Then I noticed the twitch.
His legs jerked faintly beneath the sheets, like he was trying to run but couldn’t move fast enough. His brow furrowed, lips parting as fractured sounds slipped free—half-formed words, broken pleas. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the cool air circulating through the room.
Another nightmare.
So soon.
Not even the story had kept them away.
I set the tray down quietly on the nightstand, the clink of porcelain sounding far too loud in the stillness. I reached out, brushing damp hair from his forehead, my fingers lingering just long enough to soothe him back into stillness.
My chest burned.
What in the world had Ruslan been doing all these years?
How could a man with this much power—this much reach—allow his son to suffer like this? Night after night, alone with his fears, haunted by memories too heavy for a child to carry?
Anger flared sharp and sudden, cutting through my exhaustion.
I straightened slowly, jaw tightening.
Enough.
I turned and marched out of the room, leaving the tray behind, food cooling, forgotten. I didn’t care. Yannis needed more than sandwiches and stories. He needed a father who saw him—not just as an heir, not as a weakness, but as a child in pain.
I stormed down the hallway, past marble statues and woven tapestries that depicted gods and wars and triumphs carved in blood. Down the grand staircase, my footsteps echoing too loudly in the vast, empty space.
The kitchen was empty when I returned.
As I closed the door, the sensation hit me—stronger this time.
Eyes on my back.
I spun.
Ruslan stood in the doorway.
The white suit was immaculate, every line crisp, every button perfectly in place.
The sunglasses were gone, revealing gray eyes that fixed on me with unnerving intensity—like twin storms held barely in check.
He stepped inside slowly, deliberately, his gaze flicking once to the spotless counter where I’d worked. The faint scent of peanut butter and cocoa still hung in the air, soft and domestic, absurdly out of place in a house built on power and fear.
Then his gaze returned to me.
The room felt suddenly smaller, the air heavier, like the walls themselves were leaning in to listen.
“Are you aware Yannis has recurring nightmares?” I asked, forcing the words past the tightness in my chest. I kept myvoice low but steady, even as my pulse raced. “The boy lives in constant fear. He wakes shaking, sweating, crying out for his mother. And it seems you’ve done nothing about it.”
The accusation hung between us—fragile, dangerous.
For a heartbeat, Ruslan didn’t react. His face remained carved from stone, unreadable, composed. But then something shifted behind his eyes. A flash—dark, volatile. Like lightning beneath ice.
“You’ve known Yannis for barely forty-eight hours,” he said quietly, each word measured, lethal in its restraint, “and somehow you think you can stand there and rebuke me about how I’ve raised my son?”
The weight of his gaze pressed into my chest.
I swallowed. My courage wavered—not gone, but thinner now, stretched to its limit.
