Anya adjusted the strap of her worn leather bag across her shoulder and stepped toward the marble reception desk. Her boots squeaked slightly. The woman behind the desk didn't look up at first, scrolling on her tablet. When she did, her eyes skimmed Anya's face, then her coat, then the fraying strap on her bag.
"May I help you?" Polite. But barely.
Anya cleared her throat. "I-I have a meeting. With the Volkov estate attorneys."
"Name?"
"Anya Petrova."
That got her attention. A slight lift of the brow. Then the receptionist tapped a screen and spoke quietly into a headset.
"Miss Petrova for Mr. Graves. Confirmed."
A pause. A click. Then she looked back at Anya.
"Take elevator bank B to the 44th floor. Mr. Graves' assistant will meet you there."
Anya nodded, swallowed the thickness in her throat, and walked toward the elevators. Her boots echoed too loudly in the cavernous lobby.
When the doors slid open, the interior of the elevator looked like it had more money than her apartment. Polished steel walls. Leather paneling. A faint scent of bergamot and ambition.
As the numbers ticked up, her nerves ratcheted higher. 17. 25. 33.
She thought of Zoe at Carla's place, drawing unicorns and eating animal crackers without a care in the world.
She thought of her mother's voice, tight with warning. "If you ever hear the name Volkov again, run the other way."
The doors opened with a soundless sweep.
The 44th floor was quiet. Too quiet. A waiting area with designer chairs that didn't look sit-able. White orchids in glass vases. Soft jazz murmuring like it didn't want to offend anyone.
A young woman in a sleek pantsuit stood to greet her. Her smile was professional, not warm.
"Miss Petrova. Mr. Graves is expecting you. This way."
They walked past glass offices filled with men in suits and silk ties, all of them looking like they hadn't had to think about rent since birth. Anya could feel eyes flicking toward her, then away. Not malicious-just curious. Like she was a puzzle piece someone dropped in the wrong box.
Her guide opened a door to a corner office. "Mr. Graves will be with you shortly."
Anya stepped inside.
The room was so white it looked like it had been bleached. A long chrome desk. Two chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows that made the city look small and far away.
And on the desk-her name, on a printed card.
ANYA PETROVA. BENEFICIARY.
She sat down slowly.
The silence roared.
Outside, cabs honked in distant bursts. Her heart kept time.
The door opened, and a tall man with steel-gray hair, glasses, and the posture of a cathedral entered. He didn't smile.
"Miss Petrova," he said. "Thank you for coming. I'm Edmund Graves, counsel for the estate of Nikolai Volkov."
He extended a hand like it was a formality. She shook it. His skin was cold and dry.
"I imagine you have questions," he said, already walking to his chair.
"You could say that."
He gave the faintest nod. "Let's begin, then."
Graves folded his hands with the precise stillness of a man who'd never fidgeted in his life.
"Before we address the conditions of your inheritance," he said, "you are entitled to know the basis of your inclusion. It is not hearsay. Nor sentiment."
He opened a thin leather file and turned it toward her.
DNA report.
Her name.
Nikolai Ivanovich Volkov.
Paternity: 99.996% probability.
Anya stared at the document, unmoving.
"I never-" Her throat caught. "We never even met. He never reached out. How would he have even..."
"Your mother submitted a test," Graves said without looking up. "At Nikolai's request. Quietly. About six months before his death."
Anya's stomach dropped. "That's not possible. My mother died five years ago."
Now Graves did look up.
His brow furrowed ever so slightly.
"She died... in 20-?"
"Five years ago," she repeated.
Graves adjusted his posture, then closed the folder slowly.
"Then it appears Nikolai arranged the sample privately. Likely from personal effects. A toothbrush. Hairbrush. He had the means, and the connections."
The words made her skin crawl. "So he tested me like I was a product."
"He confirmed what he already knew," Graves corrected calmly. "And as a result, you were written into his estate plan. Retroactively and irrevocably."
Anya leaned back in her chair, the white walls around her suddenly too close.
"He could've called," she said. "Written. Anything."
Graves didn't answer.
"He could've said something. Anything."
Still nothing.
"And now I'm supposed to believe this is his idea of a gift? A fortune I didn't ask for, tied in knots, handed to me by a stranger?"
At that, Graves reached into his drawer and placed another document in front of her-an original copy of the will's third amendment. Nikolai's signature sprawled across the bottom like a scar.
"She deserves to know where she came from. If I cannot give her anything else, let her have the name. And the truth."
Anya's breath caught.
She hated how much she wanted to burn the page and memorize it at the same time.
"That's not truth," she said quietly. "That's control."
Graves said nothing. He didn't need to.
He was just the messenger.
But her fingers still hovered over the words.
Over the name.
Graves closed the folder with a sound that felt like finality.
