Page 69 of Triplet Babies
22
Yarik
Ireturn to the estate just after five, still thinking about last night with Sarah. The meeting with our Port Authority contacts went better than expected, opening new possibilities for legitimate shipping routes that could help distance us from some of the shadier aspects of our operations. For the first time in years, I can see a path toward something cleaner that Sarah wouldn’t have to be ashamed of.
The drive back to the estate gave me time to think about the conversation I need to have with Sarah about our future. Last night changed everything between us, shifted us from stolen moments to something that feels permanent and real. I want to tell her about the plans forming in my mind, the legitimate businesses we could build together, and the life we could have away from the constant threat of violence.
My office is empty when I arrive, which surprises me until I check the time. Sarah must have left right at five, which isn’t unusual, but I’d hoped to catch her before she went home. Thespace feels different without her presence, smaller somehow, like all the air has been sucked out of the room.
I settle at my desk and review the notes from today’s meeting, but my mind keeps drifting to the way she looked this morning in her kitchen. She was soft, rumpled, and completely unguarded in a way I’ve rarely seen. There was something different about her that made me want to stay in that small apartment forever and forget about the rest of the world.
The paperwork blurs together as I replay moments from the night before. The way she moved beneath me, the sounds she made, and the vulnerability in her eyes when she let me see past all her carefully constructed walls linger with me. I’ve never felt anything like what I felt with her last night and never wanted to protect someone so fiercely while simultaneously wanting to possess them completely.
Valentin enters without knocking, carrying a folder and looking grimly focused. I gesture to the chair across from my desk, already knowing this conversation will pull me back into the reality I was hoping to leave behind.
He settles into the chair and opens the folder immediately, his movements precise and businesslike. “We need to talk about your exit strategy.”
I lean back in my chair, studying his face and noting the tension around his eyes. “Meaning?”
He spreads documents across my desk, each page organized and highlighted. “Meaning if you’re serious about ending the engagement, we need to approach it strategically. The Nikitins don’t handle rejection well, and Katya especially won’t appreciate being cast aside for your assistant.”
The clinical way he describes Sarah makes my jaw tighten, but I keep my expression neutral. I pick up one of the documents, scanning the financial projections. “What do you recommend?”
He points to specific entries on the shipping manifests, tracing transaction patterns with his finger that tell the story of our intertwined businesses. “I propose a series of business-based negotiations designed to make the dissolution look mutual. We set up trade route disputes and territorial disagreements… Something that gives both families a face-saving reason to step back from the alliance.”
He pulls out additional pages, spreading them across my desk like pieces of a complex puzzle. “You should request a meeting with Leonid and his sons. Frame it as discussing expansion into new markets, but you’ll really be laying groundwork for the separation.”
I study the paperwork, noting the complexity of untangling our business relationships. Every shipping route, every shared contact, and every joint account represents another thread that needs to be carefully severed without triggering retaliation. “That makes sense.” I lean forward, recognizing the strategic brilliance of his plan. “How long until I can call off the engagement?”
His shoulders sag slightly as he meets my gaze. “If you want to avoid all-out war, these machinations will take three months, minimum. Maybe longer if they resist, which they’re bound to do to start with.”
I groan. Three months of pretending to plan a wedding with Katya while building a life with Sarah in secret sounds miserable. Three months of maintaining the lie while hoping nothing explodes in our faces sounds unfeasible. The timelinefeels impossible, especially when I think about Sarah waiting for me to put her first.
I close the folder and meet his gaze, noting the concern etched in the lines around his eyes. “Set up the meeting. Tell them I want to discuss expanding our Port Authority relationships. I guess we’ll start there. I leave the planning to you.”
“I’ll handle it.” He stands, gathering the documents with efficient movements, but pauses before heading toward the door. “What about Sarah? Does she know what you’re planning?”
I shake my head, already dreading that conversation and the questions she’ll ask about timelines and guarantees I can’t give. “Not yet. I want to have a concrete timeline before I make promises I might not be able to keep.” My last estimate of months almost pushed her away entirely, and I’m not sure her reaction will be any different this time.
Valentin stops at the door, resting his hand on the frame as he turns back to study my expression. “What if she can’t wait?”
The question touches on fears I’ve been trying to ignore. I turn toward the window, watching shadows lengthen across the estate grounds as evening settles over Greenwich. “She’ll wait.” I try to sound confident, but there’s a wobble of doubt.
His footsteps retreat down the hallway, but his doubt, along with my own, lingers in the air like smoke. The confidence in my voice doesn’t match my uncertainty . Sarah has already waited months for me to figure out how to navigate my engagement to Katya. How much longer can I reasonably ask her to stay in the shadows?
After he leaves, I try calling Sarah, needing to hear her voice and reassure myself last night wasn’t a dream. The call goes straight to voicemail, her recorded message playing in my ear with professional politeness that gives away nothing.
I pace to the window and back, checking my phone every few minutes for a response that doesn’t come. The silence bothers me more than it should. After everything we shared last night, pulling away feels like a step backward into the careful distance we maintained for weeks.
I spend the evening reviewing contracts and planning the conversation with the Nikitins, but part of my attention stays focused on my phone. Every notification makes me hope it’s Sarah, but they’re all business messages or spam. By ten o’clock, I can’t stand the silence anymore and send another message, my thumb hovering over the screen as I choose my words carefully:
Please let me know you’re safe. If Alex… I just need to hear that you’re okay.
Her response comes moments later:I’m safe at home. Long day. We’ll talk later.
I read it three times before accepting what it doesn’t say. Those nine words tell me nothing and everything. She’s alive, she’s not ready to talk, and something has shifted since this morning. I can tell by her terse tone and feel the distance in her reply.
I pour myself a glass of vodka and stand at the window, looking out at the grounds where I first saw Sarah working in the gardens. She seemed so small then, so focused on her task, and I was completely unaware watching her would change the entire trajectory of my life. I ache to have her with me, but I have to content myself with the text she sent, knowing I can’t race backto her home like a madman again when she’s made it clear she doesn’t want to talk tonight.
