Page 35 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

ANATOLY

I glance at my watch, irritation simmering. The real estate meeting dragged on, driven by a parade of bureaucrats too enamored with their own voices. They waste time quibbling over minor zoning variances while I try to envision the future.

Each pointless debate frays my patience further, but I keep my mask of cool indifference perfectly intact. To show frustration is a weakness, and weakness in Vegas real estate is lethal.

The vibration of my phone pulls me from my internal fury. I open the message, and my jaw tightens.

It’s from Damas.

Come home immediately. There’s something you need to know about your lovely bride.

The wording is deliberate, bitter. Damas is many things, but he's rarely cryptic without purpose. Unease coils inside me, and I excuse myself, stepping out of the room.

I hit dial, pacing impatiently as the line connects.

Damas answers curtly, “Not on the phone. Come home.”

“What the hell is going on?” I growl.

He chuckles humorlessly. “Trust me, brother. You’ll want to hear this face-to-face.”

He hangs up abruptly, leaving the phone dead in my ear.

Frustrated, I send a quick text to Taylor, fingers tight with tension.

Everything okay?

A reply doesn’t come. Minutes tick by, every second of silence amplifying the sickening dread pooling inside me. Something is off. My mind races through possibilities, none of them good.

Panic flares, unfamiliar and unwelcome. I shove it down and replace it with purpose. Action solves more problems than idle fear ever could.

I dismiss the attendees and leave the building. I slide behind the wheel of my car, the engine roaring to life, vibrating through my bones. Traffic snarls as usual, a sluggish monster indifferent to urgency. My grip on the wheel tightens as my imagination spins dark scenarios.

It takes twenty agonizing minutes to reach the Hospitium , and another two minutes waiting impatiently at the elevator to my penthouse. Every second grates against my skin, fraying nerves already raw.

The elevator finally opens to the top floor. I step into the foyer, feeling dread spreading like frost through my veins as I open my front door.

Damas lounges in my leather armchair, a tumbler of whiskey dangling from careless fingertips. His expression is smug, self-satisfied, as if he just orchestrated the perfect trap.

Taylor stands by the vast panoramic windows, her curvaceous form silhouetted by Vegas’s glittering lights.

My pulse quickens at the mere sight of her, tension easing for a fraction of a second to see that she is unharmed.

Then she turns, eyes wide, face pale and drawn.

Fear shines in her gaze, and something inside me clenches tight.

“Anatoly,” she whispers.

Damas opens his mouth, a mocking taunt forming, but Taylor moves first, dashing across the room. She throws herself into my embrace, her body trembling. I instinctively wrap my arms around her, holding her close, protecting her from an unseen threat.

“Are you hurt?” I ask urgently, fingers sliding through her hair, down her back, seeking injuries. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No, not physically,” she says with a shaky voice, burying her face into my chest, seeking shelter there. Her warmth, her scent, anchors me instantly.

Damas snorts, rising from his seat. “God, you’re whipped, Anatoly. One well-timed tear and you’re ready to tear this city apart.”

I shoot him a glare sharp enough to slice steel. “Explain.”

“Oh no,” Damas smirks, sipping his whiskey slowly. “I’m going to let her do that.”

Taylor pulls back slightly, her eyes meeting mine. “Chris was downstairs at the casino tonight, gambling with Ivan’s men—the two that accompanied him on his uninvited visit to your office. I confronted him. We argued. He lashed out, said some awful things.”

“What kind of things?” I prompt, my voice dangerously low.

Damas chuckles darkly. “She’s avoiding the best part. Tell him the secret your brother let slip Taylor. Tell him or I will.”

Taylor flinches visibly, spinning toward him. “Shut up, Damas. You have no right!”

I’m confused as I look back and forth between the two of them, trying to absorb the words, my mind racing.

Taylor turns back to me; desperation etched into every line of her lovely face.

“I had leukemia as a kid. The treatments damaged my fertility. Doctors told me I probably would never be able to conceive. But?—”

Her words become a distant echo, drowned out by the sudden roar of blood in my ears. A marriage. The Hospitium . My family legacy. Everything I’ve fought for hinges on me having a child. She never disclosed this critical fact. Anger coils within, intertwined with sharp betrayal.

My jaw clenches. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Keeping it from you wasn’t intentional—” she starts.

Damas interrupts smoothly, mockingly. “Without an heir, you lose everything—marriage or not. Our parents were clear.”

“I know what the damn will says,” I hiss.

Taylor looks from me to Damas, then back at me again, confused.

I step closer, my voice low, barely restrained. “Why didn’t you tell me this before we got married?”

“Because saving my brother was the most important thing at that time. You told me you needed to be married for a year. You didn’t say I needed to give you an heir.”

That hits. Hard.

I take a deep breath.

She’s right. We both had our agendas.

And that only makes me angrier.

Angrier because I care. Angrier because I let my guard down. Angrier because Damas is standing there, watching us unravel like it’s his favorite TV show.

Taylor reaches for me again, her voice trembling. “Please, Anatoly. Can we discuss this privately?”

The plea softens me slightly, but anger still pulses hot beneath my skin. I step back, heart wrenching at the pain etched on her face. “I need some time.”

Without another word, I leave, Damas’s bitter laughter chasing me down the hall.

Soon I’m back in my car, the lights of Vegas fading in my rearview mirror. I drive fast, pushing the powerful engine to its limit, seeking clarity, seeking a place where I can no longer feel my heart breaking. The desert unfolds around me, harsh and honest in a way the city could never be.

I pull over abruptly, tires crunching over gravel and sand, and kill the engine. Silence crashes down, heavy and oppressive. I step out, the night air sharp, cooling the sweat at my temples. My chest heaves, emotion warring violently inside.

Taylor.

Her frightened eyes, her desperate embrace. The trust I saw there, wounded but still present. I see her clearly in the darkness, feel her presence despite her absence. The idea of losing her sends panic clawing at my chest.

But without a child, I lose everything—the legacy I've spent my life preserving. The Hospitium is my heritage, my family honor. My father built it; my mother cherished it. Their dying wish was clear, binding.

Producing an heir is non-negotiable.

I pace restlessly, rage and sorrow coiling together. I love her. Goddammit, I am utterly, irrevocably in love with Taylor. This is no longer just a contract or convenience; it’s real. It’s dangerous. It’s complicated.

How do I choose between the woman who holds my heart, and the legacy engraved in my blood?

My throat tightens. Despite our initial agendas, she gave herself to me entirely, and I’ve repaid that trust by doubting her intentions and leaving her alone to face Damas’s cruelty. The realization burns shamefully.

The desert wind whispers softly, cool and constant, indifferent to my turmoil.

Stars glitter overhead, distant and unhelpful.

My shoulders sag, exhaustion pulling at me.

In my life, choices have always been black and white.

Business decisions, precise and logical. But now, everything is blurred, messy.

Would I be able to walk away from the Hospitium , from the power, the legacy? Would she even stay with me if I did?

But what if…?

A sudden, fierce thought strikes me. What if what Taylor was told is wrong? Doctors aren’t gods. Predictions fail; miracles happen. What if we could still have a child somehow? Could love bridge the impossible?

I cling to that fragile hope, desperation making it shine brighter.

Taking a deep breath, I turn back toward the car. It’s time to return—to face her, to listen, to decide together.

I won’t lose her. I can’t.

Clarity settles within me, stark yet oddly comforting. Love, I realize, is terrifyingly powerful. It changes everything.

But, for her, I’m ready to fight, to bend fate itself.

And if I must choose between legacy and love, perhaps my decision is already made.