"The conditions of your inheritance are unorthodox," he said, "but not without legal precedent."
Anya narrowed her eyes. "Let me guess-live in a tower, spin straw into gold, and don't piss off the king?"
His mouth twitched-almost a smile. Almost.
"Nikolai was not a sentimental man. But he believed in legacy. Integration. Family, however delayed."
Anya leaned forward. "Just say it."
Graves pulled another document from a thin black envelope and slid it across the desk.
"Nikolai required that you cohabitate for one full calendar year with the executor of his estate-Mr. Dimitri Nikolai Volkov. Residency must be uninterrupted. No unauthorized travel. No independent lodging. You will remain at the Volkov residence under shared roof until February 5th of next year."
Anya blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
He said nothing. The paper said it all.
"This is-" She picked up the document, stared at the legalese like it had personally insulted her. "This is absurd. He's making me-what, live with his son like some reality show contestant? For money I didn't ask for?"
"It is a binding clause," Graves said. "Voluntarily accepted or declined."
"And if I say no?"
"You forfeit the trust. No partial disbursement. No appeals."
Anya let the paper fall back onto the desk.
"Does Dimitri know about this?" she asked. "Did he help write this twisted little arrangement?"
Graves folded his hands again. "Mr. Volkov was... not consulted."
Her brows rose. "And how's that going over?"
Graves didn't answer directly.
"Your accommodations are prepared," he said instead. "Transportation can be arranged as early as tomorrow."
"I have a child," she snapped.
"We're aware. The apartment has been modified to accommodate a minor. There is a full-time housekeeper and a private elevator for security."
Anya stood. "You people really think you can just move people around like they're pieces on a board, don't you?"
"We follow the design of the will," Graves said, calm as ever. "Nothing more."
"I don't know your Dimitri. I don't want to know him."
"That may prove difficult, given the circumstances."
Anya paced two steps, then three. Her fingers curled into fists. "You're asking me to walk into a stranger's house. A stranger who shares blood with the man who let me grow up with nothing. And you expect me to-what-play house?"
"We expect you to decide," Graves said coolly. "One way or another."
She didn't respond. She couldn't.
He adjusted his cuffs.
"When you're ready, Miss Petrova, there is one more person you should meet."
Anya turned slowly.
"Who?"
The office door opened behind her.
And the air changed.
The door opened behind her with the kind of hush that didn't belong to ordinary doors. A presence entered the room before the man himself did-commanding, calibrated, cold.
Anya turned slowly.
And then everything inside her dropped.
Dimitri Volkov was taller than she remembered. Broader. His presence hit like a wall-sharp suit, navy tie, jaw like it had never known softness. His dark hair was swept back with surgical precision, and his eyes...
Ice.
Sharp, pale blue, glacial.
But something flickered behind them. A crease in the surface. A beat of confusion.
She knew that face.
Not from tabloids. Not from photographs.
From a night five years ago.
From across a masquerade ballroom. From the dark.
She took half a step back without meaning to.
Dimitri's eyes scanned her once, head to toe. Not leering-evaluating.
His voice, when it came, was low and smooth and utterly unimpressed.
"So," he said. "You're the complication."
Anya's heart hammered. Her stomach clenched, her muscles bracing against an instinct that wanted to flee-and another one, just as strong, that wanted to move closer.
She straightened.
"And you're the welcoming committee, I assume?"
His mouth didn't quite smile. "Something like that."
They stared at each other across the polished floor, the air thick with unspoken things.
Recognition shimmered in the space between them, neither of them naming it.
He moved first, stepping farther into the room. His walk was deliberate, shoulders square. Every line of his body said control.
"You weren't what I expected," he said.
"I'm sure the disappointment is mutual."
Graves cleared his throat from the desk, clearly regretting every life choice that had brought him to this moment.
Dimitri barely glanced at him. "You've told her the terms?"
"I have."
"And she's agreed?"
"I believe we're still... discussing."
Dimitri turned his attention back to Anya. His gaze sharpened.
"You have a child."
Anya stiffened. "Yes."
"How old?"
"Four."
A silence cracked in the room, jagged and deliberate.
His face didn't move. But something shifted in his eyes.
"I see," he said.
She wasn't sure if he did.
"I don't need your approval," she said tightly.
He didn't answer. Just turned toward the window like it bored him.
Anya's blood boiled.
"You don't want me here?" she said. "Trust me, the feeling's mutual."
"Good," he said, not facing her. "Let's not mistake survival for affection."
She opened her mouth, but the words never came. Because he turned back toward her then-just slightly, just enough-and his eyes locked onto hers with a look that could have frozen the room.
Not disdain.
Not curiosity.
Something else.
Familiarity.
Her mouth went dry.
He looked at her the way a man looks at something he almost remembers.
