Chapter 47
Chapter Forty-Seven
LARA
T he next few days merge together in a haze of routine and uncertainty.
Ivan is always busy, constantly on the phone, lost in meetings, his attention divided between the chaos unfolding around his businesses and trying to find solutions. Yet, somehow, every evening, no matter how late, he makes it home for dinner. We don’t plan it, but it’s become our unspoken ritual. Muriel sets up the table as we are having a formal dinner, with gorgeous flower arrangements, candles, good chinaware, and antique linen. We sit across from each other, often in silence, but as the meal progresses, I see the weight of the day slowly melt away from his face.
He’s different now. Tired in ways I hadn’t seen before. He wears his strength like an armor, refusing to let it crack, but I can feel the strain beneath the surface. The lines on his face have deepened. His smiles, when they come, are fleeting. Even so, he reaches for me. Every night, he slides into bed, pulling me close, like I’m his last tether to something real, something grounding.
We fall into each other then. There’s heat, always, but it’s laced with something softer, something unspoken. In those moments, I feel like we’re drifting into our own world, separate from the chaos outside. I’ve started to count the days with dread. I would have laughed if someone had told me I wouldn’t be celebrating, but dreading the day my contract ends.
When he falls asleep, his body is warm and heavy against mine. I listen to his breath, steady and deep, and then at some ungodly hour he wakes up. A phone call, the London stock exchange is opening, or a Zoom call from Shanghai. There’s always something. I start to appreciate how hard Ivan works. That he earned the right to be proud of his success. His money is not inherited. Nikolai is fun and charming and he dances very well, but he lives an idle life of luxury on his father’s dime.
During the day, while he’s out, I lose myself in Muriel’s garden. It becomes my sanctuary—my escape. Both my apple and orange have started to root and bear shoots. It’s the most beautiful thing to see. The feel of the earth between my fingers, the scent of the flowers blooming under the sun, it’s grounding. I spend hours there, letting the simple act of tending to the plants bring me a sense of calm. I hope I can infuse the same calm when Ivan comes home.
Sometimes, I wonder if he’s thinking about me while he’s out, dealing with whatever new attack has come up against him. He never expected or planned for any of this to come down on him. At first, I felt somewhat bitter and robbed that it all kicked off during our time together, but now I’m glad. If I was not here he would have to go through this ordeal alone and I would never wish that on anyone let alone him.
Then one night he left the bed at two in the morning. I get up a few minutes later and follow him to his office. I find him sitting in front of six computer screens.
“Whatcha doing?” I ask from the door.
“Taking some scalps to pay the bills,” he says.
My eyes widen. “What?”
He leans back against his black leather chair. “Scalping is slang for when a trader goes into the marketplace, takes a trade and is out quickly, before the trade can turn against him.”
“I thought you couldn’t trade anymore. Your accounts at the exchanges were frozen.”
“An old friend from Cambridge set up an account in his name for me. I use a VPN to hide my location and I only scalp because I have studied Robert’s trading record and I adhere strictly to his risk appetite and loss rate. So no placing big trades that could raise red flags. The last thing I want to do is to get him in trouble.”
“Can I see what you’re doing?”
He smiles. “Sure. Come in and sit on my lap.”
I go and sit on his lap and watch quietly while he works.
“This is the Bitcoin chart. A very volatile asset. Fantastic for scalping,” he explains.
There are numbers blinking everywhere and his fingers move at lightning speed chasing a pulsating dot on a one-second screen. “Wow, how can you know the exact movement when it is about to change direction?”
“The market is like a woman,” he says. “To persuade her to dance with you have to learn how she moves and move with her. Then she will embrace you and give you riches you never dreamed of.”
I turn to look at him in the blue light from the screen. “You’re special, you know. Really special.”
He smiles. “So are you.”
“No, I really mean that. I’m just an ordinary person. You’re not. You’re truly exceptional. I never said that to you before and no matter what happens always remember, you’re extraordinary.”
“That’s it for tonight,” he says, clicking the red sell button on his screen and lifting me into his arms. “Now it’s time for you to see just how extraordinary you are.”
Then one night, everything shifts.
He doesn’t come home for dinner. I eat alone and go to bed, certain he will return soon, but I fall asleep alone and wake up, groggy and disoriented, reaching out for him instinctively. But the bed beside me is cold and empty. My heart stumbles in my chest as I sit up, glancing at the clock. It’s well past midnight. Where is he?
Panic prickles at the edges of my mind, but I push it down, forcing myself to stay calm. I get out of bed and wrap my robe around me as I walk toward the window. There is a full moon in the sky and the city is alive and buzzing with bright lights.
Where could he be?
