Page 5 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

Damas spreads his hands. “You’re the genius business negotiator. I’d expect no less from you. Just do your usual trick and find the best compromise. If you can secure a marriage license, maybe they’ll give you more time. At least, that’s how I’d play it.”

It’s cold, it’s calculating, and it’s not how I pictured my future, but it’s the best plan on the table right now.

That said, I’m not about to propose to a random woman on the street. “I’m not comfortable going into a fake marriage. I can’t treat my wife like she’s a contract.”

Damas shrugs. “Sure you can. It happens all the time. Money, power, the chance to be Mrs. Ovechkina. Women have married for less.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re impossible. Perhaps it starts off transactional, but it doesn’t have to stay that way.”

His lips quirk. “You’re being sentimental, big brother. Never thought I’d see that. But I get it. You’re not content with a faceless baby incubator. You want a woman you respect. That’s kind of sweet, actually.” He laughs.

I get up and pace behind my desk. “It’s not sweet, it’s practical. If we’re sharing a child, I can’t hate her. Or worse, not trust her at all. That’s a recipe for disaster.”

“Hey, I’m on your side,” he replies, palms up. “So how do you propose to find such a woman? Speed dating? Hinge?”

“God.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I have no idea. This entire scenario is insane.”

Damas stands and straightens his suit jacket. “Look, I don’t want to push you, but the clock is ticking. The lawyers gave you a final ultimatum—six months to show real progress or they begin the process of selling the hotel.”

I can’t let them do it. The mere thought of outsiders dismantling my hotel, selling it to the highest bidder, possibly turning it into some brand-new corporate monstrosity that doesn’t retain the Ovechkin flair, makes me sick.

No. Unacceptable.

Damas’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and glances at the screen. “I’ve got to get downstairs. I promised the floor manager I’d do a walk-through with him.”

“How philanthropic of you,” I comment dryly. Lately, Damas has shown more interest in the property’s day-to-day operations than before. Part of me appreciates his help, another part wonders what’s changed.

He smirks, then moves toward the door, pausing with a hand on the knob. “One last piece of advice: don’t ignore this. You’ve got six months. Make a plan. If you need me, I’m here.”

With that, he disappears into the hallway. I stare after him, feeling trapped. He’s right. This entire scenario demands immediate attention. But how the hell do I fix it?

I glance at the folder again. My parents must have been convinced I’d never marry unless I was forced to. Perhaps they were right. I’ve spent my adult life focusing on work, ignoring the possibility of any real commitment.

Now, the question of whom I can trust enough to marry, share my life with, have my child plagues me. Gritting my teeth, I pick up the folder, only to drop it down on the desk again, as if that would smother the anxiety.

My gaze flicks to the window. The city sprawls beneath me, neon glitz even in the daytime. It’s easy to feel all-powerful from this vantage point, like nothing can harm me.

But apparently, my parents can.

A chuckle escapes my throat. “Thanks for the nudge,” I mutter under my breath. “Is this really what you both wanted, to corner me like this?”

I close my eyes, memories flooding in. Family dinners in the Hospitium ’s exclusive restaurant. Mother sipping tea, Father insisting I find a nice girl and settle down.

I was always too busy with expansions, forging alliances, ensuring the Smirnov Bratva or any other shady partner wasn’t stepping out of line.

Marriage was the last thing on my mind. Now it’s the only thing that might save me.

I collapse into my chair, my muscles tense as if I’d just been through a boxing match. Options filter through my brain, but none of them interests me. They’re all too shallow, too self-absorbed, or simply out of the question.

I could do what Damas suggested—pay some woman a fortune to conceive. But the idea feels so cold, so clinical, not to mention risky. If she decides to keep the child, or tries to blackmail me, I’ll be in a worse position.

I let out a slow breath, forcing my pulse to settle. “There has to be a middle ground,” I tell myself. “Someone who’s strong enough to handle my life, but genuine and maternal enough to care for a child, sensible enough to understand that this is all an arrangement.”

The problem is I’ve never looked for that. I’ve never let myself. Business has always been my love, that, and the occasional fling to satisfy my basic needs. The notion of actually sharing a life with someone, learning her secrets, letting her see mine—trusting her—that’s foreign territory.

Swiveling my chair toward the window, I let my gaze roam over the shimmering city again. “I don’t have to find a perfect fairy-tale romance,” I mutter.

My phone buzzes on the desk. It’s a text from one of my staff, letting me know Ivan Smirnov is here for a meeting. I scowl at the thought of the Smirnov Bratva boss. I don’t particularly like dealing with him, but business is business.

At least the Smirnov problem is easier to handle than my personal crisis. I can face the Smirnovs with the same iron will I’ve always used to keep them in check. But the question of an heir? That’s an intangible in comparison.

As I stand, I glance at the folder one more time. The words contained within practically sneer back at me.

Inheritance. Condition. Heir.

Shaking my head, I walk to the door. One crisis at a time. For now, I’ll handle the Bratva. Then I’ll figure out how to handle my future, and who might share it with me.

I refuse to lose the Hospitium . My parents might have played a final hand from beyond the grave, but I don’t intend to fold.

One way or another, I’ll find a way to keep what’s mine—and meet this damn stipulation .