Page 19 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

Years prior…

T he exam room is cold.

I sit perched on the edge of the exam table, gown tied awkwardly in the back, paper crinkling beneath me every time I shift. My stomach still aches—a dull and persistent pain, radiating in sharp little waves—but now nerves are layering into the mix.

My phone buzzes on the counter. My brother, Chris. Again. I silence it without looking. I can’t deal with whatever crisis he’s spiraling through today.

The door opens and Dr. Hayashi steps in. He’s one of the staff physicians at the UNLV student health center.

His face is serious.

He doesn’t sit. That’s the first sign something’s wrong.

“Taylor,” he says gently, “thank you for coming in so quickly after the tests.”

“Of course,” I say, heart beginning to thud. “What’s going on?”

He exhales slowly then sits down on the stool across from me. “I’m going to be direct, okay?”

I nod, gripping the edge of the exam table, trying to prepare for whatever he’s about to tell me.

“The ultrasound and hormone panel came back,” Dr. Hayashi says gently, sliding the chart onto the counter as he pulls his stool closer. His expression is careful, measured. My heart is pounding in my chest.

“And?”

He sighs, resting his elbows on his knees. “There are some abnormalities—signs of diminished ovarian reserve. Your hormone levels are consistent with ovarian insufficiency.”

My brain fumbles to catch up. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

“It means your ovaries aren’t producing eggs the way they should,” he explains.

“This is likely a lingering consequence of your childhood leukemia treatment. High-dose chemotherapy and full-body radiation—especially at a young age—can cause premature damage to the ovaries. In some cases, that damage worsens over time.”

A cold wave of dread crawls down my spine. “But I’ve had regular periods. Sometimes irregular, but?—”

He nods. “That can happen with this condition. Primary ovarian insufficiency, or POI, doesn’t always mean complete cessation of function, especially early on. But over time, it can lead to erratic hormone production, irregular ovulation, and eventually, infertility.”

My throat closes. “I’m only twenty.”

“I know,” he says, his voice full of compassion. “But unfortunately, this condition doesn’t pay attention to age. When chemo is involved, the ovaries are particularly vulnerable. Your scans also show multiple small cysts—likely a result of your body trying to compensate.”

“So what are you saying?” I whisper.

He meets my gaze steadily. “I’m saying that your chances of conceiving naturally are extremely low.

Not impossible, but quite unlikely. I’m going to refer you to a reproductive endocrinologist who can go over options if and when you’re ready.

But I want to be honest with you now—this will be a difficult path, and time may not be on your side. ”

For a second, I can’t breathe. My world feels like it’s tilting on its axis. A thousand tiny dreams I hadn’t even let myself consider yet are gone before they ever had a chance.

“I know this is a lot to process,” he adds quietly. “And I’m sorry. I truly am. I’m going to give you some literature on the condition, as well as the name of the specialist I mentioned.”

I’m numb. Detached. The words land somewhere inside me like snow on stone—soft, silent, cold.

My pulse pounds in my ears. I nod because it’s all I can manage. But inside, something sinks—deep and hard—like a dream slipping out of reach before you even knew you were holding it.

Present day…

The morning after the wedding is a perfect blend of soreness and satisfaction. My body hums with the memory of him—muscles aching in a good way, skin still tingling where he touched me.

I stretch out on the pillow, limbs lazy, and smile to myself. Anatoly left me wrecked in the best possible way.

But when I roll over, the other side of the bed is empty.

Disappointment fills me. I sit up, glancing around the suite, hoping he’s in the living room below. No such luck.

Pulling on the robe, I quietly pad out. I pause when I hear his voice in one of the other bedrooms. He’s on the phone. I don’t want to interrupt, so I slip downstairs into the kitchen instead.

The cabinets are stocked like a luxury café. I find the Keurig and laugh under my breath at the drawer beneath crammed full of every flavor pod imaginable. One day in this suite, and I’m already getting spoiled.

I choose one at random and start the machine, the sound of it brewing filling the quiet. My thoughts drift back to last night, to the secretive, mystifying man I’ve married.

Anatoly is intense and a little intimidating, but he’s also thoughtful in ways that catch me off guard. He can be tender and caring, yet feral and passionate.

He’s still handling Chris’s debt, despite the disrespect my brother showed both of us on our wedding day. He didn’t have to be kind to Chris, but he was.

Is it just part of the arrangement or is there something else happening underneath it all?

I shake the thought away and take a sip of coffee—rich, dark, perfect. The warmth steadies me.

Cradling the mug, I walk back up the stairs and pause.

He’s still on the phone, his voice calm, clipped, and cool. Businesslike. Then I hear my name.

His tone is authoritative but there’s also a tenderness there. Like I matter to him.

I wait, coffee warming my hands, heart beating just a little faster.

Anatoly’s voice is low, but I catch clipped words through the stillness of the penthouse.

“Start the process of freeing up the funds today. No electronic trail. Yes, cash.” A pause. “No, I don’t want her name involved. Not her address, not her job title, nothing. She stays out of it.”

A breath escapes me. He must be talking about Chris. About the Smirnov Bratva.

The relief is immediate. I knew he’d take care of it, but hearing the actual plan, hearing how firmly he’s drawing a line around me, it hits me differently.

“I’ll meet with their rep this afternoon—alone. I will be informing them that once the funds are available, a meeting between Ivan Smirnov and me will be arranged to deliver the money. Also tell them if they come near her, we’ll revisit the terms—very unpleasantly.”

My fingers tighten around the mug. He never raises his voice; he doesn’t need to. He speaks with a controlled command that makes it clear he means every word.

Before I retreat, I note a shift in his tone. It grows colder.

“I’m aware of the clause, Damas.” My breath hitches at the name of his brother. “No,” Anatoly continues, “we agreed to fulfill the terms of the will, but it is not a breeding contract. The matter of an heir needs to be brought up delicately.”

The words slam into me. My stomach flips.

An heir?

There was nothing in the prenup about children. No line about fertility or expectations beyond the year-long marriage.

So why is Damas bringing this up? And why did Anatoly sound like he was clearly already aware of it?

I suddenly feel hollow. My mind spins. Was producing an heir part of the plan all along? Was that why I was chosen?

The call abruptly ends. I barely have time to move before he steps out of the room, calm and composed.

I quickly tiptoe back down the stairs to the kitchen, calmly sipping my coffee, trying to pretend like I didn’t just hear his conversation.

“Morning,” he says smoothly as he approaches a moment later. “I began handling everything for Chris this morning. The debt will be gone, your name will not be mentioned, and your brother will be safe. No one touches you. Ever.”

His words should settle me. And they do on the surface. But underneath, questions linger like smoke.

What else haven’t you told me ? The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t speak them. Instead, I smile. “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.

He watches me with an unreadable expression, like he’s waiting for me to say something else.

I take another sip of coffee and hold his gaze.