Page 25 of Ruthless Serenade

But as I try to drift off to sleep, something just won't let me rest. A thought that keeps nagging me, a tiny voice from the past that just won’t go away. A thought about a certain someone that exited my life seven years ago. After about thirty minutes of tossing and turning, I decide to get up and head to the kitchen for a hot chocolate. It is the only thing that helps me on these evenings like this.

On my way to the kitchen, I glance into Sharon’s room. Seeing her peacefully sleeping form, her tousled hair framing her face, makes me smile and feel comforted. She’s fast asleep, breathing softly. Her features are now smooth, the tension that had gripped her earlier no longer visible.

My perfect little daughter.

Once I’m in the kitchen, I clutch the warm mug of cocoa. The steam rises, carrying the scent of chocolate - a luxury I allow myself only on nights like this. My eyes drift to the fridge, covered with Sharon’s drawings: stick figures of the two of us. Just her and me. No dad, no siblings, no pets. The silence of our small apartment seems to mock the laughter and friendly chaos that should fill a family home.

A lone tear escapes. It’s just not fair. Every kid deserves a beautiful childhood with a loving family. Grandparents, aunties, cousins, pets, and… a dad. But all Sharon has is me, and all I have is her.

And now, this selective mutism… How are we supposed to handle it? Will she grow out of it? How can I support her through this? And let’s be real, what will this mean in real-world terms? Will she need professional help? How will that affect our daily logistics? How much will it cost?

My gaze falls on the pile of bills on the counter, then shifts to the calendar on the wall. The latter, marked with doctor’s appointments and work deadlines, mockingly stares back at me. It’s almost as if it’s challenging me, daring me to keep up with its relentless demands. I feel the weight of it all press down on my shoulders, a constant reminder that no matter how hard I push, life keeps pushing back.

My hand trembles slightly as I lift the mug to my lips, allowing the sweet warmth of the liquid to calm my mind. I check the time - it’s almost midnight. Work tomorrow is going to be hell.

Maybe Betty's onto something. Maybe I should start looking for a partner more seriously. This whole situation is just too much for one person to handle. But why does dating have to be so damn exhausting? Why is it that I’m only able to meet a bunch of jerks who lack even the most basic human decency? It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

But deep down, I know there’s more to it than just that. The real reason for being a single mother lingers in the back of my mind, like a dark shadow from the past. A dark shadow thatjust won’t go away. It follows me wherever I go and there isn’t a single moment when I’m unaware of it.

"Maron." I say the name out loud.

A moment later, I’m shaking my head, unsure where the hell that came from. But I just can’t help it. What if he’s out there somewhere? What if he didn’t die that day?

The more I think about it, the more believable it seems. If there’s one person who could fake his own death, it’s Maron Korolev. He’s got the power and the connections to pull off something like that. And with the Tramoxine launch going south all those years ago, perhaps he had a reason to do it.

Oh my God!

What if he’s really out there?

I don’t know what to think anymore. Even if he’s alive, what am I supposed to do with that information? He could have contacted me, but he never did. But then again, why would he? Should I contact him? Shouldn’t he know he has a daughter? And even if I decided to reach out to him, how would I get hold of him? I don’t even know for sure if he’s alive!

My mind feels like a clusterfuck of confusion. Not even my late-night hot chocolate can help these thoughts go away. But I’ve been around long enough to know one thing: the Universe has a funny way of knocking on your door when you least expect it.

Sometimes, the only sensible thing to do is wait and observe… and allow things to unfold at their natural pace.

Chapter Ten

Maron

I lean back in my office chair and survey the representatives of the streaming company I just acquired.

"Gentlemen," I say, "It’s been a pleasure doing business with you."

The lead negotiator, a sharp-suited man named David Wells, nods in response. "I have to admit, Mr. Korolev, you and your team drove a hard bargain. But I believe this deal will be beneficial for both of our companies."

I chuckle, reaching for the signed contract on the table. The guy is a typical office rat in a suite, spilling out politically correct corporate shit. I know this world in and out and I can navigate it well. So, I meet him where he is and respond in the same ridiculous manner, just to piss him off a little.

"I couldn't agree more, Mr. Wells. The acquisition of your streaming service is a major coup for Global Media. With your exclusive content and subscriber base, we're poised to dominate the industry." I tell him, placing extra emphasis on the word ‘acquisition’.

David Wells sets down his pen and stares at me with a fake smile. I can tell that he can barely contain his frustration. It’s obvious that he’s not happy that I bought his precious little business, but I couldn’t care less. "It's been a pleasuredoing business with you, Mr. Korolev. I have no doubt that our streaming service will thrive under the Global Media umbrella."

What he really means is that he doesn’t want to be my bitch, but unfortunately for him, there’s nothing he can do about it.

We stand up and firmly shake hands. I can feel the tension in the room but it’s not my problem. I’m only here for this meeting. My appointed CEO will take care of the rest.

"Welcome to the Global Media family, Mr. Wells," I tell him, just to grind his gears a little.

It's a good day to be Maron Korolev, I think to myself as I close the door behind Wells and his associates. I walk up to the bar and pour myself a glass of whiskey, watching the golden liquid engulf the ice cubes. I take a sip, savoring the smooth burn as it slides down my throat. The whiskey is a celebration, a toast to another successful deal, another feather in my cap. But as I settle into my chair, the weight of the empty room seems to press in on me.

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