Her look of astonishment is replaced immediately by confusion.
“What are you doing here?”
I can barely follow her question because my brain is going haywire, looking at her for the first time in so long. She’s more beautiful than ever.
“Ms. Volkova.” Tom’s voice fills the space, but Petra’s eyes never leave my face. “My client, Alex Ivanov, recently discovered some legal documents that concern you. We thought it best to inform you in person.”
“You tricked me into coming here?” she asks, looking straight at me. She waits a beat, then says, “I don’t care what documents you’ve found, at this point I want nothing to do with you.”
It’s not what I expected her to say, but it’s not a surprise either. Fourteen years without any contact. Of course she’s pissed. She starts to turn, and I’m afraid she’s going to walk out that door and I’ll never see her again.
“Petra.” Her name comes out harsher than I intended, but succeeds in getting her to stop. I say the one thing I hope will get her to stay. “We’re married.”
That tight blue knee-length dress she’s wearing skims across her body as she staggers forward a few steps in her heels.
I want to get up, go to her, hold her, and tell her we’ll figure this out together. But I can’t. My end goal is unfortunately more important than her feelings. More important than mine too.
“I can see this is quite the shock,” Tom says, his voice all polished finesse that couldn’t sound more different from the man I’ve gotten to know on the squash court. He is the only person in the world who I would actually call a friend.
Petra’s eyes flit to Tom as she turns to face us, and the look on her face asks why he’s even speaking. Then she levels those bright blue eyes right back at me. “What. The. Hell?”
Tom and I agreed it would be better if he were the one to explain things to her. There’s too much at stake for me to stick my foot in my mouth and piss her off. But I can’t sit by silently and ignore her like I have for the past fourteen years. She has always deserved better than that.
“Alex,” Tom draws my name out as a warning, like he knows I’m about to go rogue and is reminding me what we’d agreed to.
I ignore him and turn my attention to Petra. Nothing has changed—the attraction I didn’t want to feel then and don’t want to feel now is still there.
“When my father gave yours the money for your boarding school, that wasn’t an agreement for an exchange of funds. That was a marriage contract.”
Her eyes widen. “Did you know that’s what it was when we both signed it?”
I’m relieved she still trusts me enough to ask this question. “Of course not.”
“Even if we signed a marriage contract, that doesn’t mean we’re actually married,” she insists. “I went back to Austria for my cousin Natasha’s wedding a few years ago. And I distinctly remember her and Mathéo having to go to the vital statistics office in person to apply for their marriage license, and then return there for the civil ceremony. And since we didn’t appear in person to apply for a marriage license, nor did we return to get married there, we can’t be married.”
My lips turn down at the corners before I say, “I consulted with a lawyer in Austria to try to get this annulled or overturned, but the paper trail is airtight. Every single thing points to us having applied for a marriage license and taken part in a civil ceremony, both in person. And even though we know that we didn’t, the lawyer insisted that no judge is going to believe us fourteen years after the fact.”
“You did all of that before even telling me?” Is that hurt I see in the way she narrows her eyes at me? “How long have you known?” She sets her bag on the chair and rests both her hands on the back of it. She’s not sitting, and with the way she’s braced herself on those nude stilettos with the gold studs along the straps, she seems poised to leave if she decides she doesn’t like my answer.
“That’s hardly relevant to the issue—” Tom starts.
“Like hell it’s not,” Petra interrupts him, never taking her eyes off me. “How long have you known, Sasha?”
“Who the hell is Sasha?” Tom mumbles, more to himself than to either of us. I’ll have to explain how Russian nicknames work later.
“I found out about three months ago when my father died.”
I see her expression change when I mention his death, like she’s internally at war with what she wants to say next. “I hope it was a good death?”
