The chandelier above us trembled in the slightest draft, and for a strange suspended second, the whole house seemed to inhale, waiting for Dmitri’s answer.
Dmitri’s hand twitched toward me, then he froze, his expression unreadable.
He crouched slightly—not enough to seem gentle, but enough to meet Vanya eye to eye, his voice a low, controlled rumble.
“Here’s the truth, Vanya,” he said. “You can’t protect her from me. You can try to stand in front of her... and I respect that. Truly.”
His gaze flicked to me, then back to the boy.
“But I am not here to bargain. I am here because you both belong with me. That is not up for debate.”
Vanya’s laugh was small but sharp, fearless in a way only a child’s could be.
“So you can keep us here by force... but you think you can make us like you by force too?” he shot back. “We won’t like you, Mr. Dmitri. Not when you’re being cruel.”
Dmitri stilled. For the briefest heartbeat, the room held its breath.
Then he smiled—slow, deliberate, dangerous. A Volkov smile.
“It isn’t cruelty,” he said softly. “It’s protection. It’s claiming what’s mine. You... and her.”
His eyes locked onto mine, icy and unshakeable.
“Whether you like me today or not, Vanya... this family will exist. And you will understand, one day, that I don’t abandon what’s mine.”
My blood turned to ice.
Vanya’s tiny fist curled so tight I could see the strain in his knuckles, his nails digging into his palms—not out of rage, but out of sheer, trembling fear. Far too much fear for a five-year-old.
He turned to me then, his voice barely a breath, meant only for my ears.
“Mom...” He swallowed, his eyes huge and shining. “He can’t just... make us his, right?”
I shook my head, throat tight, hating that my son was already recoiling from his own father on their second meeting.
Guilt gnawed at me, and I stepped forward before the conversation could ignite further tension, before Vanya’s fear and Dmitri’s intensity collided into something irreversible. This is my war, not his.
“Maybe leave us for now, Mr. Volkov,” I said, my voice flat, controlled—a calm so sharp it cut deeper than any shout. “Congratulations. You’ve successfully made my son dislike you. Well done.”
Dmitri’s eyes snapped to mine. For the briefest heartbeat, I thought I saw something flicker behind them—a trace of regret, as if he’d only now realized the consequences of his presence, the danger in his obsession.
“We need to talk, Miss Pen,” he said, his voice low, deliberate. “But I’ll leave you to... get used to the new house atmosphere.” With that, he finally turned and walked out, his departure as silent and controlled as his arrival.
“Mom...” Vanya’s whisper trembled, fragile and raw, voice cracking. “I... I don’t like him. How... how can he be my dad?”
“Vanya,” I hissed, barely a breath, my eyes darting to the door Dmitri had only just disappeared through. His presence still clung to the air like smoke. “You can’t say things like that. Not here. Not where he can hear.”
His brows pinched, confusion and fear squeezing together, but I pressed on, voice low and urgent.
“If he ever finds out you’re his biological son,” I whispered, “we won’t just be stuck here—we’ll never get out. He’ll keep you and send me away. Do you understand? He will separate us.”
Vanya’s little mouth snapped shut at once.
His chin lifted—small, defiant, unbroken—the kind of stubbornness that didn’t come from me or from Dmitri. Something entirely, fiercely his own.
He whispered back, barely audible, “Then I won’t ever let him find out.”
And God, that promise from a five-year-old cleaved my heart in two.
