His bratva princess

Chapter 4

The morning sun did nothing to wash away the lingering anxiety clinging to the edges of Milana’s mind.

She stood at the top of the stairs, her fingers gripping the polished wooden banister as she stared down the hallway toward her father’s home office. It was barely 9:00 AM, but the sharp, stressed ring of his voice was already echoing through the house.

Milana took a quiet step down, her bare feet making no sound against the hardwood. She had spent the last three hours tossing and turning in bed, her mind playing a chaotic loop of tearing metal, cold grey eyes, and the terrifyingly heavy presence of the stranger from last night. She had expected to wake up to her father’s wrath. Instead, she had woken up to a devastating wave of guilt.

As she drew closer to the half-open office door, she could hear that her father was thoroughly exasperated with an employee.

"I don't care what the excuse is, David," Arthur Vance snapped into the phone, rubbing his temples as he stared at a massive spreadsheet on his dual monitors. "The deadline is fixed. If those filings aren't ready by noon, we lose the account. Get it done."

He ended the call with a heavy sigh. Milana quietly slipped into the kitchen, poured a fresh mug of hot chamomile tea, and walked into his office, setting it gently on his desk. "Dad?"

Arthur blinked, looking up. The stressed line of his mouth instantly softened into a warm, welcoming smile at the sight of her and the tea, though the tired shadows under his eyes remained. "Milana. Good morning, sweetheart. Thank you."

"Is everything okay?" she asked, stepping back. "You look really stressed."

"Just the usual corporate scramble," Arthur brushed it off easily, taking a grateful sip. "Nothing your old man can't handle. Don't worry about it."

But Milana noticed he was off. He was moving a bit too rigidly, his mind clearly lingering on the morning's headaches. Before she could press further, Arthur’s expression shifted, his arms crossing over his chest as he took a long look at her.

"But since you're here," Arthur started, his tone shifting into the heavy, somber voice of a father who had been worried sick. "We need to talk about last night."

Milana felt her stomach drop. She swallowed hard, her hands clutching behind her back. Here it comes.

"Dad, I am so, so sorry," she blurted out, the words tumbling out in a rushed, frantic apology. "I know I shouldn't have taken the car without asking. I was panicking because I knew I was late, and I was just trying to get home as quickly as possible so you wouldn't be worried, and—"

"Milana, stop," her father interrupted softly.

She clamped her mouth shut, her long eyelashes wet with the sudden threat of tears. She braced herself for him to yell, but Arthur just let out a long, shuddering breath. He walked over to her and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. He looked profoundly, deeply relieved.

"I’m not mad about the car," Arthur said, his voice cracking slightly. "I’m mad because you almost got yourself killed."

He tightened his grip on her shoulders, a raw vulnerability washing over his features.

"I can't lose you too," he whispered.

The weight of those words hit Milana right in the chest, a familiar, aching grief tightening around her throat. She knew exactly who he was talking about—her mother. Her mother had passed away when she was just a little girl, leaving a massive void that her father had spent his life trying to fill. He had protected her, sheltered her, and pampered her because she was his entire universe.

"Dad," she choked out, stepping forward and wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. She buried her face in his chest. "I’m so sorry. I swear to you, I’ll never do anything like that again. I’ll be careful. I love you."

Arthur smiled, his arms winding around her securely as he kissed the top of her head. "I love you too, my princess. That’s all I need to hear."

He pulled back, clearing his throat to break the emotional weight in the room. He reached down to his desk and picked up a thick, heavy manila folder, turning back to her with a slight, playful glint in his eye.

"Well, you’re obviously not busy today, so I have a little task for you," Arthur said, holding out the folder. "This contains the finalized corporate tax filings for one of our firm’s most prominent clients. It needs to be hand-delivered to their executive headquarters downtown by noon, and I can't leave this desk. Do you mind dropping it off? You can take the Lexus."

Milana grabbed the folder, eager to help. "Of course! Consider it done. Where am I taking it?"

"Aethelgard Sovereign Group," Arthur replied, reading the name off a sticky note. "It’s the glass high-rise on 5th and Grand. Just take the elevator to the executive penthouse, and hand it to the secretary. Her name is Elena. She’ll take care of the rest."

"Got it," Milana smiled, gripping the folder.

As she turned to leave, Arthur called out from behind his desk, a teasing smirk finally breaking across his face. "And Milana? Try not to crash this car too, okay?"

Milana gasped dramatically, turning around with a pout. "Dad! I am a great driver. That SUV ran the light!"

Arthur laughed, waving her off. "I know, I know. Go on. Be careful."

Forty-five minutes later, Milana was driving her father’s second car—a sleek, midnight-black Lexus LS. It was an incredibly luxurious, smooth ride, but as she navigated the bustling downtown traffic, her nerves were on high alert. Every time a large, blacked-out vehicle pulled up next to her at a red light, her heart rate spiked. She found herself nervously checking the side mirrors, half-expecting to see the towering man sitting behind the tinted glass of some massive vehicle.

She pulled into the underground parking garage of the Aethelgard Sovereign Group building. The high-rise was a stunning monument of dark architectural glass and polished steel, radiating an undeniable aura of corporate dominance.

Milana walked through the grand lobby. It was completely normal and bustling with life—business persons in expensive suits hurried past, phone conversations echoed through the air, and a line of professionals waited near the polished turnstiles. It was a beautiful, posh corporate environment.

She walked up to the reception desk, passed security, and stepped into the elevator bank, pressing the button for the penthouse floor.

When the doors slid open with a soft chime, she stepped out into pure luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed off a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The penthouse floor was quiet and exclusive, designed for high-profile clients. There were elegant leather seating arrangements, a few professional-looking clerks walking quietly between offices down the far wings, and a massive, polished glass reception desk directly ahead.