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“Thank you, Mr Petrov.”
“Do not make the mistake of believing this is sentimentality,” his voice tightens mildly. “Your firm is competent. You are competent. You have spent years making yourselves far too intelligent and resourceful to discard over what is, technically, a family complication.”
“High praise.” I can’t help but say, the corner of my mouth twitching.
“Do not get used to it.”
“I would not dream of it.”
“There are conditions,” he declares, his face serious. “You will keep this relationship quiet. You don’t flaunt it. You don’t get photographed leaving clubs together, and you don’t make public declarations. With Jake Wesley’s tragic ‘accident’ still fresh in the news, the last thing we need is suspicion, federal inquiries, or the press painting you as the callous ex-husband who moved on thirty seconds after the plane went down.”
“We understand,” I reply evenly. “Maksim and I have already discussed it, and we intend to be careful.”
“Good,” he nods, picking his glasses back up from the desk. “Then we are done here.”
I place my hands on the armrests and rise to my feet, buttoning my suit jacket with smooth, measured motions. The weight that had been pressing down on my shoulders since I entered the estate finally lifts, replaced by a clear, unobstructed path ahead.
I turn toward the heavy double doors, my hand reaching for the brass handle.
“Tristan.”
Pavel’s voice stops me in my tracks.
I pause, turning my head slightly to look back at the desk.
He’s looking at me over the rims of his glasses, his piercing blue eyes stripped of all business, carrying only the absolute, chilling gravity of a father’s final command.
“Make my son happy,” he says softly, the words hanging like iron in the cool air. “And do not break his heart.”
I hold his gaze for a second, nodding with quiet, unwavering conviction.
“I promise.”
Then I pull open the heavy mahogany door of Pavel’s study and step out into the hallway.
Standing right there, leaning his shoulder casually against the wood-paneled wall with his arms folded across his chest, is Anton.
He’s clearly been waiting for me.
We look at each other in total silence for several long beats. There is too much history between us for small talk to survive.
Anton and I have known each other since childhood. We grew up in and around this house, though neither of us ever belonged to it in exactly the same way.
His dark, calculating eyes—carrying the same sharp intelligence as his father’s, but with an edge honed on the front lines of the family business—scan my face, looking for whatever damage Pavel might have inflicted.
Finding none, Anton finally pushes off the wall with a quiet breath.
“I’ll walk you out,” he says simply.
We begin walking. Side by side, our footsteps are quiet on the polished floor. The mansion around us is almost unnaturally still. Staff move somewhere deeper in the house, invisible yet present.
Neither of us speaks, and the silence continues down the corridor.
Down the main staircase.
Past the entry hall.
It becomes unbearable somewhere near the front doors.