“It was,” I tell her, but it’s a lie. My father died of a heart attack, alone in his mansion after he’d ostracized everyone who ever cared about him. In Russian culture, we’d call that a ‘bad death.’ But I don’t want her to feel sorry for the man who gave her father money in exchange for wedding vows, especially since that wasn’t even the worst thing he did to her or her family.
“Good.” Her face softens a bit as she looks at me like she’s trying to determine how I feel about my father’s passing. It was no secret that we had a contentious relationship at best.
“I went through the same thought processes you’re going through when I found the marriage license and the marriage certificate among my father’s papers,” I say before she can ask any more questions about my father. “So whoever our fathers had to pay off to make this happen, they did.”
An acerbic laugh breaks through her pursed lips. “As if my father had enough money to pay someone off to fake marry me to his employer’s son.”
“Petra—”
She hears the pity in my voice and interrupts me before I can say more. “So why? Why would they do this?”
I shrug. I have no answer I can share with her.
“So if you found out about this months ago, why are you just telling me now?”
“I was hoping I could figure a way out of this for us.”
“Oh, you were going to figure a way out for us?” Her voice is rising—no longer low and raspy—she doesn’t even sound like herself. “You can’t just go around making decisions on my behalf without consulting me! Especially not after all these years.”
“Petra.” Her name rolls off my tongue like a caress. “Of course I was going to consult you—once I had more details. Which is now.”
We look at each other in silence for a moment before Tom clears his throat, trying to move this conversation along. We haven’t even gotten to the reason we’re here. We both look at him, which he seems to take as an indication that he should take over from here.
Now that I’ve seen her again, I really wish I’d set this up differently. It should be just the two of us having this conversation.
“Given this new information, my client would like to propose a solution that we think will be amenable to both parties.”
“Oh, I’m all ears.” That raspy voice of hers escapes through tight lips, sarcasm dripping from each word.
“My client needs US citizenship. You have your Austrian citizenship via your birth, but given that your mother was a US citizen, you’ve also retained your citizenship here.”
Petra raises her eyebrows. “Yes, I understand my own citizenship status.”
“And given that you have legally been married to my client for the past fourteen years,” Tom continues, “and you have both resided here in the United States for at least the past three years, that would qualify him to apply for citizenship.”
“What does any of this have to do with me, then?” she asks.
“Well, there is a hiccup. US Immigration requires that you must have been living in marital union with your spouse for at least three years before the application for naturalization is submitted.”
“We obviously haven’t done that,” Petra says. “And besides, what makes you think I’d want to help Alex here?” She spits out my name like it’s a lie, and I guess in her world it is. Never in my life was I called Alex until I made the NHL and my agent decided a more Americanized name would be easier for fans to remember. Before that, I was always Sasha. And why would she want to help me after the way we left things?
“Alex is prepared to make this endeavor worth your while,” Tom responds. “After he receives his citizenship, he’ll grant you a divorce with enough alimony that you’ll never need to work again.”
“Oh, he’ll grant me a divorce, will he?” Though her words are for Tom, her eyes are back on mine. Behind those blue irises, a Petra-level storm is brewing, and I’m almost looking forward to watching it break. Tom has no idea what he’s in for as she turns toward him. “Unfortunately for him, I like working. I love the company I’ve built and I’m proud of the work I do. And no man is going to walk into my life and act like he’s granting me some sort of salvation, when really what he needs is my blessing and my assistance.”
Tom sputters, clearly not expecting that reaction. A typical lawyer, he thinks everything can be solved with enough paperwork and money.
“How do I even know that marriage was legal?” she asks me. “I was a minor.”
“You were sixteen,” I tell her, “which is the age of consent for marriage in Austria, as long as a parent signs off on the union. Which your father did. And as long as the other party is over eighteen, which I was.”
As the realization that her own father betrayed her seeps in, the small crack in her armor shows me just how much this hurts her. “And so now you’re trying to buy me off? Use me to get what you want, then send me on my way with a divorce and money. How quintessentially Ivanov is that?” Her low, rumbling laugh is bitter.
