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I nod and head inside, my mind already running through possibilities. The study is at the back of the house, a room lined with bookshelves and dominated by a large mahogany desk. Ivan stands beside the fireplace when I walk in, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit and burgundy tie. His silver hair is perfectly styled, his posture relaxed but commanding. He looks like a man who expects compliance and usually gets it.

"Samuil." He greets me with a slight nod. "Thank you for seeing me."

"Ivan." I close the door behind me and move to stand behind my desk, keeping the furniture between us. "This is unexpected."

"I'm sure it is." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I'll get straight to the point. Several witnesses saw my daughter enter your private office at the restaurant last night. She remained there behind closed doors for quite some time."

My expression doesn't change, but inside, every muscle tenses. "Yes. She stopped by."

"Behind closed doors." Ivan's voice is mild, almost conversational.

I clench my jaw. "She was being… stubborn. I didn't want to cause a scene."

"You took her to your private office," Ivan said, lowering his brows. "You understand how that looks, I'm sure."

Damn it! I don't like where this is going at all. "Nothing inappropriate happened," I say carefully.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Ivan reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded document. He walks forward and places it on the desk between us.

I stare at the document like it's a snake, and if my guess is right, it might as well be.

"You compromised my daughter, Samuil." Ivan's voice is calm, matter-of-fact, like he's discussing the weather. "You're going to marry her."

7

ANA

Iwake Thursday morning with the memory of Samuil's kiss still burning on my lips. It's been two days since I walked into his restaurant, since he grabbed me and kissed me like he wanted to devour me whole, and I still can't stop thinking about it. The memory surfaces at the most inconvenient times. During breakfast. While reviewing correspondence. In the middle of conversations with staff members who probably wonder why I keep losing my train of thought.

I hate it. Even as it enthralls me, I hate that he has this effect on me. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, watching morning sunlight filter through the sheer curtains. My bedroom is decorated in soft creams and golds, elegant and feminine, with a massive four-poster bed that suddenly feels too empty. I can still feel the rough way he pulled me against him, the frustration behind it, the barely controlled passion beneath his disciplined exterior, and the expert way he took over the kiss.

Heat pools low in my stomach at the memory, and I press my thighs together. This is ridiculous. I'm acting like a teenager with her first crush instead of a twenty-five-year-old woman who's been pursued by countless men. But none of them kissed me like Samuil. None of them looked at me with that mixture of desire and irritation, like they wanted me and hated themselves for it.

I finally drag myself out of bed and into the shower, hoping the hot water will clear my head. It doesn't. By the time I'm dressed in tailored black pants and a cream silk blouse, I've almost convinced myself that pursuing Samuil Galkin is exactly what I want. He's different from every other man I've met. He challenges me and doesn't fall at my feet. What would it be like to win that man's heart? I so love challenges, and the benefits of this one are almost too enticing to ignore. But then I remember the photograph on his desk.

I only caught a glimpse of it before he kissed me, but the image is burned into my memory now. A younger Samuil, maybe in his early thirties, standing beside a teenage boy with dark hair and a wide smile. The caption read Number 1 Dad. Samuil has a son.

The realization hits me all over again, stealing my breath. I sink down onto the edge of my bed, staring at my reflection in the vanity mirror across the room. A son. Probably in his twenties now, maybe even older. Which means if I pursue this thing with Samuil, I'm not just getting involved with a forty-seven-year-old Pakhan. I'm getting involved with a father.

The fantasy I've been building in my head crumbles. I've never wanted children. Not now, probably not ever. I like my freedom and independence, my ability to do whatever I want without worrying about anyone else. The idea of becoming an instant mother to someone else's child, even an adult child, makes my stomach twist.

What would that even look like? Would I be expected to play stepmother? Would this son resent me for being with his father? Would Samuil expect me to bond with him, to become some kind of family unit?

No. Absolutely not.

I stand and smooth down my blouse, squaring my shoulders. This is for the best. Samuil Galkin is attractive and the kiss was undeniable, but a ready-made family is not what I want. I need to move on, focus on something else, and forget about the way he made me feel.

Decision made, I head downstairs to my private office in the east wing of the estate. The room is smaller than my father's study but elegantly appointed with a black desk, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and large windows overlooking the gardens. I spend the afternoon reviewing family investments and charitable foundations tied to the Rostova name.

Most people think I do nothing but attend parties and spend money. They don't know about this side of my life, the hours I spend managing portfolios and approving funding requests. It's work I keep hidden because generosity doesn't fit the spoiled-princess image everyone expects from me.

I flip through reports from our various holdings and sign off on quarterly projections, then make notes about potential expansion opportunities. Next, I turn to the charitable foundations, my favorite part. There are three main ones, all established by my grandmother decades ago. They provide support for families connected to longtime Rostova employees, widows who lost husbands in service to the family, and children who need education funding.

I review the current requests carefully. A widow whose husband died in a warehouse accident three years ago needs help with medical bills. Approved. A family whose father is serving time needs assistance with rent. Approved. A young woman who wants to attend university but can't afford tuition. Approved.

By the time I finish, I've quietly funneled nearly two hundred thousand dollars to people who need it. No one will know it came from me. The foundation handles everything discreetly, and I prefer it that way.

At four o'clock, I change into a navy sheath dress and pearl earrings for the Aristocrat Wives' Circle meeting, not really something I look forward to attending. The ladies can be so bitchy, but this is another duty that's expected of the Rostova princess. Here is one area of my life where people don't just bow down to me and overwhelm me with compliments. Here, I'm met with polite smiles that don't quite reach anyone's eyes.