Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
This sounds ridiculous because, of course, I wouldn’t be able to find my way there, but then again, I have no interest in dwelling on any problems for the day before they actually exist.
“I’m in New York as it happens,” he says. “I’ll send a car for you.”
I nearly go into shock. It wears off very quickly though when I hear the click of his phone ringing off. Relief washes through me. Instantly, I jump up and do a happy dance. I did it. I called him and made an appointment.
Now all I have to do is ask him to loan his son about three hundred million dollars, give or take a few million.
Chapter Fifty
IVAN
"$250 million?" I repeat, leaping out of my chair in shock and disbelief. "Who is it from?"
My accountant clears his throat before answering, hesitant. "It's a wire transfer from your father's company."
“My father? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” he confirms. “I was surprised too.”
Suddenly I have to sit down, and I crash back down on my chair. Slowly, I swivel and turn around to face the window.
"The funds are clear, and this makes all the difference, Ivan. We’ll be able to cover everything—no more scrambling around. You’re financially stable again. You can tell your sister to keep her money."
I let out a slow, disbelieving breath. Relief surges through me, mixing with a sense of shame I can't shake. My father, the man I swore to distance myself from, has just saved my empire. For a moment, I can’t move. My emotions are tangled—immense gratitude, resentment, and confusion. Why now, of all times? Why would he help after years of coldness, accusations, and mistrust?
The phone call ends, but I remain seated, staring out over the city below. I should feel triumphant—this is a victory, at least for my businesses. But all I feel is hollow, like the price I paid was more than just financial.
I stand up abruptly, grabbing my jacket and going out of the door. “Greta,” I call out as I exit, “have the car ready for me downstairs.”
I stare out of the window without seeing anything. My heart is beating fast. We drive through the bustling streets and finally arrive at a building tucked discreetly away in the Upper East Side, a fitting choice for a man like him. It’s a private, imposing residence, shrouded in luxury and secrecy, just as he always liked it.
The door swings open as soon as I step out, and his British butler greets me.
“So good to see you again, Master Ivanovich.”
I was twenty-two years old when he last called me that. “It’s good to see you too, Alfred.”
He leads us into a dark-paneled study. My father is there, lounging on a leather couch, a glass of cognac in hand. His eyes are as piercing as I remember, but there is something weary about his expression.
“Why?” I ask as I take a seat at the opposite end of the couch, cutting straight to the chase.
He takes a slow sip, his gaze not leaving mine. "Because Lara came to see me. She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she?”
The mention of her name sends a jolt through me. I didn’t know she’d done that. “She—what?”
“She was desperate,” he continues, his tone surprisingly soft. “Shaking like a leaf, but stubborn as hell. She wanted to make sure you’d get the money.”
I’m stunned. My throat tightens and I struggle to find words. “Why would it matter to you what she wants?”
He shrugs, setting the glass down. “Because I wanted to. Because she wasn’t thinking of herself. I saw sincerity in her eyes, a genuine willingness to sacrifice for you. I’ve known many people in my life. You can always tell when someone truly cares.”
His words crack me open. I feel a mix of anger and gratitude—anger at myself for needing this, for Lara having to step in, and gratitude toward her and, begrudgingly, toward my father too.
“I didn’t think you cared,” I say, the bitterness leaking through my voice. “About me, or anything I’ve built.”
His expression darkens. “You don’t think I care?”
“You proved that in no uncertain terms.”
He leans forward, his eyes intense. “Everything you’ve done, the choices you’ve made—good or bad—they’ve been born from the fire I set in you. I may not have been the father you wanted, but I’ve always been the one you needed.”
A silence stretches between us, thick and charged with years of unspoken words.
He puts his glass down. “There is another reason I put the money up. And you’re not going to like this. Your troubles run a bit deeper than you imagine, my son,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “I’ve been in contact with high-level officials in Russia. Your problem is coming from within.”
I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Your siblings,” he states bluntly. “One of them is behind this. Feeding incorrect information to the authorities and trying to bring you down from the inside.”