Chapter 13
***Vanessa’s POV***
The soft whir of the space heater hung in the air in Emma's living room as I plopped down on the cavernous sofa, the remnants of the party swirling in my mind. Emma padded in from the kitchen with two steaming mugs of tea, setting them down on the coffee table before plopping down beside me.
"Alright, spill," she said, tucking her legs beneath her.
"Spill what?" I replied, making a peculiar statement as the throw blanket draped itself across my lap.
"Don’t play coy with me, Vanessa. You spent the night with Sergie Ivanov and are now sitting here, not quite in the here and now, lost in a daydream with your eyes glazed. What happened?”
I sighed, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "It wasn’t like that, Emma. He came by the studio to see my work. We talked about art, family..." I trailed off, unsure how much I wanted to reveal.
Emma raised a skeptical brow. "It just so happened that he drove you back? It wasn't exactly a relaxed move, though."
I jumped at her implication, a bad sensation creeping into my body. "He was being polite. That’s all. It’s strictly professional."
"Professional?" she repeated, leaning forward. "Vanessa, I know you. You’re not the type to let just anyone into your world, and from the way you’re talking about him, it sounds like Sergie Ivanov isn’t just anyone to you."
I opened my mouth to argue, but she held up a hand to stop me.
"Understandable," she said, her voice now gentler. "He’s charming, successful, and let’s be honest—ridiculously attractive. But guys like Sergie... they’re not built for relationships. At least not the kind you deserve."
Her words stung more than I cared to admit. "Emma, it’s not like that," I said firmly. "He's my boss, and this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. That’s all it is. All it will ever be."
Emma fixed her gaze on me, worry etched into her features. "I just don’t want to see you get hurt, Nessa," she said quietly.
I set my mug down and slumped back on the couch with disappointment. "Thank you, Em, but you needn't worry about me. I’m not getting involved with Sergie. I’m focused on my work, and that’s it."
Emma didn’t look convinced but didn’t push the issue further. Instead, she reached out and squeezed my hand.
"Just promise me you’ll be careful," she said.
"I will," I told her, though I didn’t entirely convince either of us—Emma or myself.
We sat in silence for a while, drinking tea. Even as we moved on to lighter topics, Emma’s words lingered in my mind, planting seeds of doubt that I wasn’t ready to confront.
Because the truth was, Sergie Ivanov wasn’t just a work partner—not anymore. And that terrified me.
***Sergie’s POV***
(Flashback – Twenty Years Ago)
Cold air seeped into our family apartment in Moscow through the cracks in the windows, stinging my skin. I stood in the corner of the dining room, fists clenched and heart racing with every thunderclap of my father’s voice echoing throughout the home. The screams he yelled were sharp and harsh in Russian; I had stopped listening to them long ago.
I was fourteen—tall for my age yet thin compared to him. My father, Viktor Ivanov, was an imposing figure whose mere presence drew everyone to him. Residents in our neighborhood respected him for his business acumen and intellect but didn’t know what a monster he could be when the cabinet door closed.
“Ты думаешь ты умный?” he barked as he advanced toward me. “You think you’re smart?”
I avoided his gaze, knowing that if I responded at all, it would only make things worse. My mother, Elizaveta, stood frozen by the kitchen doorway, her hands wringing the edge of her apron. Anastasia, age six, clung to her leg with wide blue eyes darting between our figures.
“I asked you a question, Sergie!” he roared, slamming his fist onto the table. Plates rattled as Anastasia whimpered.
“I didn’t mean to—” I began, but before I could finish my sentence, his blow connected with my face. The impact sent me reeling backward; I caught a mouthful of blood from my split lip.
“Don’t lie to me!” he spat. “What you think is unpunished disobedience is no exception! You are an Ivanov! You must learn discipline!”
I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying; tears were a weakness that only fueled his anger.
“Viktor, please,” my mother said softly, her voice trembling. “He’s just a boy—”
“Stay out of this, Elizaveta!” he snapped, cutting her off as she shrank back and pulled Anastasia closer.
I couldn’t bear to look at her; she seemed frightened and helpless now. Once a beacon of vivacity whose laughter filled every room in our house decades ago, years of exposure to Viktor's temperament had extinguished that fire within her.
Now his voice was quieter yet no less threatening: “You are going to clean this up; then you are going to head to your room and ponder what you’ve just done. Do you understand me?”
“Yes sir,” I cried out; my voice squeaked in that big room.
“Good.” He walked away dismissively as if I were just another nuisance. Later that evening, I rested on the window ledge of my small room and looked out at the snow-covered streets. My cheek still throbbed from the slap; however painful it was physically paled compared to the chaos swirling in my mind.
The sound of a door creaking open made me turn around. Anastasia peered in clutching a small cuddly bear against her chest.
“Are you okay?” Anastasia whispered softly.
I forced a smile and beckoned her over. She jumped onto my lap and wrapped her slender arms around my neck.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly against my shirt.
“I’m fine, malyshka,” I lied.
“I don’t like when Papa yells at you,” she said as she pulled back to look at me; her eyes mirrored our mother’s—big and open.
“No problem,” I told her gently while brushing away a stray lock of hair from her face. “He just wants us to be strong.”
“But he scares Mama,” she said with a tremor in her voice.
I had no answer for that; explaining to a six-year-old that their supposed protector was actually dangerous was complicated and difficult for anyone to grasp.
“Get up,” I told her gently as I helped her stand up and walked her back toward her room. “It’s late; you need to sleep.”
She nodded as her head rested on my shoulder while we walked together. After putting her into bed and checking that she was asleep already, I returned to my own room. The next morning was different; my father sat focused at the table reading the newspaper with an unruffled countenance. When he noticed me entering the room, he smiled warmly.
“Good morning, Sergie,” he said as if nothing had happened.¹
“Good morning sir,” I replied while keeping my voice steady.
“Come sit,” he said motioning toward an empty seat beside him. “I have something for you.”
I hesitated for a moment before walking over cautiously; he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box before offering it to me. Inside lay a modern fountain pen engraved with my monogram.
“This,” he declared as his deep hand came down on my back reassuringly “is a sign of who you are—you are already next in line in this Ivanov family.”
I nodded silently; moments like these—when he showed kindness—were rare but confused me more than anything else could have done.
“You have great potential,” he continued proudly as he looked at me intently. “But you must learn to channel your emotions; control is key to success.”
Searching his face for any hint of regret or remorse from last night proved futile; instead what stared back at me was only his carefully crafted public persona—a decisive and captivating leader. As I grew older, understanding dawned upon me: My father wasn’t merely cruel; rather he embodied immense pressure stemming from expectations surrounding maintaining our family legacy—the Ivanov line itself However this knowledge did nothing but deepen scars—both physical & psychological—that remained unconsoled within myself over time.