"Okay," Maya said, glancing at the time on her phone. It was exactly 1:03 PM. She stretched, her limbs loose and lazy from a late breakfast and a surprisingly good night's sleep—despite waking up in a place that looked like it belonged on the front page of Architectural Digest. She looked at Elara, who was seated next to her on the deep leather couch, both of them watching a crime documentary that had taken a seriously dark turn. On the screen, investigators were unfolding the disturbing details of a seemingly normal suburban couple who turned out to be serial killers.
"Thanks for the expensive meal and expensive everything," Maya added with a dramatic toss of her hand, "I wanna be you when I grow up."
Elara snorted, shaking her head as she wrapped her arms around her knees. "Don't be."
Maya narrowed her eyes, placing her hands on her hips with mock offense. "Excuse me?"
"I mean it," Elara said, her voice quieter now, her gaze still on the TV screen even though her mind had drifted far from it. "It's not all that it looks like. Trust me."
Maya rolled her eyes and flopped her hair back over her shoulder. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. The mysterious billionaire life is sooo exhausting," she teased sarcastically, but she could tell from Elara's expression that her friend wasn't playing along. She sighed softly and walked toward the hallway. "Anyway, I should get going before I overstay my welcome and your man decides to charge me rent."
Elara stood up quickly. "I'll walk you out."
"Nah," Maya said, lifting a hand and smiling. "I'll be fine. But thank your billionaire boyfriend for me when he gets back. Tell him I'm a fan of his home décor and his eggs." She winked, grabbing her borrowed bag and shoes from near the door. "Oh, and next time I crash, maybe tell me beforehand that I'll wake up surrounded by things that cost more than my entire apartment."
Elara chuckled, walking with her to the door anyway. She opened it and gave Maya a brief hug.
"Text me when you get home," Elara said.
"I always do," Maya replied, stepping into the hallway. "Bye, bestie."
Elara closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, exhaling slowly. A strange silence settled over the penthouse. No voices. No chatter. No soft hum of music in the background. Just the quiet echo of space that felt too luxurious and too cold all at once.
She pushed herself off the door and walked back toward the living room. She had work to do—designs due Monday, now cruelly pushed to Sunday by her micromanaging, 'trusting' boss who insisted she was the only one capable of completing the job to his standards.
She sat at her desk in the corner nook of the living room—a space she had carved out for herself in this massive penthouse that still didn't feel like home. She pulled her laptop closer, her iPad beside it, stylus in hand. She reviewed the notes from the client, mentally constructing the aesthetic they had in mind: minimalistic, clean, infused with warm tones and sustainable elements. It was easy work on a good day, but today her brain was tired. Still, she pushed through.
For hours, she tinkered with layout sketches, adjusted digital mood boards, and debated color palettes. She revised two complete drafts, deleted one entirely, then started another from scratch. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, occasionally pausing as she hovered over the screen, second-guessing herself before finally committing.
By the time the designs were finalized and sent off to her boss, it was late afternoon, and her stomach was growling. She rose from her chair, stretching her stiff limbs, joints popping. With a yawn, she padded barefoot into the kitchen, her mind still half-wrapped in creative exhaustion.
She opened the fridge, looking for something to snack on when she heard the soft click of the front door opening.
She froze.
Her hand hovered over the fruit drawer as she heard footsteps—calm, measured. Familiar.
Then, his voice.
"Elara," came Nikolai's smooth, low tone.
She turned, her breath catching slightly.
He stood there in the entryway, dressed in a dark tailored jacket, crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the top, and a pair of black trousers that fit him too well. The afternoon sun hit his profile, lighting up his features like he was carved from shadows and light. But that wasn't what made her freeze.
In his hand was a large bouquet of deep red roses—roses so dark they were almost black at the tips, velvety and lush. In his other hand, a small velvet box.
Elara blinked. "What's this?"
He walked toward her slowly, the scent of the roses mingling with the faint trace of his cologne. "I know we're not exactly… on great terms right now," he began, voice low and steady, "but I saw these, and I thought of you."
"Nikolai…" she started, eyes darting between the flowers and the box.
He handed her the roses gently. She took them, more out of reflex than anything else. They were beautiful. Heavy in her hands, rich with color, and fragrant. The kind of flowers that made promises.
"And this," he said, opening the box to reveal a delicate necklace—silver, fine, with a small charm shaped like a crescent moon and a tiny ruby embedded at its center.
Elara stared at it, speechless.
"I just wanted to remind you," he said softly, "that no matter what… I love you. You are the most beautiful thing in my life. Even if I'm not the man you imagined falling in love with… I'll always be the man who would do anything to keep you safe, to see you smile."
Elara's grip tightened around the roses. Her heart was beating too fast. Her lips parted, but no words came out.
Nikolai reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You don't have to forgive me yet. And you don't have to wear it. But I needed you to know… just in case you ever doubt it… I love you, solnishka. I really, really do."
Silence hung between them like a fragile string.
Elara looked down at the flowers, then the necklace. She wanted to speak, to say something—anything. But the lump in her throat made it impossible. So she nodded once, not trusting her voice.
Nikolai offered a soft, almost boyish smile, then turned to give her space, walking past her into the living room.
Elara stood frozen in the kitchen for a long moment, her fingers trembling slightly around the roses.
He loved her.
And she didn't want to say it back.
Not yet.
But God… it was getting harder not to.
---------------
Elara walked into the office building, dragging her feet like a prisoner on the way to execution. Her shoulders were stiff, her eyelids felt like they had been stapled open all night, and her entire body radiated the exhausted aura of someone who had worked through the weekend with only snatches of sleep and stolen snacks. She clutched her coffee cup like it was her last lifeline, murmuring half-hearted greetings to coworkers who passed her in the halls.