“You’re right about my family.” That is exactly how my father handled problems—throw enough money at it and the problem goes away. “But that’s also not what I’m trying to do here.”
“Oh? Then what the actual hell are you trying to do here?” The color rises in her cheeks, a flood of red-hot anger she can’t hide.
“I need US citizenship, and I’m willing to do whatever I have to do to get it.”
“Why the sudden need? You’ve legally been living and working in New York for . . . how many years now?”
“Eight.”
I see a momentary flash of realization in her eyes. Eight years. When she lived in New York I was here too, which she didn’t know then, but I did. And I never contacted her.
“So why the change now?”
“Alex is about to retire,” Tom provides the lie we agreed on. “His P-1 Visa is dependent on him playing hockey, which he won’t be doing after the end of this season. That could be as early as this month, depending on how the playoffs go.”
Petra looks back and forth between us. “You’ve had eight years to apply for citizenship. Why didn’t you think to do this sooner?” Her eyes fly between me and Tom as she tries to figure this out. “I feel like there’s a missing part of this situation that you’re not sharing with me.”
“Let’s just talk about this like rational adults.” I know immediately that I’ve said the wrong thing. Why did I suggest she’s not being rational when I’m the one who sprung this on her?
“You ambush me in a lawyer’s office with news that we’re married, threaten me with divorce, and offer to buy me off with future alimony. You have a plan and paperwork, and you’ve consulted me on exactly none of this. I don’t even know who you are anymore.” There’s a note of sadness mixed in with the anger.
“I know this is a lot of information being thrown at you. I should have handled things differently—” I glance over at Tom quickly, hoping he receives my I told you this was the wrong way to go about this message loud and clear, before I turn back to Petra. “But please, let’s talk about this. Come over to my place tonight and we’ll sort this out.”
“You abandoned me fourteen years ago,” Petra says. “I can’t imagine why you think I’d help you now.”
“Just think about it this afternoon. I know you have more questions. Meet me tonight and I’ll answer them as best I can.” My voice shakes the slightest bit even while I try to maintain my composure. “I really need your help, Petra.”
“I need time to think about this,” Petra says, shaking her head.
“Alex, I’m not sure—” Tom warns, but I hold up one hand, stopping him from saying anything more.
I should have done this differently in the first place. I was a coward to have Tom be part of this conversation, and it’s backfired badly. I need to rebuild Petra’s trust in me, and it won’t happen through Tom.
“Just come over tonight,” I say, my eyes still locked on hers. “I’ll text you the details.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Tom crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, shaking his head.
“How do you have my number?” she asks.
“I got you here, didn’t I?”
“You’re unreal,” she spits out as she grabs her leather bag off the chair where she’d set it when she first came in, then spins and stalks out of the room.
“Sasha, huh?” Tom says the minute the door to his office slams.
“Of all the things that just happened, that’s what you lead with?” I shake my head, then lean forward and set my elbows on my knees so I can rest my forehead on the palms of my hands. I have a sudden tension headache.
“Okay . . . that went well.”
I press my lips together, so the frustrated growl rattles around in the back of my throat rather than escaping my mouth. His legal advice might have been the “safer” approach, but it has made this whole situation so much more difficult. I should have known better.
“I’ll take over from here,” I tell him. There’s no room for disagreement in my statement, but still Tom argues with me. I guess that’s what you get when your only friend is a lawyer.
“I think that’s a mistake.”
“Of course you do. But you have no idea who we’re dealing with here.”
“You think you’re going to change her mind?”
“I think the only way to get Petra to do anything she doesn’t want to do is by being honest. Right now, she doesn’t trust me. I have to fix that. She needs all the info.”
“You’re going to tell her about Stella?” he asks, both eyebrows shooting higher.
I lean back in my seat and cross my ankle over my knee. “Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.”
