“In spades,” I assure her, stroking her back, enjoying this simple act of holding my wife without asking for permission. “She’s going to fail in about…I’d say six months. There are some negotiations that are delicate. She’s good with numbers, but she tends to piss people off.”
“Let’s hope it’s three months. Then we can fire her for Christmas.”
I kiss Mia’s forehead. “I love how you’re enjoying your status as a Winter Financial shareholder.”
Mia giggles. “I know. Katya thinks that I’m like everyone else, the minute I have money, I have turned power hungry.”
“Mia, I know I keep asking you to move in with me, but…I want you to know that I’ll wait for as long as you need.”
“I know.”
“But just so you know…every part of me already knows where home is.”
She doesn’t say anything, just raises her head and kisses me like I’ve already earned my place.
Trigger Warning
The following chapter includes the death of a loved one.
If this subject is triggering for you, please read with care—or skip this chapter entirely. Your comfort always comes first, and there are many other moments in this story waiting for you.
CHAPTER 35
Mia
The sun is barely peeking through the curtains when Katya pushes open my bedroom door without knocking.
I groan and pull the duvet over my head.
“Oh, don’t even try to play coy,” she says. I inch the covers down until her smirk comes into view, arms folded like the older sister I never had but somehow got. “You’re glowing. And your hair’s a mess. Where’s your worse half, by the way?”
I peek out, half-laughing, half-embarrassed. “He left early. Work,” I lie.
She raises a brow. “He’s unemployed, and do you both really think that his sneaking out of here after staying the night, making the bed creak, goes unnoticed?”
“We’re just testing the springs on your mattress,” I deadpan.
She tosses a pillow at me. “You two are sickening. It’s beautiful, but sickening.”
I throw the pillow back at her, and she tumbles into bed with me, laughing.
Her phone rings then and she groans, pulls it out of her pocket.
And just like that, the air changes.
Katya answers, her voice tentative. Then sharp. Then shaking.
I sit up, the world slowing around me.
“She’s fevered.” After she ends the call, Katya can barely get the words out. “Respiratory failure, they think. They’re moving her to the onsite hospice.”
I grip her hand, and we both look at the door when it opens.
“I got donuts from—” Aiden holds up a bakery bag and freezes. “What’s wrong?”
“Anya,” I whisper.
Katya is sitting, shell-shocked, as if she doesn’t know how to put one foot in front of the other.
