Chapter 3 "Don't shoot the messenger. You know I'd never give you bad news by choice." I stand at my office window, gaze out at the sprawling Las Vegas skyline, and listen to my brother's voice. "I know," I say, turning toward Damas. My brother has been there for me as long as I can remember-even when I was too stubborn to ask for help. I trust him. But that doesn't make his message any easier to swallow. "They're really going to do it?" Damas leans against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, watching me with that sharp, restless energy he always carries. Damas is all quick glances and dry smirks-handsome, but in a rougher, more angular way. He wears his dark hair messy, though in a stylish sort of way, his tailored clothes always just slightly askew, like he's one step out of sync on purpose. And right now, his trademark smirk, the one he always seems to wear, is missing. He nods. "Yeah. They're really going to do it." "Unbelievable. Part of me had hoped this was all a sick joke." "No such luck, brother." Damas places a thick folder on my desk. "The lawyers are adamant. Apparently, Mother and Father put every conceivable clause and backup clause in that will. No heir, no Hospitium. If you refuse, or fail to accomplish the request, the process of liquidation and donation begins." "Typical of them to throw in so many contingencies." Damas's lips curve. There's that smirk. "They were thorough. You have to give them that." "I don't want to give them a damn thing." Our parents have been dead for years-three for Mother, five for Father. Yet even from beyond the grave, they manage to manipulate my life. I loved them, admired them, but they always wanted me to become someone other than who I was. A man who'd settle down, produce a family, carry on the Ovechkin name. For years, I was in the dark about the process through which I'd inherit the Hospitium, and ownership would officially become mine. The lawyers kept it vague, cloaked in language that felt ceremonial more than binding. Only several months ago-three years to the day since my mother passed-did everything click into place. That's when the final clause of the will was triggered, and when the truth landed in my lap like a lead weight-no marriage, no heir, no Hospitium. I still can't believe it. I can hear Father's voice scolding me now: You can't keep working like this forever, Anatoly. You need a wife, a legacy. I pick up the folder and open it, skimming the first page of the documents inside. It's a neat summary of the entire estate, listing our shares. "I thought I could stall indefinitely, but apparently, that's not an option anymore." Damas taps the page. "The lawyers have a timeline, which, I admit, they're only now enforcing because you've avoided their polite reminders for so long." I shoot him a glare. "Polite reminders? They sent multiple letters telling me I had to get married and father a child, as if it's something you can just check off a list. I ignored them because, well, it's nonsense." He lifts his hands in a mild shrug. "It's not nonsense to them, clearly. And it most definitely wasn't to Father. This was his final wish." Hearing those words is like a gut punch. I hate that both of my parents are gone, and that this is how they've chosen to speak to me-through legal documents and obligations. Slumping into my chair, I rub my temples. "What do they think I am, a stud horse? Someone to be trotted out and forcibly bred?" Damas smirks. "Well, your love life isn't exactly a parade of serious relationships. Maybe they anticipated you'd never commit, and this was their way of ensuring you'd actually settle down one day." A humorless chuckle escapes me. "Fantastic. Now my entire legacy-the hotel I've poured my life into-hinges on me producing a child." "That about sums it up." He raises a finger. "And don't forget, it has to be a legitimate heir, within the oh-so-holy confines of marriage. No knocking up a random cocktail waitress from downstairs and calling it a day." I snort. "A legitimate heir. All of this makes it sound like it's the year 1825, not 2025." Damas chuckles. I don't. There's nothing funny about any of this. I set the folder down carefully, feeling the weight of its contents and the conversation bearing down on my shoulders. The Hospitium. My business. My home. From the day I learned to walk, I was toddling around its hallways, greeting guests, watching Father hold court with high rollers in the VIP lounge. I made my first business deal at nineteen years old in one of its conference rooms. It's mine, intimately and completely. The idea of losing it makes my vision blur with anger. Damas clears his throat. "So, what's your plan? Getting married is a big step. Having a child is an even bigger one." I turn in my seat and rake a hand through my hair. "I don't have one. I'm trying to wrap my head around all of this. I just found out the timeline is real and that these lawyers can and will enforce it. Hell, if it comes down to it, I guess I can try to fight them in court, but that would be disrespectful to our parents." I let out a frustrated sigh. "I can't betray them like that." "Which is precisely why you need to consider other options. I've