I push myself back against the wall, wishing I could blend in a bit better among the cadre of nannies here to pick up their little ballerinas. On the other side of the glass, the dance teacher corrals the six-year-olds into a circle where they put their hands on each other’s shoulders and practice sliding one foot forward and pointing their toe. Or at least, that’s what it looks like they’re doing. I can’t claim to know the first thing about ballet. And neither did Stella until a month ago when her best friend Harper asked if they could take lessons together. Now it’s all she talks about.
“Do you think they’ll be done soon?” Harper’s mom, Sofia, asks as she slides into the space between the end of the waiting room chairs and where I’m standing against the wall. She glances at her watch. “I need to get back to Benjamin soon.”
Sofia is the only one of Stella’s friends’ parents I know. Her other friends seem to spend their every waking hour with their nannies. In my experience, that’s the norm among the Upper East Side families that have chosen The Buckingham School, where Stella is in first grade. The fact that Sofia is so involved in parenting Harper and Benjamin is half of why I trust her so much. That, and she was my sister-in-law Colette’s best friend.
“I think they’re wrapping up,” I say, glancing up from my phone. Stella loves Miss Peggy’s ballet classes, but our nanny, Natasha, has warned me that the woman is not known for her timeliness.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Sofia says. I know I stand out like a giant among the women here waiting for ballet to end. “Is Natasha already gone?”
“Yeah. She left yesterday.” We are just entering playoff season, so my nanny could not have picked a less convenient time to leave. But her one-year contract was up and she understandably wanted to get back to her fiancé in St. Petersburg.
“When’s the new one start?”
“Not soon enough.” It’s unfortunate I couldn’t get her to start this week, but she’s finishing up a contract with another family. “She’s coming over for a bit on Friday to spend some time with Stella, then she starts on Monday.”
“Well, if you need any help in the meantime, let me know. Harper always loves spending time with Stella.”
I glance at the girls in question, who are holding hands as they practice moving across the floor in what looks like skipping with straight legs, some ballet move that I’m sure has an official French name. “The feeling is mutual.”
“God, every year they are more adorable together,” Sofia says, her hand over her heart.
I’m relieved that Sofia and her family were already in Stella’s life when my brother and his wife died. I don’t know how I would have gotten through the first couple months of being Stella’s guardian without Sofia’s help. Stella’s nanny, Natasha, moved with Stella from my brother’s place into mine. And while she did most of the day-to-day childcare, it was Sofia who taught me how to be a dad—a role I was not prepared for, and at the time wasn’t sure I wanted.
On the other side of the big glass wall, Miss Peggy tells them class time is over. When Stella and Harper weave through the maze of dancers and rush up to us, I bend down to scoop Stella into my arms and hear Harper ask Sofia, “Did you ask him yet, Mommy?”
Sofia gives her daughter a soft chuckle. “Not yet. Why don’t you do the honors.”
Harper looks up at me, her head so far back I’m afraid she’ll fall over. “Mr. Ivanov, can Stella spend the night this weekend?”
“Please, Dyadya,” Stella begs. From her perch on my hip, she grabs my face with both hands, giving me an angelic pout. “Please?”
I swallow. For reasons I can’t articulate in front of her, the thought of Stella spending the night anywhere but my place makes me deeply uncomfortable. It’s not that I don’t trust Harper’s family. It’s that I don’t have total control over their home and what happens there.
“I need to check on our weekend plans,” I tell Stella, then I turn to Sofia. “Okay if I get back to you about that later?”
“Sure,” she says, but by the tone of her voice she already knows that my answer is no, even if the six-year-olds haven’t figured it out yet.
“I wouldn’t have to go to bed early if you’d let me stay at Harper’s,” Stella complains as she stomps her foot on the bathroom rug. It’s hard to take her seriously in her fuzzy pink bathrobe with her wet curls hanging heavy around her face.
“Harper invited you to spend the night this weekend, not tonight. Besides, you’re not going to bed early,” I say again. “You’re going to bed at the exact time you always do.”
