Chapter 8. Hard to Forget

Alexandra sank into the back seat of the Rolls Royce, her usual morning calm fractured by thoughts she couldn’t chase away. The girl lingered in her mind, sixteen, too young, too unformed, and yet her eyes carried something rare, a spark of defiance and hunger that no silk dress or luxurious penthouse could soften. Alexandra had seen that fire once before, long ago, in a mirror she now avoided.

Her chest tightened with something she refused to name. A need to shield Roxanne, to claim her, to never let the world lay hands on her. The thought unsettled her, almost shamed her, at how quickly she had grown possessive of someone she had known for less than twenty-four hours.

And yet, she could not help herself. Already she found herself imagining the girl at home instead of in classrooms filled with prying eyes and hungry whispers. Homeschooled, sheltered, hers alone to guide.

The memory of last night pressed in, the quiet hour spent watching Roxanne eat. Not a moment wasted. No irritation at her slowness. In fact, Alexandra had liked it: the girl chewing carefully, drinking her juice, and whispering "thank you" with sincerity. While she had drunk nearly a bottle of wine, not from thirst but to numb the ache of wanting to reach across the table and brush a crumb from the girl’s lip.

Alexandra could still see it, clear as though it were happening again before her eyes. The girl’s lashes fluttered as she rubbed at her eyes, clumsy and endearingly childlike once her hunger was satisfied.

She heard the soft murmur of her "good night," her small frame slipping beneath the comforter, cocooned in warmth and innocence.

Alexandra had stood there too long, caught between duty and something far more dangerous. The fragile sweetness of the moment gnawed at her, testing the steel walls she had built around herself. For a fleeting second, she wanted to stay, wanted to watch over Roxanne as she slept, to shield her from a world that devoured softness like hers.

But the weight pressing on her chest whispered of peril. A warning, sharp and insistent, that if she lingered, if she allowed herself to surrender to this unfamiliar pull, she would cross a line she could never uncross.

Something inside her screamed to run—run from the room, from the girl, from the warmth blooming where ice had always ruled. If she didn’t, she feared she would do something that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

This morning, though, Alexandra had seen the other side, hatred glinting openly in Roxanne’s eyes, directed not at her, but at Brandon. Alexandra should have dismissed it as childish rebellion, but instead it had drawn her deeper. That fire would grow, and she could not decide if she wanted to quench it or feed it.

“Get me everything on Roxanne Stephen and her family,” she said at last, her voice edged with command.

“Yes, madam,” her aide replied, clutching her bag.

The car pulled away, New York’s streets blessedly quiet at this early hour. Alexandra exhaled, savoring the stillness. She despised traffic, the way it caged her and stole her hours. Wasted time is wasted power, and Alexandra Romanov had never tolerated either.

The Rolls Royce slowed to a stop before the towers of Romanov Motors, their black-glass faces burning with a crimson glow against the morning sky. The central spire rose higher than all the rest, a sharp monument to ambition, its crown emblazoned with the name ROMANOV MOTORS in bold, bright gold contrasting the black window.

The car door opened, and Alexandra Romanov stepped out, her presence slicing through the chill air with the same precision as the tailored lines of her black suit. The world around her seemed to pause; even the glow of the building felt like it bent toward her.

Waiting at the lobby were several figures dressed in matching black suits—men and women alike—standing in silent formation, their eyes lowered, their posture sharp, awaiting her command.

Without a word, Alexandra adjusted her cuff, the glint of gold at her wrist catching the light, and strode toward the glass doors. The staff parted instantly, a wall of power moving in seamless choreography around her, as though the empire itself rose and breathed at her approach.

The polished marble floor of Romanov Motors echoed faintly under Alexandra’s heels as she strode forward, her entourage keeping pace like shadows. She didn’t slow, not even when her staff bowed their heads and murmured their greetings; her voice cut through instead, smooth and commanding.

“Adjust my lunch; I need to have lunch with my husband and daughter,” she said, not breaking stride, her words delivered as an order rather than a request.

Work officially began at nine, but Alexandra always arrived earlier. The empire never slept, and neither, it seemed, did she. By the time her board members are pouring their first cups of coffee, Alexandra Romanov has already dissected contracts, signed off on figures, and rewritten strategies. She never demanded the same of her employees, though her bodyguards, rotating shifts to cover her twenty-four hours a day, rarely had the same luxury.

Gregory, her most trusted aide, matched her pace with practiced ease, his eyes glued to the glowing tablet in his hands. “Your father is waiting to have breakfast with you in the meeting room,” he reported, tone clipped, efficient.

Alexandra’s lip curved into the faintest smirk, her pale eyes glinting with annoyance as she brushed a lock of silver hair from her face. “He must’ve wanted to know about the daughter Brandon dragged into our penthouse last night.”

Gregory didn’t look up from his tablet. “He’s been wanting a granddaughter from you,” he said matter-of-factly, “you can’t blame his excitement.”

“Ugh.” The sound slipped out low in her throat, half frustration, half something she didn’t dare name. Alexandra’s stride faltered for the briefest second as the image rose again, unbidden—Roxanne.

The girl’s face, softly illuminated by the faint glow of city lights spilling through the penthouse glass. Her wavy hair tumbling over her shoulder like strands of dusk and fire, her eyes carrying both defiance and fragility in equal measure. Sixteen. Too young. Too innocent. And yet the vision clung to Alexandra, a cruel distraction she couldn’t shake.

Her jaw tightened, pale green eyes flashing with irritation at herself. She stabbed the elevator button harder than necessary, her reflection in the polished chrome doors staring back, immaculate, untouchable, and ruthless. A woman who had no business remembering the softness of a girl’s features.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, her voice sharp enough to make Gregory glance at her warily, though he wisely said nothing.

The doors slid open with a chime, and Alexandra stepped inside, shoulders squared, trying to bury the ghost of warmth lingering in her chest.