mentioned surrogacy." "Right," I reply dryly and uninterested. "You suggested I hire a stranger to bear my child. It's like ordering a product online." "It sounds harsh, but yes." He shrugs. "Get a surrogate, do a quickie marriage, have the kid, then annul. Not exactly what Mother and Father had in mind in the spirit of the will, but it'd follow the letter. Surrogacy is a common practice nowadays. Plenty of people do it." "Except I'm not plenty of people, Damas," I retort. "I'd need to be sure that the woman has no intention of claiming the child later. In order to do something like that, you'd need absolute trust, which I'd never have in a random surrogate." He begins pacing. "Alright, so if not a stranger, then how about someone you've dated? That one woman, what was her name, Catarina?" My jaw sets. "Catarina was a passing affair. She made it perfectly clear in her words and behavior that she's not the maternal type." Damas lets out a humorless laugh. "Are you sure? Because for the right amount, I'll bet she'd find a maternal streak quickly. You'd barely have to see her. She pops out your kid, you pay her a fortune, she disappears. You hire the best nannies and tutors, then file for divorce down the line. Problem solved." "Do you even hear yourself?" I shoot him a scorching glare. "I'm not turning my child's future into a crass business transaction. I might be a pragmatic businessman, but I'm not heartless." He raises his hands defensively. "I'm just exploring all the angles, big brother. If you're determined to see your child raised in a stable environment, you need a woman who's open to the idea. That's going to be tough. Not every woman wants to be the next Mrs. Ovechkina." A flicker of irritation flares. "Don't be ridiculous. Plenty of women would jump at the chance to marry me for my money, but that doesn't mean I'd trust them. Plus, I'm not so sure I even want a wife. What I am sure of is that I don't want to lose the Hospitium." "It sounds like you're in quite the bind." Damas circles around my desk and places his hands on the back of my chair. "Do you have any other prospects in mind? Maybe some woman you actually like?" I clamp my mouth shut. I've been seeing a woman or two casually, but none who strike me as wife or mother material. I haven't met anyone that sparks that deep, primal interest beyond a surface-level attraction. "No," I reply. "And if you so much as mention that I should propose to any other of my exes, I'll throw you out of this office." He chuckles. "Noted." Silence stretches between us. I can hear the faint hum of the air conditioning, see the swirl of dust motes in the sunlight streaming through the window. My father's portrait stares down at me from across the room, as if silently judging. Damas comes back around my desk, taking a seat in one of the guest chairs, and clearing his throat. "Look, maybe it's not all doom and gloom. At least you have options. If it came down to it, I could buy the Hospitium, keep it in the family, but I'm guessing that's not something you'd want." I slam a hand on the desk with more force than intended. "Absolutely not. The Hospitium is mine. Father left it to me. No offense, brother, but you didn't even show an interest in running a lemonade stand when we were kids, let alone a hotel. I'm not handing it over to you." He smirks. "Touchy, aren't we?" "Yes," I say through clenched teeth. "This hotel is my life. I've poured countless hours and passion into every expansion and partnership. I've sacrificed normalcy. I've missed multiple special events; I never take vacations." Damas lifts a brow, as though impressed by my vehemence. "I get it. The Hospitium is your baby, which is why I'm saying maybe there's a simpler solution. Find someone you can stand to be around, someone who wants kids, and put a ring on it." I blow out a breath, ignoring the near-laughable phrasing. "What if I don't find someone in time? The documents state that I have to produce an heir within a certain time period, not just a marriage." "You do have to move quickly. But presumably, if you're married and actively trying to have a kid, the lawyers might grant an extension. The sooner you get married, the stronger your case is that you're honoring Father's will in good faith." "Huh." I lean forward, elbows on the desk. "So I get married, and we say we're attempting to conceive. The board of lawyers sees I'm upholding the terms, and they back off for a while. Figure the heir thing will come along down the road." Damas spreads his hands. "You're the genius business negotiator. I'd expect no less from you. Just do your usual trick and find the best compromise. If you can secure a marriage license, maybe they'll give you more time. At least, that's how I'd play it." It's cold, it's calculating, and it's not how I pictured my future, but it's the best plan on the table right now. That said, I'm not about to propose to a random woman on the street. "I'm not comfortable going into a fake marriage. I can't treat my wife like she's a contract." Damas shrugs. "Sure you can. It happens all the time. Money, power, the chance to be Mrs. Ovechkina. Women have married for less." I roll my eyes. "You're impossible. Perhaps it starts off transactional, but it doesn't have to stay that way." His lips quirk. "You're being sentimental, big brother. Never thought I'd see that. But I get it. You're not content with a faceless baby incubator. You want a woman you respect. That's kind of sweet, actually." He laughs. I get up and pace behind my desk. "It's not sweet, it's practical. If we're sharing a child, I can't hate her. Or worse, not trust her at all. That's a recipe for disaster." "Hey, I'm on your side," he replies, palms up. "So how do you propose to find such a woman? Speed dating? Hinge?" "God." