Page 104 of Under His Control
The silence of the penthouse feels too big after the constant beeping of heart monitors and the soft squeak of nurses’ shoes. I should be sleeping, getting some physical and mental rest. But my body hasn’t caught up to the fact that I’m safe yet. It’s like it’s waiting for the next emergency.
I’m so tired. The kind of fatigue that settles in your bones.
The penthouse door opens.
Anatoly walks in like he’s afraid his breathing is too loud. For a man who can order a room cleared with one look, he’s been oddly timid around me lately.
He doesn’t say anything right away. He just crosses the room and places something on the coffee table. An envelope. Thick. Cream-colored. Official-looking.
I finally look at him. He’s watching me, his blue eyes softer than usual. But there’s something else there, something heavy. Notcold, not calculating. Just... full. Like he’s carrying more than he wants me to know.
He clears his throat quietly and approaches, crouching beside the chair. His hand brushes over the fleece blanket.
“Chris is going to get the best medical care in the state,” he says. “I’ve already arranged for the specialists at St. Rose’s. And when he’s cleared for rehab, he’ll have the finest physical therapy, mental health support, everything he needs.”
I blink, emotion rising too fast for me to filter it. “Anatoly…”
He keeps going. “He’ll have a place to stay. Food. Bills covered. Whatever he needs to get back on his feet, he’ll have it.”
I shake my head, my throat tight. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I did,” he says, cutting me off gently. He meets my eyes, fierce and unwavering. “Because that’s what husbands do.”
It knocks the wind out of me more than any grand gesture could’ve. Not because he said it, but because he meant it. Not out of obligation. Not out of guilt. Out of love—pure, steady, and unshakable.
I manage a quiet “Thank you.”
He gestures to the envelope.
“I had the lawyers draft a new will,” he says.
That gets my full attention.
“A new will?”
He nods. “Yes, for me. Clean. No clauses, no legacy traps. Exactly whatIwant to leave behind.”
I blink.
“What about the old one, your father’s will? The clause about needing an heir to keep theHospitium?”
“I convinced his lawyers I’d satisfied the terms. I’m married. Heir on the way. As far as they’re concerned, the conditions were met. TheHospitiumis fully mine now. No more waiting.”
He pauses, then adds, “And this,” he taps the envelope, then pulls a silver lighter from his pocket, “this is the original. The version with the clause. The one my father clung to like it was sacred law.”
“And now?”
“Now,” he says, handing me the envelope, “we’re going to burn it.”
Okay. Not the twist I expected.
He flicks the lighter open, the flame small but steady. I sit up straighter, the blanket sliding off my lap, and lean over.
I press the corner into the flame. It takes a second, then the edge curls, blackens, and catches. We drop it into the crystal bowl on the table, watching in silence as it turns to ash.
No drama. No monologue. Done.
Anatoly exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the day we met.
