Page 28 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

A natoly never does simple.

Even a basic security audit under his direction feels like something out of a spy thriller—tight-lipped briefings, encrypted messages, NDAs.

The keycard situation proved it.

Some casino resorts in Vegas can be lax about upper-level access.

Not us. Not anymore.

After Ivan Smirnov’s surprise appearance outside Anatoly’s office—armed with threats, goons, and somehow an executive access elevator keycard—Anatoly decided the system needed more than an update.

It needed a complete overhaul.

He made a lone executive decision. Rather than call the all-hands-on-deck meeting we’d discussed, or install new locks like a normal person, Anatoly handed Charles a black folder, a spare keycard, and a simple directive: Cut the all-access card list to the bone.

There was no further discussion.

Today, the new list is born, made up of just ten names. Ten people in a high-rise empire of nearly five hundred employees.

When Charles slides the updated list and badge across my desk, the gleam in his eyes gives him away. He lives for this kind of procedure—tight control and clean structure.

“Congratulations,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “You’re officially harder to reach than the mayor.”

I tap my new titanium keycard—sleek, shiny, and thick. “And yet you still found me.”

Charles smirks. “Perks of being ancient and stubborn.”

I laugh, but a flutter—quick and electric—clicks in my chest.

This just got even more real.

I used to be the girl who stood at the concierge desk helping high rollers find steak tartare at 3 a.m. Now, I’m the wife of the man who owns the Hospitium , and this little card in my hand is physical proof that I’ve moved up a step—or fifty.

The card opens every room. Every floor. Every secret hallway. Even the hidden corridor behind the casino’s VIP lounge—an unmarked passage not even listed on the blueprints.

Me. Taylor Jenson. The same girl who once got locked in the linen closet during inventory, and no one noticed she was missing.

Now, I hold the passkey to an entire empire.

Part of me is intoxicated by the power—the luxury, the access, the way Anatoly looks at me when I walk into the room. The other part is petrified and a little bit intimidated. I can barely keep up with my inbox some days, and now I’m carrying a keycard that would make James Bond jealous.

God help me if I ever leave this in my laundry basket. The thought alone makes me press a hand to my hip pocket, like I need to reassure myself it’s still there.

It is.

Heavy. Cool. Absolutely irreplaceable.

Just like everything else in this new life.

Power or not, there’s always someone ready to nip at your ankles. For me, that someone is Megan from Events.

I’m loading VIP gift baskets when she saunters in, arms folded.

“Hello, Mrs. Ovechkina .” She drags the syllables out like they weigh a hundred pounds.

“Must be nice skipping the line for stockroom keys. Then again, I guess you don’t need permission when you’ve got a card that lets you into every corner of this place, no questions asked, courtesy of your new husband. ”

“Morning, Megan,” I reply, focusing on the task at hand, hoping that ignoring her little comment will end our spat before it even begins.

But then she grins, and I realize I’ll be having no such luck.

“Everyone’s talking, you know. Assistant manager one day, boss’s bride the next. Fairy-tale speedrun.”

I tighten the ribbon on a basket so hard the bow squeaks.

“If it helps, I still do inventory at 6 a.m., still answer guest tantrums about cold buffets, and I still know how many times you missed deadlines last quarter.” I set the basket aside, meeting her gaze squarely. “Nothing changed but my address.”

Megan blinks rapidly, then huffs, grabbing her clipboard. “Fine. Just don’t forget the little people,” she says with a dramatic roll of her eyes.

“Impossible,” I say sweetly. “You’re right in front of me.”

She stalks off, and I can’t help but smile.

Damn, that felt good.

Work distractions aside, two things gnaw at me.

First, my bank account—suddenly swollen like I hacked a tech bro’s Bitcoin wallet.

The sight of all those zeroes still makes my stomach flip.

I haven’t touched a dime of it. It just sits there, loud and proud, a reminder that I’m not just an assistant manager anymore.

I’m married to a man who can solve problems with wire transfers.

And then there’s Chris. Still radio silent. Not a text. Not a call. Not even a lazy meme. I’ve tried his number more times than I’d like to admit, but each time it went straight to voicemail. There’s been no, “I’m alive.” No, “Thanks, sis.” Just... silence. And that silence is killing me.

Every break I get, I try to call him, and every time, it goes straight to voicemail.

Classic Chris—vanish the moment things get complicated or sincere. Like emotional honesty might give him hives.

The money issue? Even trickier.

