Mikhail is quiet for a moment. He takes a slow drink, eyes on the skyline. “My father was a monster,” he says. “You know that.”
I nod. Everyone knows that.
“But I had my stepmother,” he continues. “Natasha was…steady. Kind. She showed me what love could look like without fear.” He glances at me. “And my brothers. They all found love despite our…bloodline. They’re doing alright.”
I understand his point but somehow, it feels different. Maybe because he had some warmth, while all my life, I’ve carried the weight of responsibility.
“You know…I used to dream of fairy tales,” I say with a light snort. “A lovely wife. Kids. A white picket fence—the whole nine.”
“But?”
“Adulthood has a way of stripping illusions,” I say.
“And crushing dreams,” he counters, then sighs. “You can still have all of that, you know, if you open your heart.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “You sound like a therapist.”
“I manage artists,” he says dryly. “Same thing but with more screaming.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees now, his expression growing serious. “The problem is not that you don’t believe in romance, Mikhail. It’s that you hold on too tightly to structure and control.”
“Those aren’t bad things.”
“They are if that’s all you have,” he says quietly. “You take care of everyone… Natalya. Your employees. Your partners. Hell, even people who don’t deserve it.”
“I do my job.”
“No,” he says. “You need to be needed.”
The words land heavier than I expect.
“You were forced to grow up too quickly,” he continues. “And all your life, you’ve had to protect your sister. It’s understandable you feel lost now that it feels like the person that you protected all your life no longer needs you. It’s only right to pour all of that energy into someone else.”
“I’d rather pour it in my business,” I say dryly, chugging the rest of my beer.
“You could build an empire and still be lonely,” Mikhail says quietly. “Businesses won’t love you back.”
“I don’t need love.”
He watches me for a long second, then nods. “Keep telling yourself that.”
The city hums below us. My phone buzzes on the table—an email from New York, something that needs my attention. As it always does.
“Can I borrow your computer? I forgot my laptop,” I ask. “I need to answer some work emails.”
“Of course,” he replies. “You’re welcome to use the one in my study.”
I stand, stretching. He does too, pulling me into a brief, solid hug—one brother to another.
“For what it’s worth,” he says near my ear, voice low, “whoever ends up with you will be lucky. You don’t destroy what you touch. You care for it.”
I pull back, scoffing. “You’re projecting.”
“Maybe,” he says with a grin. “Or maybe you just don’t see yourself clearly yet.”
I leave the balcony with his words echoing in my head.
Could that really be true?
Chapter One