Love Me, Don't Fix Me

Nova sat on the floor of her bedroom, her back pressed against the side of her bed, knees drawn tightly to her chest. The soft hum of the overhead light buzzed above her, but the room itself felt oppressively silent—like it was holding its breath along with her.

The soft cotton of her oversized hoodie clung to her skin, still faintly smelling of paint and vanilla, her favorite candle scent. Her phone lay on the floor beside her, face-up and untouched for the last hour. She hadn't even bothered to turn on music.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she was too proud to let them fall. Still, a few had escaped, trailing down her cheeks in silence. She wiped them quickly, angrily.

He was being ridiculous.

Her father—the great Nikolai Volkov—was acting like she had just plotted to betray the family or joined a rival mafia. When in reality, all she had done was spend time with a boy. A boy who worked hard, who was kind, thoughtful, and smart. A boy who had done nothing wrong except not be born into a family with a bloodstained name or billions in offshore accounts.

Andrew was… normal.

And that, she realized, was exactly why her father hated him. Andrew wasn't Bratva. He wasn't dangerous. He wasn't powerful. He was just a boy. And in Nikolai's mind, a boy like that could never protect a girl like her.

Nova buried her face in her knees. Everything felt so unfair.

Growing up, she had adored being a daddy's girl. She got everything she wanted—ponies, dolls, private tutors, painting classes, even a birthday in Paris. But now? Now that she was older and starting to live her own life, the privileges had morphed into chains. Golden ones, sure—but chains nonetheless.

Her father's love came with shadows.

It came with rules. With surveillance. With men in black watching from a distance and always reporting back. It came with bodyguards, background checks on anyone she befriended, and worst of all—it came with the suffocating knowledge that there was nothing she could do that he wouldn't find out about.

God, even one of his men saw her at the store with Andrew. That was how deep his reach was. He probably had informants at every bodega and back alley from here to Moscow.

Nova tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling. She wanted to scream. Or punch something. Or both.

She loved her father. She did. He was a good dad. He read her bedtime stories when she was a kid. He painted stars on her ceiling when she had trouble sleeping. He taught her how to punch, how to shoot, how to never cry in front of an enemy.

But sometimes—just sometimes—she wished he wasn't Nikolai Volkov.

She wished he was just Niko, the guy who worked a boring nine-to-five, came home grumbling about traffic, and had no idea what the inside of a prison looked like. A man who didn't carry blood on his hands, who didn't need to have his daughter followed for "her safety."

Maybe then she could just be Nova. Not Nova Volkov, Bratva Princess. Just… a girl.

She reached for her phone, unlocking it with a swipe of her thumb. Her fingers hovered for a moment before scrolling to Andrew's contact. Her heart still felt heavy, but there was something comforting in the idea of seeing him again. Of hearing his laugh. Of being in a space that didn't belong to the Bratva, or her father, or anyone but them.

Her thumbs flew over the screen.

NOVA: Are you free this weekend?

She hit send before she could overthink it.

A minute passed. Then two.

Her heart pounded louder with each second. Then, her screen lit up.

ANDREW: Maybe. Why?

She bit her lip and typed.

NOVA: I was thinking we could hang out.

His reply came back quickly this time.

ANDREW: Sure thing. No problem.

Nova smiled—a small, soft smile that felt like a balm on her bruised spirit.

The weight on her chest eased slightly. Her father might not approve. He might yell again. He might threaten Andrew or ground her or lock her phone away in a Bratva-grade safe. But she didn't care.

She wasn't going to stop seeing Andrew just because he didn't come from a world painted in blood and secrets. In fact, that's why she wanted to see him. He was a glimpse of the world she could have had. The life she could maybe, possibly still carve out for herself.

And if Nikolai Volkov had a problem with that… well, that was his problem.

She laid back on the floor, exhaling slowly, staring at the ceiling once more.

She didn't know where this thing with Andrew was going—if it was just friendship or something else entirely—but she knew one thing:

She was done letting other people write her story.

This chapter?

It was hers.

It was Friday afternoon, and Nova sat cross-legged in her art room, wiping a thin smudge of cerulean blue from her cheek. The scent of oils and varnish hung in the air, mingling with the faint hum of music playing softly in the background. In front of her, propped up against her easel, was the finished painting—an ethereal portrait of a girl with sunlight in her eyes, bathed in golds and pinks, petals spiraling in the wind around her silhouette.

It had taken three days, two sleepless nights, and a gallon of mental convincing to finish.

Not for the fat cat—no, she would never have picked up her brush if this was for him. But it was for his daughter. A fan. A sixteen-year-old girl who had apparently admired Nova's work since her first exhibit. Her father, Senator Ben Dawn, had pulled every string he could to commission the painting as a surprise birthday gift. The deposit had already arrived. The rest of the payment would follow after delivery.

She looked at the piece one last time and gave a small sigh. "All done, Kitty," she murmured, as if the girl might somehow hear her through the paint. Her nickname was kitty for some reason.

A knock sounded on the open doorframe.

"You ready, sweetheart?" came Nikolai's voice.

