Downtown Boston.
At the Harvard Business School campus on the south bank of the Charles River, Maria Rozin was in her office with a few colleagues, translating an economic policy document from the Soviet era. Katarina, her personal assistant who had accompanied her to the U.S., knocked and entered the room.
Her appearance caused a subtle shift in the atmosphere.
Maria's quietly integrated presence at Harvard had already sparked curiosity among her peers. After all, it was highly unusual for a faculty member—out of over 2,000 staff at the university—to have a personal driver.
Maria knew Katarina wouldn't disturb her unless it was something urgent. Feeling a vague sense of foreboding, she stood and walked to the doorway. "Kate, what is it?" she asked softly.
Katarina stepped back into the hallway and whispered, "Mr. Westeros is here. He's waiting outside."
"Ah…"
Maria's heart skipped a beat. Her suspicion was confirmed. She gasped softly, then quickly covered her mouth.
Steeling herself, Maria tried to maintain her composure. "I... I still have ten minutes before my shift ends," she said awkwardly.
Katarina held back the urge to roll her eyes.
What kind of excuse was that?
Maria realized her response was flimsy at best. Could she really let him wait outside? And even if she delayed ten minutes, what difference would it make?
Since arriving in the U.S. at the beginning of the month, Maria had begun her tenure at Harvard. Though she had missed the opportunity to teach this semester, she had taken on a flexible role supporting an academic team researching Soviet political economy. Even without her presence, graduate assistants handled much of the workload.
She had no choice but to excuse herself from her colleagues and leave early.
After exiting the academic building, Maria followed Katarina across a pathway, her mind racing. At the intersection, she saw two identical black sedans waiting. As they approached, a driver stepped out and opened the car door for her.
Maria hesitated briefly, not wanting to draw too much attention, and then quietly slipped inside.
Only after settling into the seat did she notice two others in the back: Simon Westeros and Ulyana Meletskova.
Before Maria could say anything, the car door closed, and the vehicle started moving.
Squeezed between the two women, Simon studied Maria with interest. She wore frameless glasses, her blonde hair neatly pinned up, revealing a pale, graceful neck. A khaki trench coat complemented her fitted black pants and low-heeled shoes.
The usually poised Maria looked younger in this ensemble.
Maria felt the heat of Simon's gaze, as though it could physically touch her. Her pulse quickened, and she fought the urge to jump out of the car. After several tense seconds, she couldn't hold back any longer. Glancing at him briefly, she murmured, "Hello, Mr. Westeros."
Simon smiled. "Yes, it seems this is our first time meeting."
"Mm… yes."
"I'd guess this outfit wasn't your own choice," he added.
Maria was caught off guard by the observation and instinctively replied, "It's my daughter's…"
She stopped mid-sentence, suddenly embarrassed.
"Oh, Annette. I'm aware," Simon said casually. "You could've brought her along this time. Why leave her in Ukraine?"
Maria hesitated, unsure where to look. The mere proximity of this man left her flustered. His mention of her daughter only intensified her discomfort. Annette was already 21, after all.
But she couldn't ignore his question. Gathering herself, she glanced at him again before quickly turning away. "I want her to finish her undergraduate degree in Ukraine before coming to the U.S."
She paused, feeling a wave of conflicting emotions.
At first, Maria had resigned herself to sacrificing her own dignity for her children's futures. She had hoped at least one of them—Annette—could study abroad, ideally at a prestigious university. Yet, without her even needing to ask, Simon had taken care of everything, sparing no expense and securing the best opportunities for her children.
This generosity had prompted Maria to reconsider. Annette could complete her degree back home and then come to the U.S. to pursue further studies—just one more year. As for her three younger sons, they had already moved to America with her.
Simon nodded, having reviewed detailed profiles of Maria and Ulyana's children earlier. He didn't press further and instead explained, "There's a reception later. Quite a few people will be there. I'll introduce you both."
Maria froze for a moment, then blushed deeply.
This…
Was he not concerned about people finding out?
Attending the reception would all but confirm the nature of her and Ulyana's relationship with Simon. Despite her internal acceptance of the situation after much deliberation, Maria was reluctant to let too many people know.
After a brief silence, she mustered her courage and said hesitantly, "Could I… not go?"
Simon shook his head firmly. "No."
"…"
How could he be so unreasonable?
Noticing her distress, Simon added, "There are responsibilities you'll need to take on, so it's important to establish your identities first."
