Page 70 of Under His Control
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. “Youwhat?”
“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.
CHAPTER 27
TAYLOR
Five weeks. Thirty-five days of waking up to Anatoly Ovechkin’s messy hair and raspy voice. That’s thirty-five mornings of watching sunlight stretch over sheets rumpled by way too little sleep—and even less clothing.
Not that I’m complaining.
If someone had told me three months ago that I’d not only marry my boss but also genuinely enjoy sharing a life with him, I’d have asked what they were smoking and where I could get some. Yet here I am, padding barefoot across the softest carpet I’ve ever felt, the fibers plush beneath my toes like a five-star cloud.
He’s still in bed, all sprawling limbs and smug post-orgasm glow, one arm tossed over the pillow I abandoned minutes ago. The sheet sits low on his hips, muscles on shameless display. Honestly, he’s lucky I don’t crawl back in there and make us both late for work.