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "I have no idea. This entire scenario is insane." Damas stands and straightens his suit jacket. "Look, I don't want to push you, but the clock is ticking. The lawyers gave you a final ultimatum-six months to show real progress or they begin the process of selling the hotel." I can't let them do it. The mere thought of outsiders dismantling my hotel, selling it to the highest bidder, possibly turning it into some brand-new corporate monstrosity that doesn't retain the Ovechkin flair, makes me sick. No. Unacceptable. Damas's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and glances at the screen. "I've got to get downstairs. I promised the floor manager I'd do a walk-through with him." "How philanthropic of you," I comment dryly. Lately, Damas has shown more interest in the property's day-to-day operations than before. Part of me appreciates his help, another part wonders what's changed. He smirks, then moves toward the door, pausing with a hand on the knob. "One last piece of advice: don't ignore this. You've got six months. Make a plan. If you need me, I'm here." With that, he disappears into the hallway. I stare after him, feeling trapped. He's right. This entire scenario demands immediate attention. But how the hell do I fix it? I glance at the folder again. My parents must have been convinced I'd never marry unless I was forced to. Perhaps they were right. I've spent my adult life focusing on work, ignoring the possibility of any real commitment. Now, the question of whom I can trust enough to marry, share my life with, have my child plagues me. Gritting my teeth, I pick up the folder, only to drop it down on the desk again, as if that would smother the anxiety. My gaze flicks to the window. The city sprawls beneath me, neon glitz even in the daytime. It's easy to feel all-powerful from this vantage point, like nothing can harm me. But apparently, my parents can. A chuckle escapes my throat. "Thanks for the nudge," I mutter under my breath. "Is this really what you both wanted, to corner me like this?" I close my eyes, memories flooding in. Family dinners in the Hospitium's exclusive restaurant. Mother sipping tea, Father insisting I find a nice girl and settle down. I was always too busy with expansions, forging alliances, ensuring the Smirnov Bratva or any other shady partner wasn't stepping out of line. Marriage was the last thing on my mind. Now it's the only thing that might save me. I collapse into my chair, my muscles tense as if I'd just been through a boxing match. Options filter through my brain, but none of them interests me. They're all too shallow, too self-absorbed, or simply out of the question. I could do what Damas suggested-pay some woman a fortune to conceive. But the idea feels so cold, so clinical, not to mention risky. If she decides to keep the child, or tries to blackmail me, I'll be in a worse position. I let out a slow breath, forcing my pulse to settle. "There has to be a middle ground," I tell myself. "Someone who's strong enough to handle my life, but genuine and maternal enough to care for a child, sensible enough to understand that this is all an arrangement." The problem is I've never looked for that. I've never let myself. Business has always been my love, that, and the occasional fling to satisfy my basic needs. The notion of actually sharing a life with someone, learning her secrets, letting her see mine-trusting her-that's foreign territory. Swiveling my chair toward the window, I let my gaze roam over the shimmering city again. "I don't have to find a perfect fairy-tale romance," I mutter. My phone buzzes on the desk. It's a text from one of my staff, letting me know Ivan Smirnov is here for a meeting. I scowl at the thought of the Smirnov Bratva boss. I don't particularly like dealing with him, but business is business. At least the Smirnov problem is easier to handle than my personal crisis. I can face the Smirnovs with the same iron will I've always used to keep them in check. But the question of an heir? That's an intangible in comparison. As I stand, I glance at the folder one more time. The words contained within practically sneer back at me. Inheritance. Condition. Heir. Shaking my head, I walk to the door. One crisis at a time. For now, I'll handle the Bratva. Then I'll figure out how to handle my future, and who might share it with me. I refuse to lose the Hospitium. My parents might have played a final hand from beyond the grave, but I don't intend to fold. One way or another, I'll find a way to keep what's mine-and meet this damn stipulation.