Chapter 4. Welcome to the Romanov

The Romanov penthouse is like a kingdom in the sky of New York, towering above Manhattan’s waterfront like a crown no one else can claim. The building itself, wholly owned by the Romanov family, announces its exclusivity the moment one steps inside the marble-clad lobby, where a polished brass R, their crest, glows behind the receptionist’s desk like a seal of empire.

The penthouse occupies the entire top floor; its design is absolutely grand. Soaring double-height ceilings lead into a vast salon, where velvet-wrapped sofas curve in warm gold tones and are arranged to frame the breathtaking wall of glass.

From here, the Hudson River gleams like a ribbon of silver, and the Manhattan skyline stands in defiance just across the water, its towers so close they seem almost within reach.

Every surface speaks of refinement: bronzed archways, polished wood floors that shine like lacquer, chandeliers spilling amber light, and a private bar stocked with rare vintages.

The space flows seamlessly into more intimate chambers, dining rooms where entire walls are mirrors, bedrooms softened with silks, and marble baths carved to resemble sanctuaries.

The building isn't just a residence but a stage. A Romanov penthouse is built not for comfort alone, but for power and spectacle, a place where business is sealed over cognac, where secrets slip into velvet shadows, and where Alexandra reigns as if she were born empress of New York itself.

The car rolled to a stop before the façade of the Romanov's tower, its entrance lit like a shrine against the Manhattan night. In a quick motion, men in tailored black suits stepped forward, opening the car door. Leather shoes clicked softly against the marble drive as they began unloading luggage, paper bags from boutiques, and the weight of an entire new life packed into polished cases.

Yet their movements slowed, almost faltered, when their eyes lifted toward the young girl stepping out of the car. A teenager, too young for such an empire, too radiant to belong to anything ordinary. The city lights caught in her hair, framing her like some fragile vision that didn’t quite belong in their master’s world of steel and shadows.

The air thickened as their gazes lingered, awed, curious, and wary, until the sharp voice of Brandon Romanov cut through, cold and commanding. “She’s my daughter now,” he declared, the authority in his tone brooking no doubt. “Alexandra’s stepdaughter. From this moment, treat her well.”

A subtle shift rippled through the men; they straightened their posture, dropping their eyes at once, as though recognizing she had just been marked with the Romanov crest. No longer just a girl, she's family, and that word, in this household, meant untouchable.

Roxanne’s gaze swept over her surroundings, the velvet couches that seemed to swallow whoever sat upon them, and the endless reflections of gold and glass catching the city’s lights through the Romanov penthouse windows.

It's a world built on opulence, every surface whispering wealth, every corner designed to remind her she now stood in someone else’s empire. And yet, in that very moment, her mind betrayed her—slipping back to the place she once called home.

The farmhouse in Texas stood at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by tall grasses that swayed with the wind. Its paint had long faded into a weary gray, with shutters hanging slightly crooked on their rusted hinges.

Summers made the air heavy with cicadas; winters pressed frost against the cracked windowpanes. The porch sagged in places, but it had held the weight of her childhood, the laughter, the storms, and the quiet nights when the stars seemed to spill across the sky just for her.

Compared to this grand fortress of glass and steel, the farmhouse had been nothing but bones and memory. Yet Roxanne could not help but feel the ache of its honesty. The Romanovs’ world dazzled, yes, but it felt like a stage; her old home had been real, no matter how weathered, no matter how small.

Then, Roxanne heard a step from above, a woman coming down from the stairs, her hand holding a vodka bottle. The woman radiates a beauty that is as commanding as it is untouchable, the kind that draws attention not through softness, but through sheer presence.

Her platinum-white hair cascades in deliberate waves, catching the light like strands of silk spun from moonlight. Every lock frames her face in calculated disarray, balancing elegance with a quiet defiance.

Her eyes, pale and piercing, carry the weight of someone who has learned to command rooms with a single glance. They are not merely beautiful; they are assessing, unflinching, the gaze of a woman accustomed to being obeyed rather than questioned.

Draped in a sharply tailored black suit, the cut of her jacket and the crisp white of her shirt emphasize not only her figure but also her authority, power distilled into fabric.

Gold accents glimmer at her throat, wrists, and waist: not ornaments, but a show-off of her wealth, legacy, and control. Even the belt buckle, the layered necklaces, and the heavy earrings—each piece speaks of someone who wears luxury not for vanity, but to show off, for power.

Her beauty is severe, the kind that leaves no room for softness, dangerous, and commanding—the sort of beauty that forces awe and caution into the same breath. “Oh, you’re here.” The woman’s voice, low and husky, seemed to seep into Roxanne’s skin. Her knees threatened to give way at her voice, as though every inch of her body understood instinctively the gravity of this encounter.

“I’m Alexandra Romanov. Your uncle is my husband.” She spoke without flourish, without warmth, yet her presence alone made the air feel charged. Brandon remained silent beside her, gaze fixed on his wife as if even he dared not interrupt.

“She’s Roxanne Stephen—” Brandon began, but Alexandra’s hand cut through the silence like a blade.

“She’ll be Roxanne Romanov from today on.” The words came cold and absolute, and yet they struck Roxanne with a terrible, thrilling force she could not name.

She smelled faintly of Hugo Boss and cigarette smoke, a scent Roxanne would have never imagined finding intoxicating, but in this moment, it's irresistible. Alexandra closed the distance with languid grace, her fingers catching Roxanne’s chin, lifting it until their eyes met.

“She looks smart,” she murmured.

“She’s smart,” Brandon answered stiffly, as though anything less would disappoint her.

“Good.” Alexandra’s lips curved into the faintest smile before she leaned over to press a casual kiss to her husband’s mouth. The gesture was brief and dismissive, already forgotten by the time she turned away.

“Take her to her room,” Alexandra commanded the servants, and with that, she’s gone, leaving behind only her perfume, her smoke, and the trembling heartbeat inside Roxanne’s chest.