Page 69 of Under His Control
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 timesyoumissed 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 aHospitiumpenthouse 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 itknows.
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.”