See, Anatoly didn’t just cover the debt.

He took care of the Bratva payoff and tacked a cushion onto my private bank account so plush it could moonlight as a Hospitium penthouse mattress.

The number glows from my banking app like some kind of mythical beast. It’s beautiful.

It’s terrifying. It makes my fingers twitch every time I look at it.

I check it often. Like, several times a day.

The guilt came first, then the confusion. Finally, the impulse to check whether my favorite flats came in crocodile. Still, I haven’t touched a cent. It just sits there, smug and ready. Like it knows .

By Friday evening, I can’t take it anymore. I leave my post a few minutes early and head to the top floor, where Anatoly’s office sits like a throne above the casino.

He sits behind his desk. Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he watches security footage like a college coach reviewing new defensive tackle techniques.

I knock once and slip inside.

“Busy?”

His gaze lifts and he smiles faintly. “Never too busy for my wife.”

I hold up my phone, banking app bright and accusing. “This extra money—why?”

One brow arches. “Because you’re my wife.”

“I already have a job. You sign the paychecks, remember?”

“I know exactly what you make,” he says with a lazy smile. “I’d prefer you never have to worry about things like tires or new clothes.”

Then he adds, casually but pointedly, “And speaking of tires, if it were up to me, the first thing you’d spend your money on would be a new car. Pay in cash. Something big. Safe.

I snort. “My car’s not that bad.”

He lifts a brow, unamused. “It’s older than parts of this casino. And I saw the duct tape holding your side mirror in place.”

I try to come up with a smart reply, but he’s not wrong. “Okay, maybe she’s a little tired.”

“She’s a liability,” he says. “Pick something out this week. Or I will. I’ll put more money in your account to cover it.”

And just like that, I know he means it.

He stands and moves around the desk, stopping when he’s close enough to trap me between his body and the polished edge of mahogany. One hand lifts, fingers grazing my jaw in a way that makes it very hard to breathe.

“As for the rest of the money, spend it. Save it. Ignore it,” he says. “But it’s yours. Let someone take care of you for once.”

I shiver—not from fear but from unfamiliar ease. I’m not used to being looked after. It feels dangerous and a little strange.

He hesitates a beat, then adds, “Oh, by the way, I handled your student loans.”

My brow furrows. “Handled?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “I paid them off.”

I blink, stunned. “You what ?”

“I didn’t want any debt hanging over your head,” he says with maddening calm. “You’ve carried enough. That’s done now.”

It takes me a full five seconds to form a sentence. “I–I was supposed to be paying those until I’m fifty.”

He shrugs, like wiping out years of financial burden is just something he does. “Not anymore.”

I open my mouth to protest, but all that comes out is a shaky breath. “Anatoly…”

He steps closer, brushing his knuckles down my cheek. “Like I said, let me take care of you. I want to.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead. Then, with his voice low and teasing, he says, “Go. Before Mrs. B walks in and files an HR complaint against you.”

That night, after the hustle of back-to-back VIP check-ins and a bridal party meltdown involving five missing dresses and one accidental spray tan to the face, I finally collapse onto the buttery leather sectional in the penthouse.

My heels are off. My robe is on. And my laptop hums softly against my thighs as I open my banking app for the millionth time today.

The numbers haven’t vanished.

They’re still there, bold and serene in their digital font—no scam, no error. Just a tidy stack of security. Freedom, rendered in comma-separated bliss.

For the first time since Chris called sobbing and stupid about a debt he couldn’t pay, since Mom and Dad’s accident, something inside me unclenches.

No more midnight math. No more slicing up a paycheck like a pie you hope doesn’t run out of pieces. No more “just in case” budgeting that leaves you with nothing left for yourself. For the first time in a decade, I’m not just surviving, I’m breathing.

The suite smells like vanilla coconut from the absurdly overpriced coffee pods I discovered earlier. The balcony doors are open, letting in the desert wind and the hum of the city. Somewhere in another room, I hear the low murmur of Anatoly’s voice on a call.

Everything seems peaceful, but there’s still plenty unsettled.

I still need to get a hold of my brother. I wish I could teleport to his location, shake him by the shoulders, and scream, “ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE!”

I still have coworkers who look at my left hand on a daily basis, like I shoplifted my wedding ring.

And Anatoly’s heir secret—because yes, that’s exactly what it feels like now—is still there, looming like distant thunder behind the mountains.

But none of it feels impossible. Not anymore.

I sip my coconut coffee, close the app, and smile at the night.