Page 68 of Under His Control
Anatoly never does simple.
Even a basic security audit under his direction feels like something out of a spy thriller—tight-lipped briefings, encrypted messages, NDAs.
The keycard situation proved it.
Some casino resorts in Vegas can be lax about upper-level access.
Not us. Not anymore.
After Ivan Smirnov’s surprise appearance outside Anatoly’s office—armed with threats, goons, and somehow an executive access elevator keycard—Anatoly decided the system needed more than an update.
It needed a complete overhaul.
He made a lone executive decision. Rather than call the all-hands-on-deck meeting we’d discussed, or install new locks like a normal person, Anatoly handed Charles a black folder, a sparekeycard, and a simple directive: Cut the all-access card list to the bone.
There was no further discussion.
Today, the new list is born, made up of just ten names. Ten people in a high-rise empire of nearly five hundred employees.
When Charles slides the updated list and badge across my desk, the gleam in his eyes gives him away. He lives for this kind of procedure—tight control and clean structure.
“Congratulations,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “You’re officially harder to reach than the mayor.”
I tap my new titanium keycard—sleek, shiny, and thick. “And yet you still found me.”
Charles smirks. “Perks of being ancient and stubborn.”
I laugh, but a flutter—quick and electric—clicks in my chest.
This just got even more real.
I used to be the girl who stood at the concierge desk helping high rollers find steak tartare at 3 a.m. Now, I’m the wife of the man who owns theHospitium, and this little card in my hand is physical proof that I’ve moved up a step—or fifty.
The card opens every room. Every floor. Every secret hallway. Even the hidden corridor behind the casino’s VIP lounge—an unmarked passage not even listed on the blueprints.
Me. Taylor Jenson. The same girl who once got locked in the linen closet during inventory, and no one noticed she was missing.
Now, I hold the passkey to an entire empire.
Part of me is intoxicated by the power—the luxury, the access, the way Anatoly looks at me when I walk into the room. The other part is petrified and a little bit intimidated. I can barely keep up with my inbox some days, and now I’m carrying a keycard that would make James Bond jealous.
God help me if I ever leave this in my laundry basket. The thought alone makes me press a hand to my hip pocket, like I need to reassure myself it’s still there.
It is.
Heavy. Cool. Absolutely irreplaceable.
Just like everything else in this new life.
Power or not, there’s always someone ready to nip at your ankles. For me, that someone is Megan from Events.
I’m loading VIP gift baskets when she saunters in, arms folded. “Hello,Mrs.Ovechkina.” She drags the syllables out like they weigh a hundred pounds. “Must be nice skipping the line for stockroom keys. Then again, I guess you don’t need permission when you’ve got a card that lets you into every corner of this place, no questions asked, courtesy of your new husband.”
“Morning, Megan,” I reply, focusing on the task at hand, hoping that ignoring her little comment will end our spat before it even begins.
But then she grins, and I realize I’ll be having no such luck.
“Everyone’s talking, you know. Assistant manager one day, boss’s bride the next. Fairy-tale speedrun.”
