Father’s study.
I loathe this fucking room.
I remember being ten years old, standing on this exact same stretch of Persian carpet, blood trickling from my split lip after some schoolyard punk called me a “Russian piece of shit.”
I’d put the kid in the hospital. In return, the principal had called my parents. Father made me stand here for an hour while he explained in excruciating detail how I’d failed—not because I’d hurt the kid, but because I’d been sloppy enough to get caught.
Twenty-one years later, and the feeling is exactly the same. Like I’m a child awaiting sentencing.
Except I’m not a child anymore. I’m Vincent fucking Akopov. Future pakhan. Future CEO. The man who will someday own this room, this house, this empire.
If I can just get through this conversation first.
“You’re distracted,” my father accuses, pouring himself a drink from the crystal decanter on his desk. “Careless. Your mind is elsewhere.”
He doesn’t offer me a drink of my own. That’s deliberate. Everything with Andrei Akopov is deliberate.
“My mind is exactly where it needs to be,” I reply, keeping my voice level. “On business.”
He barks out a laugh, harsh and without humor. “Business? Is that what you call fucking your secretary now?”
“My personal life is none of your concern.”
My father’s eyes narrow. His silver hair catches the light from his desk lamp, making him look like some ancient war god seated in judgment. “It becomes my concern when it interferes with what matters. The family. The future.”
I say nothing. I’ve learned over the years that my father’s speeches have their own rhythm, their own inevitable progression.
Interrupting only makes them longer.
“You think I don’t know what’s happening?” He slams his tumbler down, liquid sloshing over the rim. “That girl has you so twisted up you can barely function. Skipping meetings. Canceling appointments. And this…” He tosses a folder onto his desk, flipping it open to reveal hospital records. “What the fuck is this?”
I feel my jaw tighten but force my expression to remain neutral. “You had me followed.”
“Of course I had you followed!” he roars, standing now. “You’re my son. My heir. Everything I’ve built for thirty years depends on your judgment. And lately, your judgment has been shit.”
“Margaret St. Clair’s treatment is a personal matter,” I say.
“Nothing is personal when you’re an Akopov,” my father spits. “You paid for that woman’s treatment—millions of dollars—without consulting me, without considering how it might look if anyone discovered the connection.”
“No one will discover it.”
“You don’t know that. You can’t know that. All it takes is one loose-lipped doctor, one grateful nurse, one nosy reporter. Then what? Headlines about how the heir to Akopov Industries has a thing for his secretary’s mother? Questions about why? Attention we don’t need?”
I take a deep breath, willing myself to remain calm. This isn’t about the money. My father couldn’t care less about the cost. This is about control.
It always has been.
“The doctor understands discretion,” I say. “The hospital administration does, too. The money was moved through our charitable foundation. Clean. Untraceable.”
My father stares at me, silent and calculating. Then, in a move that’s somehow more terrifying than his rage, he sits back down and laughs.
“You really care for this girl, don’t you?” he asks, his voice suddenly soft. “You think you’re in love.”
The word hits me like a bucket of ice water. Love. Such a small word for such a devastating concept.
“This isn’t about love,” I snap. “This is about practicality. Rowan is a valuable employee. Her work suffers when she’s distracted by her mother’s illness. I took steps to resolve the distraction.”
“Bullshit.” My father leans forward. “I’ve watched you, Vincent. I’ve seen.”
I say nothing. What can I say? He’s right. Of course he’s right. Rowan has become something more than just a convenient fuck, more than just a pretty distraction from my obligations.
She’s become… more.
“Do you know what happens to men in our position who allow themselves to be weakened by sentiment?” my father continues. “They lose everything. Respect goes first. Power comes soon after. And what becomes of a man with no respect and no power?” He snaps his fingers. “Dead.”
He stands again, circling the desk until he’s standing directly in front of me. Even at sixty-two, Andrei Akopov is a bear of a man. Six-foot-four of solid muscle and ruthless determination.
“That girl,” he says, jabbing a finger toward the door as if Rowan is standing just on the other side, “is a liability. She knows too much. She makes you vulnerable in ways you can’t even comprehend yet.”
“She’s loyal,” I counter, the words escaping before I can stop them.
“Loyal?” He scoffs. “To what? To whom? She’s not Bratva. She has no blood ties to our world. Her loyalty extends exactly as far as her paycheck and your cock. Neither goes as far as you think they do.”
Anger flares hot and bright in my chest. “You don’t know her.”
“I know enough.” He steps closer, his voice dropping dangerously. “I know she walked in on you fucking another woman and didn’t run to HR. I know she witnessed you kill a man and didn’t go to the police. I know she’s been letting you bend her over every surface in your office without demanding a ring or a promise. What more do I need to know, hm?”
Each word drives into me like a knife. Not because they’re untrue, but because hearing them spoken aloud by my father makes them sound so much worse than they are.
That’s not what Rowan is to me. Not anymore.
“And what would you prefer?” I fire back. “That I marry some ice-cold Russian princess who’ll fuck my lieutenants behind my back and plot to take over the moment I let my guard down?”
My father laughs, genuine amusement breaking through his anger. “At least that I’d understand! At least that would be expected, manageable. Instead, you’ve lost your mind over some virgin from marketing with sad eyes and medical bills.” He shakes his head. “I taught you better than this, Vincent.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.” The words come out harsher than I intend. “I’m tired of everything you taught me.”
His hand moves faster than I can track, the slap connecting with my cheek before I can even flinch. I taste blood where my teeth cut into my cheek. The familiar copper taste of childhood lessons.
“You disrespectful little shit,” my father hisses. “Everything you have, everything you are, comes from what I taught you. You think you’d survive a day without the Bratva’s protection?”
I say nothing, though every muscle in my body screams to hit back.
But that’s not how this game is played.
That’s not how I win.
“I’ve given you enough rope to hang yourself,” he continues. “No more. You have one month, Vincent. One month to choose a suitable bride from the candidates I’ve selected. Before then, you will end whatever this is with your assistant.”
“And if I don’t?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Then you get nothing.”
I straighten my back, smoothing down my tie. The taste of blood lingers on my tongue, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of wiping it away.
“I understand.”
My father nods once, dismissing me. But as I turn to leave, he calls out one final warning.
“And Vincent? That girl of yours? She’s become a problem. If you don’t handle it… I will.”