“But you’re making me go to bed before your company comes over. That’s not fair. I want to meet her. You let me stay up late and say ‘hi’ when Mr. Shepherd comes over.”
“That’s different,” I say as I hang her towel on the back of the door. “Do you want braids tonight?”
“No, I want to meet your friend who is going to help us. If she was your best friend when you were little, did she know my papa too?”
Stella is much more comfortable talking about her parents than I am. Growing up, my big brother was my idol. As adults, he was my best friend. And not having him around now makes it hard to talk about him through the lump in my throat every time he comes up in conversation. “I don’t know if she’s going to help us yet, Stella. That’s what I’m going to talk to her about. And yes, your dad knew Petra too.”
“Then I should get to meet her.” Stella presses her lips together as she waits for my response. Someday, this kid is going to be a ruthless CEO.
“Maybe another time,” I say. With any luck, Petra will agree to my ruse and will be around for a while.
“At least tell me what she looks like. Is she beautiful?” Stella grabs a comb and two rubber bands from the top drawer of the bathroom vanity and casually hands them to me like she didn’t just tell me she didn’t want braids.
“Yes, she’s very beautiful.” There’s no point in lying about Petra’s beauty. She was gorgeous when she was a teenager, and if it’s possible, she’s gotten even more gorgeous over time. Now, she has the look of a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it, and this is my favorite version of Petra that I’ve seen.
Stella climbs up on the counter of the vanity and sits cross-legged with her back to me, but she’s studying me carefully in the mirror. “Why was your best friend a girl?”
Why am I having this conversation with a child?
“I don’t know, she just was,” I say as I use the comb to part her hair down the middle and brush half of it to one side. “She lived in a little house in my backyard called the caretaker’s cottage.”
“Why was it a little house? Is she small like a fairy?”
I can’t help but laugh at the inner workings of the six-year-old mind. “No, it was a normal house, just small compared to mine, I guess. Her dad took care of my family’s property and her mom was a teacher at the school your dad and I went to. Petra went to school there too.”
“Was she your age, or Papa’s age?”
“Neither. She’s three years younger than me, so she was five years younger than your dad.”
Her eyebrows scrunch up and her nose twitches, a classic Stella thinking face. I divide the hair into three equal-sized sections and then begin braiding them as I watch her think about this.
“But why was she your best friend if she was so much younger?” she asks. “That would be like my best friend being a three-year-old.”
“Good subtraction.” We’ve been working on extra math lately. “But she wasn’t my best friend when I was your age,” I say, considering how much to tell her.
“Why not?”
“I was good friends with her older brother. We played hockey together.”
As I tie the elastic around the end of her first braid, she looks at me in the mirror like I haven’t answered her question at all—which I haven’t. Petra’s family’s story is riddled with tragedy, and I’m not sure how much is appropriate to share with someone Stella’s age who has her own family trauma.
“But then, why did you become friends with her?” She is nothing if not persistent.
I move to the other side of her head and divide that hair into three. “Her brother and mom died in a car accident,” I tell her. “She and I became closer when that happened.”
“Like how my mom and dad died?” she asks, and I nod. “If she’s your best friend, how come I haven’t met her before?”
“She was my best friend when I was a kid. Sometimes you grow apart from people as you get older.”
“Does that mean Harper and I won’t be friends when we’re older?”
I groan internally. This parenting thing is hard work. Constantly worrying about the right way to explain things, trying to help shape this little person into a strong and resilient young woman. Why did I think I could do this? Not that there was another choice, but I worry that I’m failing her every day.
“No, not necessarily. Look at your mom and Harper’s mom. They were friends since they were kids, and maybe you and Harper will be too.”
Stella’s smile is huge and hopeful. “We will be. I can tell.”
“I hope so,” I say as I finish up her second braid. “Now, let’s get you in your pajamas and in bed.”