Maria clenched her hands in her lap, thinking she didn't want any "identity" at all.
Unmoved by her unease, Simon continued, "Besides, Ulyana is pregnant."
"Ah?"
Maria blinked, stunned. She turned to Ulyana, who simply nodded slightly in confirmation.
Maria looked back at Simon. "But… what does that have to do with me?"
Though she was tempted to ask how he planned to handle the situation, she refrained.
Simon waved off her concern. "We'll discuss that after the reception."
The conversation shifted to lighter topics as the cars crossed the Charles River and arrived at a Marriott hotel on the north bank. A Girl greeted them in the parking lot and led the group to the banquet hall.
The reception was already underway.
As A Girl had explained earlier, most of the invited guests who were in Boston had accepted, with a few others requesting to attend. She had carefully curated the final list.
Boston, home to world-class universities like Harvard and MIT, also boasted a concentration of major global corporations, such as GE, Gillette, Fidelity Investments, and Boston Consulting Group. Given Simon's presence, engaging with key figures from academia, business, and local government was a natural move.
When Simon entered the hall, all eyes turned to him—and, inevitably, to the two radiant women at his side.
However, such scenes were far from shocking in these circles. People were used to it.
A Girl efficiently introduced Simon to a series of prominent attendees: the president of MIT, a Nobel laureate, the mayor of Boston, the CEO of Gillette, and so on. This whirlwind of introductions took over half an hour.
As they approached two recently arrived guests, A Girl leaned in to brief Simon quietly, "Harvard President Neal Rudenstein, an immigrant from Ukraine. The other is Richard Mellon Scaife, a Mellon family heir who runs a print media business. He's known for his far-right stance and was a key backer of the Paula Jones case."
Simon stepped forward and greeted the tall, silver-haired Harvard president warmly. Turning to Scaife, he extended a hand. "Mr. Scaife, it's a pleasure to meet you."
"Call me Charlie," Scaife replied, his smile widening as his gaze lingered on the two women beside Simon. "And these ladies are?"
"This is Maria, and this is Ulyana," Simon introduced.
Maria, growing more accustomed to the setting, extended a polite hand. "Hello, Mr. Scaife."
Scaife, however, took her hand and bent forward, clearly intending to kiss it.
Uncomfortable with his leering demeanor, Maria instinctively pulled her hand back.
The abrupt withdrawal left Scaife momentarily flustered, half-bowed and awkwardly standing up straight.
Maria, realizing her faux pas, glanced nervously at Simon, worried he might reprimand her for disrupting the interaction.
Simon, however, offered her a reassuring look before addressing Scaife evenly. "Maria isn't accustomed to hand-kissing, Mr. Scaife. Ulyana isn't either, I'm afraid. My apologies."
Ulyana, sensing the tension in Simon's tone, quickly dropped any thought of extending her hand.
"Oh, it's nothing," Scaife replied, though his expression tightened. Simon's continued use of "Mr. Scaife" rather than the more familiar "Charlie" was a clear signal of discontent. Attempting to regain control of the conversation, Scaife remarked, "You know, Simon, I used to live in Pittsburgh. Two years ago, after the bombing incident, I had no choice but to move to Boston. It's shocking that such things happen in America—it's an affront to the civilized world."
Simon, appearing unbothered by the comment's undertone, shrugged. "I learned at the age of three that the world isn't always a nice place. You should count yourself lucky you only had to move to Boston. If I'm not mistaken, William Randolph Hearst III is still hiding out in Morocco. He's far worse off than you are—he probably won't ever return to the U.S."
Mentioning Hearst III caused Scaife's jaw to tighten.
The unspoken subtext was clear to everyone involved.
Before tensions could escalate further, another figure arrived to diffuse the situation.
"Simon, what brings you to Boston?"
The familiar voice belonged to Jack Welch, CEO of General Electric.
Simon turned and embraced Welch warmly, leaving Scaife and Rudenstein
behind. "I had some matters to attend to and thought I'd catch up with everyone while I'm here. Jack, I'm glad you could make it."
"As the host, how could I not?" Welch replied with a chuckle, glancing at Maria and Ulyana. "And these are?"
Simon introduced them again, briefly noting their recent appointments at Harvard. Welch, ever the gentleman, greeted them courteously before turning back to Simon. "Incidentally, there's something I wanted to discuss with you. I wasn't expecting to see you here today."
"Let's find a quieter spot to chat," Simon said, steering Welch toward a corner.
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