Nikolai
The city is barely awake when I step into my office, but my head has been grinding all night. Numbers. Names. Dirt.
Vassel.
The reports my assistant dug up are spread across my desk, pages of decline hidden under pretty graphs. The truth is simple: the man has a gambling problem.Not just in casinos—though there's plenty of that—but with his company. Risk stacked on risk until the house of cards is one shove away from collapse.
No wonder he's desperate. No wonder he was willing to roll over so easily.
What I didn't expect was his daughter.
Aria Vassel. Top of her class. Clean record. No scandals, no shortcuts. She didn't sit back and play princess; she fought her way into rooms that still whisper about her. Unlike her father, she's not reckless. She's dangerous.
And she's the one who opened her mouth in that meeting yesterday.
My jaw tightens at the memory. Sharp tongue, sharper eyes. No hesitation when she called my deal an insult. Most men twice her age wouldn't dare.
The phone on my desk buzzes. I stab the button. "Yes."
My assistant's voice comes through, careful. "Sir… There's someone here to see you. A Mrs. Vassel."
Not the old man.
I pause, then lean back in my chair. "Send her in."
A few seconds later, the door opens. She walks in like she owns the place—dark suit, steady stride, eyes locked on me. Professional mask firmly in place.
She sits when I gesture, posture perfect, legs crossed, contract folder clutched in her hands.
"Efficient," I murmur, holding out a hand. "I assume it's signed."
But instead of handing it over, she pulls it back, her chin lifting a fraction. "We're not accepting this deal."
I let out a low laugh, cold and humorless. "You asked for time to think. Now you waste mine with theatrics."
"This isn't theatrics," she snaps. "It's business. And we're proposing a new deal."
I study her for a beat, eyes narrowing. "You're negotiating with me. That's hilarious. Do you know why? Because I'm the only one willing to buy your sinking ship of a company. Without me, Vassel Group is dead in the water."
Her gaze doesn't flinch. "And do you know why I'm sitting here instead of my father? Because I know what this company is worth. More than you're offering. Selling everything and cutting ties isn't an option."
I lean forward, voice flat. "Your father's company isn't worth half of what I've put on the table. If you're so eager to bleed it dry alongside him, by all means—do it without me."
She doesn't blink. Doesn't look away. "Two more days."
My brow arches. "Excuse me?"
"Two more days," she repeats, sliding a page across the desk. Not the contract—notes. Plans. Figures. "We'll draft another contract. One that doesn't cut us out. And this—" she taps the paper, her voice steady "—is what we can do for the company if we stay involved. If you invest, not swallow us whole."
Silence stretches.
She's strong-willed, stubborn as hell. Every word fights me, every second she stares me down is a challenge.
I should laugh in her face. Throw her out of my office. Remind her she's lucky I haven't crushed her company already.
Instead, I find myself leaning back slowly, eyes never leaving hers.
"Two days," I say finally. My voice is sharp, a blade cutting through the air. "That's all you get."
Her shoulders relax—barely. She nods once, professional to the end. "You'll have the contract."
We exchange stiff goodbyes, her heels clicking sharply as she walks out.
When the door shuts behind her, I sit there for a long moment, staring at the empty space she left.
Aria Vassel.
No one's ever spoken to me like that. Not a stranger. Not a woman. And never with eyes that refused to look away.
I should be furious.
Instead, I'm intrigued.
---
Five minutes after Aria Vassel leaves, my phone buzzes.
"Sir," my assistant says cautiously, "your mother is here. She insists on seeing you. She's already in the lobby."
In the background, I can hear her voice—soft, gentle, almost melodic as she greets the staff.
I close my eyes, exhaling a slow breath. "Send her in."
The door opens, and there she is. My mother. Still elegant, still glowing, though the years have pressed into her shoulders. She doesn't hesitate—she never does. She crosses the room and wraps me in her arms.
I go still, instinctively, the way I always do. But then I force myself to return the gesture, folding her gently against me. My eyes soften, just a fraction, in a way no one else ever sees.
When she finally lets go, she lowers herself onto the couch with a sigh, sinking into the cushions like she belongs here.
I follow her, squat down in front of her, and gently tug off her heels. She winces as they slide free, relief flickering across her face. I set them neatly beside the couch.
"Better?" I ask quietly. "You were fidgeting."
Her eyes lift to mine, filled with love that always disarms me. "When are you going to get a wife, Nikolai? Someone else to spoil, to give all this princess treatment to?"
A low chuckle escapes me as I push to my feet, the sound tired but genuine. I shake my head, walking back toward my desk. "That's not what I'm thinking of, Mama. For now… you can be my princess."
Her laughter follows me across the room, soft and bittersweet.
I sink into my chair, but the weight of memory presses harder than the leather beneath me. My father's shadow lingers here—always here.
I was nineteen when he died. A man full of mistresses, full of lies. He never raised a hand to my mother, but the damage he did was worse—emotional bruises, trust shattered, dignity stripped piece by piece. I grew up watching it all. Watching her break quietly while pretending not to.
I hated him for it.
And worse—I feared him. Feared the part of him in me. That coldness. That hunger. That weakness disguised as power.
So I shut myself down. I locked everything away. No love. No marriage. Nothing to risk disappointing the only person who ever truly mattered—my mother.
But she doesn't see that. She only sees the son who's given her every ounce of devotion.
Her voice cuts into my thoughts. "Your time is almost up."
I glance up sharply.
"You're twenty-nine now," she says softly, eyes glistening. "And you know what your father's will stated. If you're not married before you turn thirty, the company is gone. Taken from you."
The words slam into me, though they're not new. They've haunted me for a decade.
This company. It's my life. My love.
When I turned eighteen, I called him out. I told him he was a failure of a man, a failure of a husband. He just sneered, told me I'd end up just like him anyway. That I couldn't escape it.
So I promised him I'd never get married. That I'd never become him.
And in his cruelty, his need to control me even from the grave, he wrote that clause. Marriage before thirty, or I lose it all.
I was the quiet one growing up. The cold one. Affection came hard, reserved only for my mother and my brother. I didn't want the company. Didn't want the chains.
But years passed, and I grew into it. Grew into the power, the deals, the endless war of business. And now? Now I can't imagine life without it.
I'll be damned if I let it slip through my fingers.
My jaw tightens, the promise burning in my chest. One way or another, I will keep what's mine.