Her heart was pounding with anxious hope: Please don't give me another project. Just one week—one single week without an extra project tossed at me like a grenade.
She stepped into the open-concept workspace, making her way to her desk in the far corner, where she had taped inspirational quotes like "Progress, not perfection" and "It's called burnout, not laziness" to her wall just to keep from quitting altogether.
She had just set down her bag and logged into her computer when she heard it.
"Elara!"
That voice. That dreaded voice. Her spine stiffened.
Speak of the devil…
She turned slowly, forcing a smile onto her lips like a mask she'd practiced in a mirror. "Good morning, Mr. Lenox."
As usual, her boss looked like a GQ reject—too well-groomed for someone who made other people do all the hard work. His suit was tailored to precision, his shoes polished, and his face wore the smug look of a man who believed caffeine and chaos were the lifeblood of creative productivity.
"I just wanted to say," he began, clapping his hands together with all the dramatic flair of a theater major who missed his calling, "the designs you sent on Saturday were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I knew I could trust you."
Elara blinked, surprised. A compliment? From him?
Then came the twist. "Anyway," he continued, "I have good news for you."
Elara's soul flinched.
"Good news?" she asked warily, lifting a brow.
"Yes," Mr. Lenox said, the gleam in his eyes already betraying the truth—this was not going to be good news for her. "Those two projects I asked you to begin work on—the Villa Bloomwood concept and the Nellis High-Rise penthouse? I'm giving them both to Jenny."
Her jaw dropped. "Wait… really?"
"Really," he said with a dazzling grin, clearly thinking he was Santa Claus.
Elara narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
He laughed. "Because a new client walked in this morning. A very important, very wealthy client. And she specifically requested something elegant, bold, and 'worthy of a queen'—her words. Naturally, I thought of you."
Elara blinked again. "So… you're taking two big projects off my plate to give me an even bigger one?"
Mr. Lenox nodded like a proud father. "Exactly! She's in my office now. Go introduce yourself, she's already waiting."
Of course she is, Elara thought bitterly as she grabbed her tablet and coffee. Why even ask if I'm ready for it?
She took a deep breath, walked toward the glass doors of his office, and knocked lightly before pushing it open.
And then she froze.
Sitting in one of the plush white chairs, legs elegantly crossed, sipping from a porcelain teacup like she owned the city, was Natalia Volkov.
Elara's stomach dropped to her feet.
"Natalia?" she blurted before she could stop herself.
Natalia turned, clearly just as surprised to see Elara as Elara was to see her. But unlike Elara, who was stunned into silence, Natalia quickly composed herself. A smile spread across her lips, amused, graceful, and warm. "Elara, darling," she said smoothly, setting her teacup down with careful precision. "What a delightful surprise."
Elara stood in the doorway, trying to compute what the hell was happening. She wasn't sure if she should run or bow. This was Nikolai's mother. The woman who, just two days ago, threatened to bury her husband in his ex's backyard. The woman who cooked dinner in the same kitchen Elara used every day. And now she was here… as a client?
"Wait," Mr. Lenox said, looking between them. "You two know each other?"
Natalia smiled. "We've met."
Mr. Lenox's eyes sparkled with intrigue. "Oh! That's wonderful. That'll make this project even easier. Elara here is one of our best junior designers. Extremely driven. You're in good hands."
Elara smiled awkwardly, still trying to catch up. Natalia stood up gracefully and walked over, her heels making sharp clicks against the marble floor.
She leaned in slightly and said low enough for only Elara to hear, "I had no idea you worked here. But now I'm very glad I came."
Elara gave a tight smile. "Well… here I am."
Natalia gave her a once-over, noting the tired circles under her eyes, the messy ponytail, the stress lines carved into her brow. "You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"I haven't," Elara said dryly.
Natalia chuckled, clearly delighted. "Well then, let's not waste time. I want a house design that reflects strength, elegance, and—" she paused and raised her brow, "—a little fire."
"I can work with that," Elara replied, regaining her professional footing.
"Excellent," Natalia said, taking her seat again. "Shall we?"
They dove into the meeting, going through mood boards, material ideas, and room layouts. Natalia was demanding but not in the way most clients were—she knew what she wanted, and she didn't mince words. She asked for imported marble, custom lighting installations, and a reading room that 'felt like a crown on a queen's head.'
As the meeting progressed, Elara realized something strange: she was actually enjoying it.
Natalia was funny in a dry, sarcastic kind of way. She made snide remarks about Mr. Lenox when he left the room to answer a call. She asked questions about Elara's thoughts and even praised her creative decisions. Despite being intimidating, there was something maternal about her that peeked out between the velvet layers of power.
But every time Natalia said "Nikolai" casually in conversation, Elara flinched inside.
They spent almost two hours planning and discussing. By the end of it, Natalia stood up, adjusted her silk blouse, and smiled warmly at Elara.
"I wasn't expecting to find you here," she said. "But I'm glad I did."
"I'll make sure the designs are exactly what you asked for," Elara replied.
Natalia tilted her head. "Oh, I'm not worried about that. You've already proven you can handle difficult men."
Elara blinked.
Natalia gave her a wink and walked out of the office, her scent—jasmine and cedar—lingering behind her.
Elara stood there, heart thudding, and whispered, "What just happened?"
And then Mr. Lenox reappeared, clapping his hands. "You see? Told you it was good news. Now, don't disappoint her. She's got very deep pockets."
Elara groaned.
Another project. Another sleepless week.
Only this time… it involved the Volkov matriarch.
And if there was one thing Elara had learned about that family—it was that nothing was ever simple.