Mile High Daddy: Chapter 9

The drive to Mikhail’s estate feels like it takes forever.

The city’s sprawling chaos fades into rolling countryside, the kind of lush greenery that belongs in a postcard, not my reality.

I sit stiffly in the back seat, my hands clenched tightly in my lap as Mikhail sits beside me, his presence taking up more space than it should. He doesn’t say much, and I certainly don’t feel like making conversation. My mind is a mess.

When we finally pull up to the estate, my breath catches. It’s massive—bigger than my father’s home, even. The kind of sprawling, opulent estate that screams old money and power. Tall iron gates swing open, revealing a long driveway lined with perfectly manicured trees, leading up to a stone mansion that looks like it was plucked straight out of another century.

I feel a chill as the car comes to a stop, the sheer size of the place making me feel smaller than I already do. The driver opens my door and I step out slowly, my heels clicking softly against the gravel.

“This is your home?” I ask, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice.

“Our ancestral home,” he says simply, his tone unreadable. “It’s been in my family for generations.”

I wrap my arms around myself, the unease creeping in deeper. The grandeur of the place doesn’t feel welcoming—it feels like a trap.

We walk up the grand staircase, the heavy oak doors opening as if they’ve been waiting for us. Inside, it’s just as overwhelming—gleaming marble floors, intricate chandeliers, and towering ceilings that make the space feel like a cathedral.

But it’s cold. Not the temperature, but the atmosphere. Everything is too perfect, too polished, like a museum where I don’t belong.

A woman appears at the top of the staircase, her posture regal, her gaze giving nothing away as her gaze sweeps over me. She’s tall and elegant, her dark hair streaked with gray, pulled back in a severe bun. She descends the stairs slowly, her calculating gaze remaining on me. Dark hair and gray eyes—it doesn’t take me long to figure out who this is.

“Mother,” Mikhail says, his voice respectful.

“So, this is the girl,” she says, her voice smooth but cold.

“I’m Lila,” I say.

She arches an eyebrow, her lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. “Lila,” she repeats, as though tasting the name. “Welcome to our home.”

The words are polite, but there’s no warmth behind them.

I nod awkwardly, unsure of what to say.

Before the silence can stretch too far, another woman enters the room, her smile bright and genuine. She’s shorter than Mikhail’s mother, with softer features and a warmth that instantly puts me slightly more at ease.

“You must be Lila,” she says, her tone kind. “I’m Tatyana, Mikhail’s aunt.”

Her kindness catches me off guard, and I manage a small smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Tatyana gives me a look that feels almost motherly, a stark contrast to the icy demeanor of Mikhail’s mother. “You must be exhausted,” she says, placing a gentle hand on my arm. “Come, let me show you to your room. You’ll feel better once you’ve had some time to settle in.”

I glance at Mikhail, who gives me a slight nod. “Go with her,” he says.

The staircase seems to stretch endlessly, each step pulling me further into this place that feels like the complete opposite of home. Tatyana chats as we walk, though I can barely focus on her words.

“You’ll find the estate a bit overwhelming at first,” she says with a small laugh. “But it grows on you. Eventually.”

I glance at her, trying to muster a polite smile. “It’s…impressive.”

She pats my arm gently, as though she can sense the weight of my unease. “Impressive is one way to describe it. Intimidating is another. But don’t worry, dear. You’ll find your place here.”

Her words are kind, but they feel hollow. My place? I don’t have a place here.

She leads me down a long hallway lined with towering windows that let in streams of sunlight. The view is breathtaking—rolling gardens, a fountain in the center of a perfectly manicured lawn, and woods stretching into the horizon.

“This will be your room,” Tatyana says, stopping in front of a set of double doors. She opens them with a flourish, revealing a space that looks like it belongs in a royal palace.

The room is enormous, with high ceilings and a canopy bed draped in silk. The walls are painted a soft cream, accented with gold trim, and the windows are framed with heavy velvet curtains. A chandelier hangs in the center, its crystals catching the light and scattering rainbows across the room.

“It’s beautiful,” I say softly, though the words feel empty.

Tatyana smiles warmly. “I’ll let you get settled. Dinner will be in a few hours. Mikhail can show you to the dining room.”

I nod, offering her another weak smile. “Thank you.”

She hesitates for a moment, her kind eyes studying me. “Lila,” she says gently, “if you ever need someone to talk to, my door is always open.”

Her words catch me off guard, and for a moment, I’m not sure how to respond. Finally, I manage a quiet, “Thank you.”

She squeezes my arm before leaving, the doors closing softly behind her.

I stand in the center of the room, turning slowly as I take it all in. It’s beautiful, yes, but it doesn’t feel real. It feels like a set, a stage for a life I don’t want to live.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, my hands gripping the silky fabric of the comforter. My chest feels tight, and the ache of missing my mother sharpens. She’d know what to say, how to make me feel like myself again.

But she’s not here.

I lie back on the bed, staring up at the chandelier as tears prick at my eyes. The reality of this new life crashes over me like a tidal wave, and for the first time since the wedding, I let myself cry.

The room is eerily quiet as night falls. I didn’t even realize when I had fallen asleep. Someone must have come in at one point because the curtains are drawn tight, shutting out the world, but I can’t bring myself to relax.

I sit on the edge of the bed, my arms wrapped around my knees, trying to process the events of the day. My wedding, this place, Mikhail. It’s all too much.

A knock at the door startles me, and before I can answer, it opens.

Mikhail steps inside.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze sweeping over me, lingering for a moment before he finally speaks. “This is my home. My room.”

I bristle. “I didn’t think I would be staying in your room.”

“You’re my wife, where else would you be?”

“I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

His lips twitch, almost like he’s amused. “Is that so?”

Mikhail unbuttons the top of his dress shirt, loosening the fabric against his throat. It shouldn’t be such an intimidating motion, but on him, it is. The stretch of his shoulders, the hint of dark ink peeking from beneath his sleeve reminds me that he’s a man built for control. For power.

“Yes,” I say firmly, crossing my arms over my chest. “If necessary, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Mikhail chuckles softly, the sound low and warm, but it only fuels my frustration.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he says, taking a step closer.

I tense, my heart pounding as he closes the distance between us. “Don’t,” I warn, trying to step to the side, but he moves faster, catching my wrist gently but firmly.

“Lila,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Stop.”

His hand is warm against my skin, and I hate the way my body reacts to his touch, the way my pulse races and my breath hitches.

“Mikhail,” I say, my voice trembling, “let me go.”

But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps closer, his towering frame blocking out everything else, his presence overwhelming. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm against my cheek as his mouth hovers just above mine. He doesn’t kiss me, but the tension crackles in the air between us, thick and suffocating.

“You can hate me all you want,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm. “But that doesn’t change what we are now.”

I can’t speak, can’t move, my entire body frozen as his words sink in.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally steps back, releasing my wrist. The loss of contact feels like a jolt, and I take a shaky breath, trying to steady myself.

“I’ll stay in the next room,” he says quietly, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer before he turns toward the door.

He pauses with his hand on the handle, glancing back at me. “Goodnight, Lila.”

And then he’s gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.