“The best, from what I remember,” he says quietly. “My father always told us your father was brilliant. Steady. Always thinking three moves ahead. My father trusted him like a brother. And your mother was as kind and loving as they came. She was so excited to be a mom. I remember that even though I was only about ten at the time.”
I don’t look at him. I can’t. I stare at a crack in the floorboards. Anything to keep the tears from spilling.
“But no one came for me,” I whisper.
Yuri takes a step forward.
“I was right there,” I say, louder. “In the system. A baby. And no one came.”
“My family wanted to but couldn’t,” he says. “It was far too dangerous.”
Something inside me breaks. A sob claws its way out of my throat, jagged and sudden. I slap a hand over my mouth and turn away, humiliated by the sound of it. But another follows. And another.
All these years, I told myself it didn’t matter. That not knowing meant freedom. I didn’t need closure to be whole. But now the truth is here, and I can’t contain it. I’m drowning in it.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, breath hitching. “I don’t know why I’m?—”
Yuri doesn’t say a word. He just wraps his arms around me, slow and careful, like I’m a precious object. I collapse into him before I even realize I’m moving. My face presses into his chestand I sob. It’s ugly. Messy. Shaking, hiccuping, uncontrollable. He holds me tighter, his hand warm against the back of my head, the other at my waist, anchoring me.
“I didn’t know it would hurt this much,” I whisper into his shirt.
“You’ve carried it alone for too long,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to anymore.”
I cling to him. My arms tighten around his waist like if I let go, I’ll fall straight through the floor.
“I thought no one wanted me,” I say, barely audible.
“They wanted you safe,” he softly corrects. “And that meant distance. But never, not for a second, did it mean you were unloved or unwanted.”
We remain wrapped in silence and tears. No masks. No secrets. Just warmth and the ache of finally knowing. Eventually, my sobs quiet. The room softens around me. I’m still tucked into him, my cheek against his chest, my hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt.
He doesn’t let go.
Neither do I.
CHAPTER 17
ASTRID
“Ican call you a car if you’d rather go home,” Yuri says softly. “But you’re welcome to stay.”
I hesitate. I want to be alone. To crawl into my bed, curl up under the covers, and process everything I just learned. But I also don’t want silence. Or stillness. Or the echo of my thoughts bouncing around an empty apartment.
I make a decision. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
There’s no triumph in his expression. “There are a few spare bedrooms upstairs,” he says. “If you’d rather have your own space tonight.”
The way he says it—delicate, unobtrusive—causes me to soften. He’s offering a boundary without putting up a wall.
I manage a small, tired smile. “That would be nice.”
He nods. “I’ll be in my office. Probably working late. But if you need anything…” His voice drifts, and he gestures gently to the whole penthouse. “Please make yourself at home.”
Then he disappears down the hallway, his footsteps vanishing into the hush of the place.
I’m alone.
I wander a little, stockinged feet brushing across dark hardwood floors that gleam under recessed lighting. The penthouse is tasteful, refined—just like Yuri. Steel blues, soft grays, and sleek lines. Expensive art that doesn’t scream for attention. Clean. Minimal. Masculine.
