Page 4 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

ANATOLY

“ D on’t shoot the messenger. You know I’d never give you bad news by choice.”

I stand at my office window, gaze out at the sprawling Las Vegas skyline, and listen to my brother’s voice.

“I know,” I say, turning toward Damas. My brother has been there for me as long as I can remember—even when I was too stubborn to ask for help.

I trust him. But that doesn’t make his message any easier to swallow.

“They’re really going to do it?”

Damas leans against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, watching me with that sharp, restless energy he always carries. Damas is all quick glances and dry smirks—handsome, but in a rougher, more angular way.

He wears his dark hair messy, though in a stylish sort of way, his tailored clothes always just slightly askew, like he’s one step out of sync on purpose.

And right now, his trademark smirk, the one he always seems to wear, is missing.

He nods. “Yeah. They’re really going to do it.”

“Unbelievable. Part of me had hoped this was all a sick joke.”

“No such luck, brother.” Damas places a thick folder on my desk.

“The lawyers are adamant. Apparently, Mother and Father put every conceivable clause and backup clause in that will. No heir, no Hospitium . If you refuse, or fail to accomplish the request, the process of liquidation and donation begins.”

“Typical of them to throw in so many contingencies.”

Damas’s lips curve. There’s that smirk.

“They were thorough. You have to give them that.”

“I don’t want to give them a damn thing.”

Our parents have been dead for years—three for Mother, five for Father.

Yet even from beyond the grave, they manage to manipulate my life.

I loved them, admired them, but they always wanted me to become someone other than who I was.

A man who’d settle down, produce a family, carry on the Ovechkin name.

For years, I was in the dark about the process through which I’d inherit the Hospitium , and ownership would officially become mine. The lawyers kept it vague, cloaked in language that felt ceremonial more than binding.

Only several months ago—three years to the day since my mother passed—did everything click into place. That’s when the final clause of the will was triggered, and when the truth landed in my lap like a lead weight—no marriage, no heir, no Hospitium .

I still can’t believe it.

I can hear Father’s voice scolding me now: You can’t keep working like this forever, Anatoly. You need a wife, a legacy.

I pick up the folder and open it, skimming the first page of the documents inside. It’s a neat summary of the entire estate, listing our shares.

“I thought I could stall indefinitely, but apparently, that’s not an option anymore.”

Damas taps the page. “The lawyers have a timeline, which, I admit, they’re only now enforcing because you’ve avoided their polite reminders for so long.”

I shoot him a glare. “Polite reminders? They sent multiple letters telling me I had to get married and father a child, as if it’s something you can just check off a list. I ignored them because, well, it’s nonsense.”

He lifts his hands in a mild shrug. “It’s not nonsense to them, clearly. And it most definitely wasn’t to Father. This was his final wish.”

Hearing those words is like a gut punch. I hate that both of my parents are gone, and that this is how they’ve chosen to speak to me—through legal documents and obligations.

Slumping into my chair, I rub my temples. “What do they think I am, a stud horse? Someone to be trotted out and forcibly bred?”

Damas smirks. “Well, your love life isn’t exactly a parade of serious relationships. Maybe they anticipated you’d never commit, and this was their way of ensuring you’d actually settle down one day.”

A humorless chuckle escapes me. “Fantastic. Now my entire legacy—the hotel I’ve poured my life into—hinges on me producing a child.”

“That about sums it up.” He raises a finger. “And don’t forget, it has to be a legitimate heir, within the oh-so-holy confines of marriage. No knocking up a random cocktail waitress from downstairs and calling it a day.”

I snort. “A legitimate heir. All of this makes it sound like it’s the year 1825, not 2025.”

Damas chuckles. I don’t. There’s nothing funny about any of this.

I set the folder down carefully, feeling the weight of its contents and the conversation bearing down on my shoulders.

The Hospitium .

My business. My home.

From the day I learned to walk, I was toddling around its hallways, greeting guests, watching Father hold court with high rollers in the VIP lounge.

I made my first business deal at nineteen years old in one of its conference rooms. It’s mine, intimately and completely.

The idea of losing it makes my vision blur with anger.

Damas clears his throat. “So, what’s your plan? Getting married is a big step. Having a child is an even bigger one.”

I turn in my seat and rake a hand through my hair.

“I don’t have one. I’m trying to wrap my head around all of this.

