His empire needed stability. His family did not.
He reviewed the forecasts. His mind was cold and ruthless. Evgenia’s voice and Nadezhda’s tears were not important. Neither was public outrage or sympathy. Opinions change. Wealth remains. If he controlled the market, he controlled the narrative. It had always been that way.
But for the first time, doubt whispered. Victor dismissed it.
‘Send an offer to Lvovna’s firm,’ he said evenly. ‘An offer. Money. Real estate. Anything she wants. For Evgenia’s silence.’
His assistant nodded cautiously, although they both knew that Lvovna would not agree to the deal.
Victor returned to his screens. Indifferent. For him, Evgenia was not a wife. She was a cost centre. And the children? He never saw them as real. Four identical faces that he had avoided since their birth. Babies were complications. Emotions slowed down deals.
Attachment weakened resolve. Victor did not hold children in his arms. He held power.
But cracks were appearing.
That night, long after his assistant had left, Victor remained in his office. The lights were dimmed. The city spread out behind the glass like a dead circuit board.
He poured himself a drink. He didn’t touch it. His gaze slid to the only object on the far edge of his desk. A photograph. A cheap hospital snapshot taken by a nurse. Four premature babies. His children.
He didn’t know who had put the photograph there. Maybe Evgenia. Maybe a long-gone employee. He had ignored it for years, leaving it on the table like background noise.
But now, alone, he looked at it. Not with tenderness. Not with regret. With confusion.
They meant nothing to him. Not because he was cruel. It was because he didn’t know how.
Victor Morozov understood transactions. Not fatherhood.
The silence was oppressive. Finally, he stood up. He walked over to the window. He stared at the streets below, where cars and people looked equally meaningless.
His own face stared back at him in the reflection of the glass. For the first time, he didn’t recognise it.
His empire was crumbling. His narrative was slipping away. And he didn’t know how to win this war.
Behind him, his untouched drink was warming up. Next to him was a photograph. Four children and a man who had never held them in his arms.
Victor whispered into the void. ‘They will forget me.’
And somewhere in the city, Eugenia was preparing to ensure just that.
Nadezhda stopped counting the hours. Time no longer mattered. Her hotel room, once her refuge, had become her prison. The curtains remained closed. Trays of food rotted untouched.