Chapter Fifteen
Arkady
The contracts sit stacked on my desk, ink still drying on the final signature.
I lean back in my chair and allow myself a moment—just one—to savor the victory.
The building next to Empire Royale is mine again.
Bought it back for twice what it’s worth, but I don’t give a shit about the price. What matters is that the competitor bleeding my profits is gone. No more vultures circling my casino. No more Sergei Tulikov’s ghost fucking with my business from beyond the grave.
My operation can finally return to normal.
I stand and move to the window, restless energy driving me to my feet.
The garden sprawls below, roses and lavender in neat rows that Mirabel tends with the same fierce attention she brings to everything.
And there she is—kneeling in the flower beds, dirt on her hands, hair falling loose from whatever she tried to pin it back with this morning.
Beautiful.
The word surfaces before I can stop it, and I don’t bother pushing it away. She is beautiful. Has been since the moment she walked into my office for that interview, nervous and desperate and trying so hard not to show either.
Last night comes rushing back. Her body beneath mine in my bed, sheets tangled around us, her nails scoring down my back as I drove into her. The sounds she made. The way she whispered my name—not Mr. Laurov, not sir, just Arkady—like it was the only word that mattered.
My cock stirs at the memory. I adjust myself and turn away from the window before I do something stupid like go down there and drag her back to my bedroom in broad daylight.
But the movement doesn’t clear my head. Instead, something else surfaces. Something I’ve been trying not to think about since I brought Debra into this house five days ago.
Mirabel dreams about her sister.
I’ve seen it. The way she jerks awake sometimes, reaching for something that isn’t there. The shadow that crosses her face when she thinks no one’s watching. That look of loss so deep it carves lines into her features even when she’s sleeping.
Twins have this connection, people say. Some invisible thread binding them even across years of separation. I never understood it before—never had to. But watching Mirabel sleep, I’m beginning to grasp what that really means.
She feels Debra’s absence. Carries it in her.
And I’m the bastard keeping them apart.
Guilt hits me sideways, sharp enough to steal breath. My hand flattens against the window glass, the cold seeping into my palm doing nothing to settle the acid building in my gut.
How long can I keep doing this?
Debra is upstairs right now. Twenty feet above my head, hidden in one of the east wing guest suites, while Dr. Harrison works on stabilizing her enough for the reunion I know is coming.
Five days I’ve been juggling this—keeping Mirabel away from that corridor, inventing reasons she needs to focus on other parts of the house, watching her grieve for someone who’s sleeping two floors up.
It’s becoming too much.
And then, there’s Aleks. Too many secrets. Too many lies stacked on top of each other like a house of cards waiting for the wind.
Debra in the east wing. Aleks in the nursery next door, with Fanny. Dr. Harrison’s visits that I schedule when Mirabel is occupied elsewhere. The appointments. The therapy sessions. The careful choreography required to keep Mirabel from stumbling into the truth.
And for what? To protect Debra’s recovery? To give her time to heal before facing her twin?
Or to protect myself from the moment Mirabel realizes I’ve been lying to her face since the night I pulled Debra out of my father’s house?
Both. The answer is both, and that makes me a coward.
I turn from the window and stare at the intercom on my desk. One button. That’s all it would take. Call her up here, close the door, and finally—finally—stop lying to the woman who’s worked her way under my skin in ways I didn’t know were possible.
The decision crystallizes.
It’s time.
I’m going to tell her everything. Debra. Aleks. All of it. Let the cards fall and deal with whatever comes after, because this weight is crushing me, and it’s not a feeling I’m accustomed to.
My finger hovers over the intercom button.
I press it.
“Mirabel, come to my office.”
Static crackles, then her voice filters through—slightly breathless, like she’s been working. “Now?”
“Now.”
I release the button and move behind my desk, needing the barrier. Not for protection—Mirabel’s dangerous in different ways than men with guns—but because if she’s too close when I start talking, I might end up distracted by that beautiful body again.
Footsteps echo in the hallway. Light. Quick. Growing closer.
The door swings open, and she slips inside, still wearing gardening gloves caked with dirt. There’s soil smudged on her cheek, and her hair has given up entirely on whatever style she attempted this morning. She looks young. Unguarded.
Fuck, I don’t want to hurt her. And that’s another feeling I’m not accustomed to.
“You wanted to see me?” She pulls off the gloves, stuffing them in her back pocket.
I open my mouth. The words line up: Your sister is upstairs. I found her five days ago and didn’t tell you. Also, there’s a baby—not mine, perhaps, but he is now.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
My phone erupts.
Not the standard chime. The harsh, grating ring I programmed specifically for Stefan—the one that means drop everything, crisis, emergency, now.
“Chert voz’mi!” The curse rips out before I can stop it. I snatch the phone off my desk. “Can this wait?”
“Nyet.” Stefan’s voice cuts through, clipped and urgent.
Every muscle in my body locks down. “What is it?”
“It’s a crisis. Gavriil is in action.”
Ice floods through my veins even as something hotter rises to meet it—my thirst for battle. The part of me that’s been waiting for this confrontation since I was fifteen years old.
Blyad.
I look at Mirabel. She’s watching me, concern pulling her brows together, and I need her out. Need her safe and away from whatever apocalypse Stefan’s about to drop in my lap.
“Step outside for a moment.” I realize that I’m snapping at her, but there’s no time to soften it. “I need privacy for this call.”
Something flashes across her face—hurt, maybe, or frustration—before she masks it with that professional distance she uses when she remembers I’m her employer and not the man who had her crying his name six hours ago.
“Of course.” She turns on her heel and slips back through the door, closing it behind her with more force than necessary.
I wait until her footsteps fade down the corridor.
“Talk.”
“Your father knows it was you who took the girls.” Stefan’s breathing is harsh, like he’s been running. “He’s found out about Debra, too. He knows she’s in your house.”
My free hand curls into a fist on the desk. We knew this was coming. Planned for it. But knowing and having it arrive are two different animals.
“How did he guess?”
“Are you serious?” Stefan’s laugh is bitter.
“It’s a no-brainer, Arkady. Who else could’ve pulled this off?
You’re the only one with the resources, the intel, the balls to raid his estate and walk out with his favorite plaything.
He’s mobilizing. Called in the Georgians. And he’s not fucking around this time.”
Gavriil wants war.
Fine. I’ll give him war.
“It’s alright, Stefan.” My voice drops into that cold, controlled register that makes grown men step back. “We were expecting this. I can handle my old man.”
“Can you?” There’s doubt bleeding through his words. “He’s coming for blood. Yours. And he’ll go through anyone in his way to get it.”
“Let him try.”
I end the call and pull open my office door, already running through protocols. Defense plans. Evacuation routes. Mirabel needs increased security. Debra needs to be moved somewhere more secure. Aleks—fuck, the baby is vulnerable.
But the hallway stretches empty.
Mirabel is gone.