009: LIVING WITNESS

Yara Pov

“Go to the recently deleted folder,” Kieran said, his deep voice vibrating right against my ear. “Clear it from there too. I know how legal minds work, law girl. No backups.”

My jaw tightened but I did as he said, navigating to the trash bin and hitting Delete all, the file vanished completely. The evidence was gone.

“Are you satisfied?” I asked, pulling my phone off the dock.

“For now,” Kieran replied. He took another sip of his drink and walked over to the black leather sofa, throwing his long frame onto it with a heavy sigh. “Tomorrow by nine a.m., my legal team will have a contract ready for you. You will sign the NDA, and you will sign the terms of our relationship. Half a million dollars will be placed into an escrow account. You get fifty percent after three months. The rest when the six months are over.”

“And my student loans?”

“It will be paid directly to the bank by noon tomorrow,” he said, squinting at his glass. “You don't have to worry about collections anymore.”

A small, strange weight lifted from my chest, but it was immediately replaced by a thicker sense of dread. I was officially property of Volkov Sports…well Kieran Volkov himself. 

Before I could ask where I was supposed to sleep, a door at the far end of the penthouse flew open.

“Tell me the blogs are lying,” a loud, smooth voice echoed through the space.

I turned around sharply. A tall man with dark hair and a brilliant, soft face walked into the living room, wearing a gray sweater.. He looked remarkably like Kieran, but his features were softer, more expressive. Dominic Volkov. The basketball star.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted me. His gaze dragged down my smeared makeup, my ripped dress, and then flicked over to the two trash bags sitting by the entrance.

“Well, damn,” Dominic said, a slow, amused grin spreading across his face. “I thought the internet was just making things up. Kieran, did you actually kidnap Jeriah’s ex-girlfriend from the police station?”

“Shut up, Dominic,” Kieran muttered without sparing him a glance. 

Another figure walked out from the hallway behind Dominic. This one looked younger, maybe mid twenties, with messy dark hair and a grease stain on the sleeve of his white t-shirt. Alaric Volkov. The race car driver. He had a tablet in his hand, his eyes scanning the screen before he looked up at me.

“The data on the blog traffic is spiking,” Alaric said, his tone entirely casual, as if I weren't standing here looking like a car crash survivor. “The Donovan family’s PR firm is trying to suppress the police station photos, but they can't keep up. New York loves a scandal.” He looked at me, his eyes curious. “You’re Yara, right? The law student.”

I didn't answer. I just pulled my dress tighter around myself, the humiliation threatening to swallow me whole again. These people were talking about my ruin like it was a sports statistic.

“She’s staying here,” Kieran said, his voice cutting through his brothers chatter like a knife. “For the next six months..”

Dominic let out a low whistle, walking over to the bar to pour himself a drink. “Father is going to love this. He specifically said no distractions this season, Kieran. Jeriah is our biggest investment this year, and you’re already sleeping with his baggage?”

“We aren't sleeping together,” I snapped, my voice louder than I intended. Dominic paused, his glass halfway to his lips, an amused brow raised at my tone. I looked at both of them, my chest heaving. “This is a business arrangement. Nothing more.”

Dominic smirked. “I like her. She’s got teeth.”

“Just go to bed, Dominic,” Kieran growled, standing up from the couch. The sheer size of him immediately shifted the energy in the room. The brothers stopped smiling. There was an underlying tension here—a dangerous, unspoken hierarchy that reminded me these men weren't just athletes. They were men in a mafia family.

Before anyone could move, the private elevator chimed.

The sound was soft, but the reaction it caused in the room was instantaneous. Kieran’s jaw went rigid. Dominic set his glass down on the counter without making a sound. Alaric quietly turned off his tablet and stepped back toward the shadow of the hallway.

The elevator doors slid open.

An older man stepped out into the penthouse. He was in his late fifties, but he moved with a terrifying, silent precision. He wore an immaculate, dark three piece suit that didn't have a single crease. His hair was silver, slicked back neatly, and his face looked like it had been carved out of stone. His eyes were a dark, bottomless gray, completely devoid of any human warmth.

Mikhail Volkov. The head of the empire.

The air in the room instantly turned to ice. Nobody spoke, nobody breathed.

Mikhail didn't look at his sons..instead his dark gray eyes locked directly onto me, scanning my torn dress, my bare leg, ruined makeup. The sheer weight of his presence made my knees tremble. He looked at me not like a person, but like a piece of garbage that had been tracked onto his expensive rug.

“Kieran,” Mikhail’s voice was a low, gravelly baritone that echoed in the room. “Explain why there is a witness standing in your living room.”