Chapter 4 - The Ghost of Elena Rostova
I didn't reach for the glass of water.
I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, looking out over the glittering grid of Manhattan below.
Down there, in the narrow alleys of Queens and Brooklyn, I had scrubbed toilets, washed dishes until my hands bled, and dodged aggressive landlords.
"My full name is Lena Rostova," I said into the quiet glass.
Alexander, who was bringing his glass to his lips, stopped dead in his tracks.
The glass lowered slowly to the table.
"Rostova?" he repeated, his brow knitting tightly.
"As in Elena Rostova, the prima ballerina who disappeared from the Bolshoi in the nineties?"
"Elena was my mother," I answered, turning to face him under the modern recessed spotlights.
"She defected to America because she fell in love with my father, a simple carpenter from Boston who had no money and no pedigree."
Alexander stared at me, his eyes widening with genuine, uncalculated shock.
"Your mother was an international legend. The dance world searched for her for over a decade."
"They searched in the wrong places," I said, a faint, melancholic smile touching my lips.
"My mother didn't want fame. She wanted peace. She opened a small, unlisted studio in Sunnyside and taught local neighborhood girls for ten dollars an hour."
I walked over to the velvet sofa and sat down on the edge, the fatigue of the long night finally weighing on my shoulders.
"When she got sick with leukemia, the medical bills piled up like mountains. My father mortgaged everything we had. When she died, the debt didn't die with her. It transferred to him, and then to me."
Alexander stood across the room, listening with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
The cold businessman who viewed everything through margins and corporate leverage had completely vanished.
"How much do you owe?" Alexander asked, his voice unexpectedly quiet.
"Four hundred and eighty thousand dollars to a predatory private equity lender called Apex Capital," I said.
Alexander's jaw clenched with sudden, violent recognition.
"Apex Capital belongs to Richard Sterling," he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair.
"Victoria's father."
A cold chill ran down my spine as the pieces clicked together like heavy tumblers in a bank vault.
"Sterling bought the debt note on my mother's studio six years ago," I realized aloud.
"He’s been garnishing my wages through three different cleaning agencies."
Alexander stepped around the table, his eyes blazing with a fierce, dangerous resolve.
"Sterling didn't just buy your debt, Lena. He systematically bought up old theater properties across Queens to build luxury high-rises. He crushed your family's studio on purpose."
He reached inside his inner coat pocket and pulled out a sleek gold fountain pen.
He slid a blank legal pad across the marble island toward me.
"The terms of our agreement just changed, Lena," Alexander said, his voice ringing with pure steel.
"Ninety days as my public fiancée. You don't just get two million dollars. You get the deed to the Rostova Dance Center, restored and funded for the next fifty years."
I looked down at the blank yellow paper, then up into the fierce eyes of the billionaire who had tried to mock me three hours ago.
"And what happens to Richard Sterling?" I asked.
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Alexander’s lips curved into a sharp, predatory smile.
"We are going to dance on his grave."