I just found out the timeline is real and that these lawyers can and will enforce it.

Hell, if it comes down to it, I guess I can try to fight them in court, but that would be disrespectful to our parents.

” I let out a frustrated sigh. “I can’t betray them like that. ”

“Which is precisely why you need to consider other options. I’ve mentioned surrogacy.”

“Right,” I reply dryly and uninterested. “You suggested I hire a stranger to bear my child. It’s like ordering a product online.”

“It sounds harsh, but yes.” He shrugs. “Get a surrogate, do a quickie marriage, have the kid, then annul. Not exactly what Mother and Father had in mind in the spirit of the will, but it’d follow the letter. Surrogacy is a common practice nowadays. Plenty of people do it.”

“Except I’m not plenty of people, Damas,” I retort. “I’d need to be sure that the woman has no intention of claiming the child later. In order to do something like that, you’d need absolute trust, which I’d never have in a random surrogate.”

He begins pacing. “Alright, so if not a stranger, then how about someone you’ve dated? That one woman, what was her name, Catarina?”

My jaw sets. “Catarina was a passing affair. She made it perfectly clear in her words and behavior that she’s not the maternal type.”

Damas lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you sure? Because for the right amount, I’ll bet she’d find a maternal streak quickly.

You’d barely have to see her. She pops out your kid, you pay her a fortune, she disappears.

You hire the best nannies and tutors, then file for divorce down the line. Problem solved.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” I shoot him a scorching glare. “I’m not turning my child’s future into a crass business transaction. I might be a pragmatic businessman, but I’m not heartless.”

He raises his hands defensively. “I’m just exploring all the angles, big brother. If you’re determined to see your child raised in a stable environment, you need a woman who’s open to the idea. That’s going to be tough. Not every woman wants to be the next Mrs. Ovechkina.”

A flicker of irritation flares. “Don’t be ridiculous. Plenty of women would jump at the chance to marry me for my money, but that doesn’t mean I’d trust them. Plus, I’m not so sure I even want a wife. What I am sure of is that I don’t want to lose the Hospitium .”

“It sounds like you’re in quite the bind.” Damas circles around my desk and places his hands on the back of my chair. “Do you have any other prospects in mind? Maybe some woman you actually like?”

I clamp my mouth shut. I’ve been seeing a woman or two casually, but none who strike me as wife or mother material. I haven’t met anyone that sparks that deep, primal interest beyond a surface-level attraction.

“No,” I reply. “And if you so much as mention that I should propose to any other of my exes, I’ll throw you out of this office.”

He chuckles. “Noted.”

Silence stretches between us. I can hear the faint hum of the air conditioning, see the swirl of dust motes in the sunlight streaming through the window. My father’s portrait stares down at me from across the room, as if silently judging.

Damas comes back around my desk, taking a seat in one of the guest chairs, and clearing his throat. “Look, maybe it’s not all doom and gloom. At least you have options. If it came down to it, I could buy the Hospitium , keep it in the family, but I’m guessing that’s not something you’d want.”

I slam a hand on the desk with more force than intended. “Absolutely not. The Hospitium is mine . Father left it to me. No offense, brother, but you didn’t even show an interest in running a lemonade stand when we were kids, let alone a hotel. I’m not handing it over to you.”

He smirks. “Touchy, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” I say through clenched teeth. “This hotel is my life. I’ve poured countless hours and passion into every expansion and partnership. I’ve sacrificed normalcy. I’ve missed multiple special events; I never take vacations.”

Damas lifts a brow, as though impressed by my vehemence. “I get it. The Hospitium is your baby, which is why I’m saying maybe there’s a simpler solution. Find someone you can stand to be around, someone who wants kids, and put a ring on it.”

I blow out a breath, ignoring the near-laughable phrasing. “What if I don’t find someone in time? The documents state that I have to produce an heir within a certain time period, not just a marriage.”

“You do have to move quickly. But presumably, if you’re married and actively trying to have a kid, the lawyers might grant an extension. The sooner you get married, the stronger your case is that you’re honoring Father’s will in good faith.”

“Huh.” I lean forward, elbows on the desk. “So I get married, and we say we’re attempting to conceive. The board of lawyers sees I’m upholding the terms, and they back off for a while. Figure the heir thing will come along down the road.”