Page 40 of Desperate Measures

I was only fucking human, and more so where she was concerned. Her eyes remained closed for another beat, and I took the opportunity to drop one more close-mouthed kiss on her lips.

“You ready?”

“Yeah. I’m ready,” she whispered and squeezed my hand where it was still cupping her neck.

I didn’t even realize I was still holding her. I forced my fingers to relax and turned to nod at my driver. He opened the door and out I stepped.

I turned back towards Michaela, pleased to see she was already sliding across the bench to get out on my side.

I hummed my approval, offering her my hand, which she took. Then I took her red bag from her other hand, and walked towards the private elevator that would bring us right to Adrik Volkov’s floor.

The security guard looked up, his eyes widened when he saw me with Michaela but he was professional enough not to say anything.

“Visiting your father, Miss Volkov?” he said, speaking directly to my wife and annoying the shit out of me.

I wanted to correct him. To tell him her name was O’Doyle, but I wasn’t exactly sure that was true.

Shit.

Had I neglected to see to that?

I gritted my teeth, realizing my fuckups as a husband went beyond ignoring my new wife in my efforts to deny my growing obsession with her.

But I would fix it.

I would fix everything.

As much as I wanted ODI to succeed, I was starting to think it wasn’t the only thing I needed or wanted in my life.

Starting today.

Chapter 14-Michaela

My low-heeled, leather-soled boots made a soft clacking sound against the highly polished marble floor, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap echoing through the vast corridor that led to my father’s and uncles’ offices.

The sound felt too loud, almost jarring, against the deep silence that surrounded me, as if the floor itself was meant to absorb the weight of what happened here, and I was disturbing that delicate balance.

These were hallowed halls.

Every inch of this place seemed to hold history, to carry the ghosts of decisions made in sound-proofed rooms and secret board meetings.

The walls were lined with sleek, modern art. The floor to ceiling windows offering a view of Manhattan only matched by the other kingmakers in the city.

Everything about Volkov Towers exuded power and authority, as though the very structure had been built with that innate strength in mind.

This was where kings worked—at least, that’s how it felt.

Men who made and unmade empires, not with armies or revolutions, but with the stroke of a pen.

They brokered billion-dollar contracts, reshaped markets, and manipulated industries with the ease of someone flipping through a deck of cards.

The men that ran Volkov Industries made the kinds of decisions that could bring entire governments to their knees or send millions of people’s lives spinning in a new direction, often without them ever knowing who held the power to make it all happen.

I always felt so small coming here when I was a child. But I’d always been so very proud of my father.

Proud to be his daughter.

But as I grew into adulthood, my desire to prove myself and to stand on my own only increased.

---