And almost regrets.
Anya stepped forward, closing the distance between them by a fraction, just enough to speak without raising her voice.
"I don't care what your problem is," she said, calm but sharp. "I'm not here to take anything from you. I'm here because a dead man tied my hands."
Dimitri's gaze flicked to her bag, to the frayed leather strap hanging by a thread, and then back to her face.
"I'm sure the inheritance came as a terrible inconvenience," he said.
She bristled. "Believe me, if I could give it back-"
"You wouldn't," he interrupted smoothly. "You have a child. Which means you'll take whatever gets her what she needs. Even if it means pretending to tolerate this arrangement."
Anya's spine stiffened. "I don't pretend well."
"You will," he said simply. "For her."
She stared at him, breath tight in her chest. He was too calm. Too practiced. Like he'd already rehearsed every scenario in which she failed.
"I'm not one of your acquisitions," she said. "You don't get to appraise me and file me under 'tolerable liability.'"
"No," he said. "You're an unknown variable. Worse."
His eyes lingered on hers a moment too long. Cold blue, calculated-then, for a flash, not.
Just for a second, the mask slipped.
There was something there.
Recognition.
Not from this room.
From somewhere darker. Softer. Warmer.
Anya took a step back.
Her voice dropped. "Have we met before?"
Dimitri blinked. A pause.
And then, too quickly: "No."
But the delay was just long enough.
Anya stared at him, trying to fit puzzle pieces that had never quite settled. The timbre of his voice. The way he looked at her. That tiny, almost imperceptible crease near his left eye-the same one she'd seen when he smiled through a mask five years ago.
Her pulse jumped.
"You sure about that?" she asked.
Dimitri didn't answer.
Instead, he turned back to the window, spine rigid, voice low.
"This isn't about the past, Miss Petrova. We have one year to survive under the same roof. Nothing more. Let's not complicate it with fantasy."
She swallowed hard. "And if I make it a year?"
"Then you'll be rich," he said, not facing her. "And free."
She turned to leave, her legs unsteady beneath her.
As she reached the door, she heard him mutter-just under his breath, low and unreadable:
"Some things don't stay buried."
Anya stepped forward, closing the distance between them by a fraction, just enough to speak without raising her voice.
"I don't care what your problem is," she said, calm but sharp. "I'm not here to take anything from you. I'm here because a dead man tied my hands."
Dimitri's gaze flicked to her bag, to the frayed leather strap hanging by a thread, and then back to her face.
"I'm sure the inheritance came as a terrible inconvenience," he said.
She bristled. "Believe me, if I could give it back-"
"You wouldn't," he interrupted smoothly. "You have a child. Which means you'll take whatever gets her what she needs. Even if it means pretending to tolerate this arrangement."
Anya's spine stiffened. "I don't pretend well."
"You will," he said simply. "For her."
She stared at him, breath tight in her chest. He was too calm. Too practiced. Like he'd already rehearsed every scenario in which she failed.
"I'm not one of your acquisitions," she said. "You don't get to appraise me and file me under 'tolerable liability.'"
"No," he said. "You're an unknown variable. Worse."
His eyes lingered on hers a moment too long. Cold blue, calculated-then, for a flash, not.
Just for a second, the mask slipped.
There was something there.
Recognition.
Not from this room.
From somewhere darker. Softer. Warmer.
Anya took a step back.
Her voice dropped. "Have we met before?"
Dimitri blinked. A pause.
And then, too quickly: "No."
But the delay was just long enough.
Anya stared at him, trying to fit puzzle pieces that had never quite settled. The timbre of his voice. The way he looked at her. That tiny, almost imperceptible crease near his left eye-the same one she'd seen when he smiled through a mask five years ago.
Her pulse jumped.
"You sure about that?" she asked.
Dimitri didn't answer.
Instead, he turned back to the window, spine rigid, voice low.
"This isn't about the past, Miss Petrova. We have one year to survive under the same roof. Nothing more. Let's not complicate it with fantasy."
She swallowed hard. "And if I make it a year?"
"Then you'll be rich," he said, not facing her. "And free."
She turned to leave, her legs unsteady beneath her.
As she reached the door, she heard him mutter-just under his breath, low and unreadable:
"Some things don't stay buried."
She stopped. Slowly turned her head.
But he was already walking toward the desk, saying nothing more.
And that was the worst part.
Because it wasn't just what he said.
It was the way he said it.
Like he wasn't talking to her.
Like he was remembering something he'd never meant to admit.
She stopped. Slowly turned her head.
But he was already walking toward the desk, saying nothing more.
And that was the worst part.
Because it wasn't just what he said.
It was the way he said it.
Like he wasn't talking to her.
Like he was remembering something he'd never meant to admit
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Fortune's Forgotten Daughter 
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