“Is that… where you get your money from? The Bratva?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.
I exhale, shifting slightly beneath him.
“Part of it,” I say, honestly seeing no reason to lie to him. “But most of my money comes from my shares in Pavel Global Holdings. It’s my father’s company — construction, real estate, and investment branches. It’s clean. Legal. He hasn’t been involved in the Bratva for decades.”
He listens, eyes steady on mine, like he’s trying to see past the words into something deeper. So I continue,
“I also own shares in my mother’s family’s resort chain — that’s all legal, too. Additionally, I manage my own private investments. No families attached.” I pause, then add quietly, “The Bratva… that world belongs to my grandfather. And yeah, I’m tied to it, partially.”
He nods slowly, and I can tell he’s piecing it together, all the contradictions, all the sharp edges that make me. There’s something in his eyes, too. Not judgment. Something quieter. Understanding, maybe. Awe, even.
“Oh,” he whispers, barely audible. Like the word just fell from his mouth without his permission.
I shift slightly under him, leaning on one elbow, smirking a little.
“The trust fund, by the way,” I add, “is one hundred percent legal. You won’t be arrested for tuition fraud.”
This time, he lets out a laugh that breaks so suddenly it feels like sunlight flooding into a dim room. It knocks the wind out of me, that laugh. It’s bright, unguarded. It makes me ache.
He shifts closer, his bare chest brushing mine as he pushes himself up slightly. Then, after a pause, he raises his hand in a small, trembling movement and cups my face in both palms. His touch is warm, careful. Like he’s afraid he might break me.
His fingers brush my jaw, and then… he leans in.
Shy. Careful. Delicate like he’s afraid I’ll break.
His lips press against mine in a soft kiss — just lips, just warmth — no pressure, no rush. Just him. It’s the kind of kiss that startles you with its honesty. The kind that doesn’t need to prove anything. And for a moment, I don’t move. I just feel it. Feel him.
Because Lucas never initiates. He always waits for me to close the distance. And now he’s doing it himself, giving and trusting.
When he pulls back, his eyes are glassy again, but his mouth is set, trembling slightly.
“Thank you for the trust fund, Alexander,” he whispers, voice thick, like it hurts to say. “It still feels unreal. And it’s still hard for me to process. I don’t know how to repay you for this, but just… know that I truly appreciate it. Deeply.”
My heart twists in my chest, tight and aching.
“You don’t have to thank me, and you don’t owe me anything,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along the curve of his jaw. “Just… don’t run from me. Don’t pull away.”
He gives me a small smile, the kind that softens his whole face and makes something in my chest ache.
“I won’t,” he says quietly, tilting his head slightly. “You don’t even let me.”
I huff out a breath—part laugh, part truth— he knows me too well.
THIRTY-TWO
LUCAS
I mutter under my breath as I wrestle with the ribbon on Tyler’s birthday gift. The others didn’t give me half as much trouble, but this one —this one — has been a pain since I picked it out. It’s the smallest box, but somehow the hardest to wrap. I try again, tugging gently, and finally—finally—it ties into a neat little bow. I let out a soft sigh of relief, pressing the box close to my chest for a second before setting it down with the others.
Then I move to the far end of the balcony. I’ve placed the small round table just enough distance from the railing, close enough to see the city lights shimmer below us, but not so close that it feels exposed. There’s a wide view from up here, the kind of view people write songs about. I drape a soft, ivory cloth over the table, smoothing the fabric carefully, then arrange the candles—tall, white, unscented—at its center, surrounding them with petals I had ordered just for this: soft blush tones and pale yellows, delicate like Tyler’s energy.
I use a tape to stick the “Happy Birthday” balloon banner, making sure it curves just the right way, not drooping too low. Then, more balloons, pearl white, gold, and a few pastel pinks, clustered gently around the space. A few are taped to the railing, swaying gently with the breeze. It’s minimal, but dreamy. Warm. Just enough to feel special without being overwhelming.
Tyler has always talked about having a birthday dinner with a view of the city. Something quiet, something small, something just for the two of us. Every year, it never quite worked out. But this year… I knew I could make it happen.
I was hesitant at first. The idea of using Alexander’s balcony felt too much, too forward. I didn’t want to seem like I was taking advantage. It took a surprising amount of courage just to ask him, but then two days ago, I just had to. I found him in his study and asked if I could use a small part of the balcony for Tyler’s birthday dinner.
He didn’t even look up from his laptop. Just shrugged and said,
