Control by Lana Sky

Author:Lana Sky [Sky, Lana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lana Sky

Chapter Fourteen

I return to the hotel just before midnight in a different vehicle from the sleek, compact model I left in. Halfway through the outing, the poor driver stuck with me had to call for backup and switch out his smaller model for a Range Rover.

Regardless, my purchases are practically spilling out of the SUV. So much so that I have to run to the front desk to request assistance. But the second I give my room number, the hostess raises an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” she says. “But it looks like you were checked out at least…” She scrolls through her records. “At least five hours ago. The room has already been cleaned.”

“W-What?” Panic grips me so fiercely I have to brace both hands on the counter. Deep breaths, Tiffy. You still have the bastard’s credit card, unless he’s already canceled it…

“Oh! It looks like there was a note left for you. Your husband wanted you to know that he had your things sent home and that he’ll be waiting for you there.”

“Home?”

She scribbles an address onto a slip of paper. I read it warily, half-expecting to find the listing for the Hotel Six back in California. Instead, I don’t recognize the street address or the location.

I try to hand the page back to the hostess. “I think there’s some kind of mistake.”

“No mistake,” she insists. “Our driver will be able to see you home. Thank you so much for your stay, have a wonderful night!”

In a daze, I stagger back out to the car and hand the slip of paper to the driver. Minutes later, we’re leaving the city, heading in a direction that seems vaguely familiar. A view of a gleaming body of water pierces a calmer landscape dotted with trees and the average home made of stone or wood. As the driver turns down a long, winding driveway, it clicks.

While this isn’t the exact same house his brother Maxim lives in, the one we’re pulling up to now looks eerily similar—no doubt within the same location if not the same neighborhood.

It’s sprawling, more modern with a winding driveway and acres of neatly manicured property. It’s as if someone wanted to copy the coziness of Maxim’s home, but applied the crisp, overly neat style of Vadim. The resulting creation is both breathtaking and imposing.

“Allow me to help you with these, Miss,” the long-suffering driver insists as he helps me out of the backseat. Between the two of us, we manage to carry most of the packages to the front door, which opens before I can even form a fist to knock.

“Such a late hour,” a man suavely remarks. “I was just about to retire to bed and assume you’d used my accounts to charter your own private plane.”

“I could do that?” The marvels of men with money. Shaking my head, I try to focus. “What the hell is this, Gorgoshev?” I step forward, barging into the entry, and I drop my packages right there in the middle of an open foyer.

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