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12
Mikhail
“This is Sadie! Sorry I’ve missed your call. If you could please just—”
I narrowly avoided throwing my phone across the office, gripping it so tightly that I was actually surprised it didn’t crack.
Sadie wasn’t taking my calls. And the string of text messages I’d sent her had gone unanswered as well.
It had been days of silence from her end. This was goddamned unacceptable.
I’d reacted badly. There. I could admit that. But to find out like that … that I was the deadbeat father of three of the cutest kids I’d ever seen…
I wasn’t mad at Sadie. Hell, no. I was furious at myself. I knew just how hard it was to grow up without parental figures in my young life. It was only because of Mamachka that I’d even understood what a loving family was really like.
The idea that I was repeating that cycle, however unwittingly, was unbearable.
I wanted to be a father. No, I wanted to be a dad. A good dad. I wanted to change those kids’ lives and love them and be there for them in more ways than just a fucking sperm donor.
In more ways than my father.
I recognized the tightening of my throat, the slow rise of pain from my chest, and knew it for what it was: panic, pure and simple. I filled my lungs with as much air as I could get in them … and let it out again. And again. I thought of Sergei and what he used to tell me when things got intense with board members and company takeovers and trying to learn the ropes of the company while dealing with the grief of losing my parents.
“One thing at a time,” he’d say. “Just one. Do that thing from start to finish. Then you can move on to the next thing.”
Fine. I was going to do one thing I could do right now. Start to finish. And then tackle the next challenge.
It took a couple of hours of wrangling over the phone, but I finally got my financials in order. Sadie and the triplets were getting everything should I die. And in the meantime, Fern, Tristan, and Cooper were getting sizeable trusts that they would be able to access once they turned eighteen — with a second set at age 25.
The pressure inside me eased somewhat. One thing down. A million harder things to go.
My phone buzzed — Sergei.
“Something you want to tell me?” he asked before I could even greet him.
“What are you — oh.” I snorted. “Did the accountant contact you to make sure I wasn’t going crazy?”
“You have children?” Sergei’s voice was full of disbelief — I could hear it as clear as a bell, even though the connection was full of static and crackles.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“I’m on my way to the airport. I’m coming to you.”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“With all due respect, Misha, you’re the one I’m afraid is being an idiot. I’m going to talk some sense into you.”
I frowned. “Save your breath. And the jet fuel. Everything makes sense. I’m a father.”
“Says who?”
“Says the mother of my children.”
“Right.” Sergei’s tone was brisk and business-like. I’d always taken comfort in how he controlled a situation immediately, but he was starting to piss me off as he brushed off what I was telling him. “I’ve put a hold on all your recent financial moves. I’m recommending we deploy a legal team to investigate this woman’s claims. We’ll require paternity testing, of course.”
“You’re overstepping,” I growled, slashing my hand through the air even if he wasn’t here to see it. “What’s done is done. Those children are mine, and I’ve only just started in making them my heirs.”
Sergei heaved a deep sigh. Or maybe it was just the call. “Look. I know it’s been a hard four years. You were too busy to stop and enjoy life. Now that you have a chance to breathe again, I can understand feeling like you want to put down roots somewhere.” In the background of the call, someone spoke too faintly for me to hear. Car doors slammed. “You’re too blinded by lust to see what kind of web this woman is weaving, Misha. You’re a fly caught in her trap.”
