follow as I lead her back toward my office. “There’s paperwork to finalize.”
In my office, I retrieve two documents from my desk. The first, I slide across to her.
“Your employment contract. One year, non-negotiable.”
She frowns, scanning the pages. “I wasn’t informed it was a one-year contract. No probation period?”
“No.” I keep my voice flat, final. “You either sign now or walk away.”
The internal battle plays across her face—pride warring with necessity. She knows as well as I do that her father’s life depends on this job. On me. The pen hovers over the signature line as she weighs options she doesn’t actually have.
She signs.
I slide the second document across. “And this.”
“An NDA?” Her eyebrows rise as she flips through the pages.
“Everything you see or hear in this house stays here. Forever. Even after you leave.” Not that I intend to let her leave, but the formality matters.
What the fuck, mudak?
Did you just think that?
I shake off the thought. What’s important here are boundaries, clear and enforceable. Those matter more than whatever bullshit I’ve got going on in my head.
She signs this too, her handwriting becoming more jagged, betraying the tension she’s trying to hide.
“Welcome to Ashwater Heights, Mirabel.” I take the signed papers, tucking them away in a folder. “Anfisa will show you how to install our household tracking app, and then finish your orientation this afternoon.”
“Tracking app?” She stares at me.
“All of my staff are required to be accessible at all times. The tracking app allows me to monitor your movements.”
“Jesus. Controlling much?” she mutters.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly.
“Good,” I say. “You’re dismissed.”
She stands, clutching the key ring like it might bite her. For a moment, she looks like she wants to say something—a question or challenge forming behind those expressive eyes.
But she thinks better of it, nodding once before turning to leave.
The door closes behind her, and I wait exactly ten seconds before moving to the surveillance system hidden behind a painting on the far wall. The panel slides open, revealing multiple screens showing every corner of the mansion.
I click through the feeds until I find her, walking briskly down the hallway toward her quarters, shoulders tight with what might be frustration or fear or both.
She enters her room, kicks off her sensible shoes, and sinks onto the edge of the bed. For a moment, she just sits there, staring at the key ring in her hands. Then her shoulders begin to shake.
Blyad.
She’s crying.
Something clenches in my chest; an unfamiliar sensation that might be guilt if I allowed myself such weaknesses. I watch as she wipes angrily at her cheeks, straightens her spine, and begins unpacking her meager belongings.
The strength in that small gesture—refusing to collapse completely even in private—stirs something dangerous in me.
I should look away. Should give her this moment of privacy. But I can’t tear my eyes from the screen as she organizes her things with quiet determination, every movement speaking of a woman who refuses to be broken.
She disappears into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The sound of running water filters through the speakers.
My finger hovers over the button that would switch to the bathroom camera—a camera I had installed during construction but have never activated. Never needed to. Never wanted to cross that line.
Until now.
“Chert Voz’mi.” I pull my hand back sharply. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve never been tempted like this—to violate someone’s privacy so completely.
I switch off the system, the screens going dark one by one until only my reflection remains, distorted in the black glass.
“Ty chertov durak! You’re a fucking fool, Laurov,” I tell it.
I pour myself two fingers of vodka, downing it in one harsh swallow that does nothing to cool the heat in my blood.
This woman is trouble. She’s been trouble since she stood at that altar and watched me walk away. Since her dress split and her skin flushed and something woke in me that I thought was dead.
Yet I brought her here anyway. Made sure she had no choice but to accept my offer.
Because for some fucking reason, I want her here. Want her under my roof, within my reach.
Maybe it’s fate—something I’ve never believed in until she walked into my life wearing a torn dress and a stubborn expression.
Whatever the fuck it is, I need to work it out of my system. Because the last thing I need right now is another complication.