Nikolai POV
For the first time in years, someone made me wait.
I sat in Belladonna’s lobby, one ankle crossed over the other, one hand on the armrest, very aware that the woman at reception had no intention of being impressed by me.
Interesting.
She was polite. Professional. Unmoved.
I respected her for that.
Most people saw the Sokolov name and rearranged themselves around it—eager, nervous, helpful. They opened doors, offered information, and bent rules before I even asked.
Belladonna didn’t fold.
Not for my name. Not for my father. Not even for the security team outside with three vehicles and men who could clear the lobby in under a minute.
The receptionist simply smiled, checked her system, and told me I had no appointment. Then she made me sit.
I almost approved.
The lobb