Nova turned and saw her father leaning casually against the frame, dressed in a fitted charcoal suit with a dark maroon shirt beneath. He looked every bit the businessman—calm, poised, dangerous. The only giveaway that he wasn't just another wealthy corporate mogul was the barely-there glint in his eyes. The kind of glint that said I know how to kill a man with my cufflink.

Nova rose to her feet, brushing off her jeans. "Yeah. Let's get this over with."

Nikolai raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he stepped aside to let her pass. Elara had opted to stay behind, curled up on the couch with her swollen feet propped up and Andrei fast asleep on her lap. "You're the one who said bribing the elite was beneath you," she'd teased earlier. "I'll sit this one out, thank you."

Nova had only rolled her eyes in reply.

Now, as she and Nikolai stepped into the sleek black SUV idling outside the villa, she felt a small pit of anxiety settle in her stomach. Not because of the delivery, or even the senator—but because of the inevitable media frenzy that would follow. Senator Ben Dawn had already leaked the news to the press. World-famous young artist Nova Volkov to deliver private commission to the Senator's family home.

Of course he had.

The drive took just over twenty minutes. When they pulled up to the estate—a sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion with manicured lawns and an ornate fountain glittering in the sunlight—Nova sighed audibly.

"Subtle," she muttered, eyeing the massive wrought-iron gates that slowly swung open as they approached.

Nikolai smirked. "He's a politician. Subtlety doesn't win elections."

As the car rolled up to the front entrance, the flashes started.

A sea of cameras waited behind velvet ropes, news anchors perched like hawks as they reported live. Bodyguards flanked the press, and staff bustled around the driveway like anxious bees. Nova braced herself as Nikolai opened the door for her and handed her the secured art case.

Heads turned. The flashes doubled.

"She's here!"

"That's Nova Volkov!"

"Over here, Nova!"

"Can you tell us what the painting is about?"

"Did you really paint it yourself?"

"Did your father commission it for political favor?"

Nova clenched her jaw, forcing a polite smile onto her face. She walked forward, keeping her head high. The cameras loved that—shoulders back, chin lifted, confidence like armor. Nikolai followed close behind, calm and quiet as a shadow.

They were greeted at the door by none other than Senator Ben Dawn himself. He was tall, balding, and carried the permanent expression of someone who'd perfected the smile-but-lie routine. His crisp navy suit was spotless, his red tie just loose enough to seem casual.

"Miss Volkov! What an honor." He extended his hand.

Nova shook it briefly, feeling the fake warmth of his grip. "Senator."

"And Mr. Volkov," Ben added, a hint of nerves flickering in his eyes as he turned to Nikolai. "Always a pleasure."

"Is it?" Nikolai asked smoothly.

Ben Dawn cleared his throat and stepped aside. "Come in, come in. Kitty is absolutely ecstatic."

They followed him into a lavish foyer with marble floors and high ceilings. Every corner of the house screamed wealth—like someone had walked through an Italian villa catalog and bought one of everything. But there was a strange emptiness to it. Like it was built for display, not living.

Then, bounding down the stairs with a blur of excited energy came the birthday girl.

"Nova!" Kitty squealed, practically tripping over her heels as she rushed down.

Nova blinked in surprise. The girl was petite, wide-eyed, and dressed in a glittery champagne gown. Her hair was curled to perfection, and she wore a necklace that probably cost more than Nova's car. But her excitement? That was real.

"Oh my God, I can't believe it's really you," Kitty said breathlessly. "I've been following your work forever. You're like, my idol. I even tried painting once because of you, but I'm horrible at it. You're just… amazing."

Nova chuckled, genuinely touched. "Thank you. That means a lot."

Kitty's gaze darted to the case in Nova's hand. "Is that…?"

Nova opened it carefully, revealing the painting inside.

Kitty gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth, and her eyes instantly watered. "Is that… me?"

Nova smiled. "It's how I imagined you. Strong. Radiant. With a world of dreams around you."

Kitty threw her arms around her in a grateful hug, and Nova froze—but only for a moment—before hugging her back.

From the corner of the room, Ben beamed like a man who had just secured another ten thousand votes.

"You have no idea how much this means to her," he said.

Nova didn't answer. She didn't need to. The joy in Kitty's face was enough.

Nikolai, meanwhile, stood by the wall, arms crossed, eyeing everything and everyone. His presence alone made the Senator's aides fidget nervously.

After the painting was placed on an easel near the grand piano, the Senator pulled Nova aside.

"We'd love to feature this on Kitty's social media. Of course, with your permission."

Nova gave a polite nod. "Sure. Just tag me. And don't edit the lighting. It's painted exactly how I wanted it to be seen."

"Of course, of course," he said quickly.

As the media were finally ushered away and the family insisted Nova stay for cake, she made an excuse about another appointment. Which was a lie.

Kitty gave her a parting hug and promised to send a picture once her room was redecorated with the painting. "Thank you again," she whispered.

Nova walked back to the car with Nikolai at her side, her steps lighter than before.

"I thought you weren't going to do it," he said as the SUV pulled away from the estate.

"I wasn't. But she was a fan," Nova replied. She looked out the window, voice softer. "It wasn't about him. It was about her."

Nikolai looked at her thoughtfully but said nothing.

And in that quiet stretch of road, for once, there was no judgment between them.

Just understanding.