The anxiety bubbling in my chest tightens, and I need to move, to do something, anything, to clear my head. I need something to calm me down. Perhaps a swim in the pool. I get into my bikini and leave my room. I decide to go through the kitchen but stop in my tracks when I see Muriel sitting at the island. She is pouring tea from a blue and white flowery porcelain teapot into a cup with a matching pattern. She’s not usually up this late, and the sight of her in the kitchen feels oddly out of place.
“You’re up late,” I say, my voice gentle, not prying but curious.
“Yes. I couldn’t sleep. I thought a cup of chamomile tea would do the trick.”
I shift from one foot to another. “Ivan isn’t back. You wouldn’t by any chance know where he is, would you?”
Muriel sets her cup down. “No, I was worried when he didn’t come back for dinner too.”
I pause, surprised. It’s not like Muriel to talk about Ivan like this. She’s always professional, and I never expected her to express concern for his whereabouts.
“You were worried?” I ask, unsure of how else to respond.
Muriel’s mouth quirks downwards. “We all are, Lara, I’ve worked for him for years, and I’ve never seen him like this. But I’m glad you’re here, especially now.”
Her words take a moment to sink in. I’d never thought about how Ivan’s staff might feel about what’s going on.
“Who’s ‘we all’?” I ask, the curiosity pushing me to dig a little deeper.
“The staff,” she says with a small shrug. “Everyone who works for him. It’s not just that we’ve seen the news, but we all talk. We all care about him and we can all see he’s under pressure.”
There’s a pause as I let her words settle in. I hadn’t considered that Ivan’s staff might actually be concerned, that they’d notice when things were not right.
“We’ve been talking about how we can help. If it comes to it, we’re willing to pitch in however we can financially.”
I blink with shock. “Financially?” It feels strange to even suggest that they would want to support him like that. Most people will have no idea of how they can be of use like how I was, or make vague offers to help, but financially? To offer your own hard-earned money… that’s real commitment.
“You are surprised because you don’t know our history with him. He’s helped us all over the years. Some of the staff have even talked about remortgaging their homes if necessary. He helped them buy those homes in the first place. It’s not just about loyalty—it’s about giving back to someone who’s always been there when we needed him.”
I lean against the counter as her words settle in. “I didn’t know any of that,” I admit quietly. “Ivan never talks about helping people. It’s almost like he’s kept this part of himself hidden from me.”
Muriel smiles softly. “Ivan isn’t one to boast. He does things quietly, and most of the time, people don’t even realize it. We are spread about in all his properties. His chefs, his chauffeurs, his gardeners, his butler in England, his staff in Russia—there are so many of us that he’s been so generous with over the years. Do you know he bought me a cottage with a garden? It’s meant to be a place for me to retire when I’m too old to work. It’s in Devon by the sea. Well, I don’t need it. Let him have it. He can sell it or mortgage it or whatever. Living here with all my bills paid for, I have saved quite a bit. Let him have that too. He’s not alone in this.”
My eyes widen with shock and I stare at her, feeling something shift inside me. I’ve always seen Ivan as closed-off, someone who keeps people at a distance, but this… this changes everything. The way his staff think about him, their willingness to help—it’s not something you earn with money or power. It’s something deeper, something real.
“Have you told him this?” I ask softly, wondering if Ivan even realizes how much his people care about him.
“No, not yet,” Muriel says, her eyes full of the wisdom she has gained over decades. “He’s a proud man with a deep well of resources and talents, and I’ll only step forward if and when I see that those petty men have abused their office and might to unfairly crush him. Only when I see that it is absolutely necessary.”
I don’t know what to say. I feel like I’m learning a whole new side of Ivan and Muriel. And it makes me feel closer to both of them in a way that I can’t quite explain.
I smile at Muriel, feeling a strange sense of comfort. “He is lucky to have you,” I say quietly.
“And he’s lucky to have you. He needs someone like you right now.” She picks up her cup and saucer and stands. “Well then, I’m off to bed. Goodnight, Miss Fitzpatrick.”
“Lara. Call me Lara.”
She shakes her head. “No. It wouldn’t be proper. I come from a long line of servants. My grandmother served as a charwoman in Winston Churchill’s home. I am what I am. I don’t need to pretend to be something I’m not. I’m proud to be here serving Mr. Ivanovich and you, Miss Fitzpatrick.”
I yield to her wish with a small nod, and she moves away.
Once she is gone, I head to the terrace, feeling the cool night air hit my skin. The pool reflects the moonlight, and I slip into the water, Muriel’s words echoing in my head. Muriel taught me something today. Help is saying, I want to help if I can. Help is doing something concrete, no matter how small. Stroke after stroke, I let the lesson swirl in my mind.
When I am tired, I float on my back and gaze at the stars until I feel a little cold. I swim to the edge of the pool and I see him sitting on a lounge chair, his expression unreadable, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. The sight of him makes my heart race, though I’m not sure if it’s relief or something else.
I pull myself out of the water, the cool air hitting my skin as I walk toward him. And for a moment, we just look at each other, the silence stretching between us.