The estate gates finally come into view, and I exhale slowly as we pull through. Security waves us past, and the SUV stops at the main entrance. I thank the driver and make my way inside, my heels clicking against marble floors that still feel too grand, too expensive, and entirely too much.
I find the sitting room and settle onto one of the leather couches, pulling out my laptop to review wedding arrangements. The ceremony is in two weeks, and there are still a thousand details requiring attention. Flowers, music, the traditional Russian elements Roman insisted on, the guest list that keeps growing as more of his associates demand invitations.
I'm reviewing seating charts when one of Roman's security team appears in the doorway. "Miss Markova, you have a visitor."
My heart leaps. "Who?"
"Your brother. Alexei Markov. He just arrived from Russia."
The laptop nearly slides from my lap as I jump to my feet. Alexei. My brilliant, stubborn, beloved little brother is here. Joy and terror war in my chest as I rush toward the foyer, my mind racing. I knew he was coming, but I didn't know when he would get here.
I round the corner into the marble entryway and stop cold.
Alexei stands frozen just inside the door, his worn jacket and scuffed shoes stark against the estate's opulence. His blonde hair is messy from travel, his face thinner than I remember, and his blue eyes are so like our mother's that my chest aches. But it's his expression that stops my heart. He's staring at the crystal chandeliers, the artwork on the walls, the obvious wealth surrounding him, and his face twists with something that looks like disgust.
"Alexei," I breathe, taking a step toward him. "I'm so happy you're here. I didn't know when you were coming or I would have?—"
"This is where you've been living?" His voice cracks, raw with emotion. "While Babushka and I ate day-old bread and counted kopeks for heating?"
The accusation hits like a physical blow. "It's not what you think. I can explain?—"
"Can you?" He turns toward the door, his shoulders rigid with betrayal. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been living in luxury while we suffered. While I withdrew my university savings to try to help pay for Babushka's surgery. While we froze because we couldn't afford heating."
"Alexei, please."
He looks at me one more time, and the hurt in his eyes nearly destroys me. "I don't even know who you are anymore."
Then he's gone, the door slamming behind him with devastating finality, and I'm left standing in the marble foyer, my heart shattering into pieces I don't know how to put back together.
30
ROMAN
Istand outside Eva's bedroom door at dawn, my hand raised to knock before I catch myself. What the fuck am I doing? I'm the Pakhan. I don't hover outside doors like some lovesick fool. But the memory of her polite distance, the way she thanked me for allowing her to keep working as if I'd done her some great favor instead of caving to her stubborn will, makes my chest tight with unfamiliar frustration.
I knock anyway. Twice, sharp and controlled.
"Come in." Her voice is steady, professional. The same tone she uses when answering my office phone.
I push open the door to find Eva already dressed, standing before the mirror in a tailored black dress that hugs her body in ways that make my hands itch to touch. The fabric stretches across her breasts, and I notice they're fuller than they were a month ago, the pregnancy already changing her body in subtle ways that make my cock harden despite the tension between us. Her blonde hair is pulled back in that forever bun, and when sheturns to face me, her brown eyes are carefully neutral, avoiding direct contact with mine.
"Good morning." She smooths her dress over her still-flat stomach, a protective gesture I've noticed her making more frequently. "Did you need something?"
The formality grates against my nerves like sandpaper. "I wanted to make sure you have everything you need." I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms to keep from reaching for her. "Clothes, furniture, anything to make this room more comfortable."
"I'm fine, thank you." She turns back to the mirror, applying lipstick with steady hands. "Everything is adequate."
Adequate. The word tastes like ash. I watch her reflection, the way her dress pulls tight across her ass when she leans forward slightly, and I remember gripping those hips, feeling her body move against mine, hearing her gasp my name. My jaw tightens with the effort of maintaining control.
"Eva—"
"We should leave soon if we want to arrive on time." She caps the lipstick, drops it into her purse with practiced efficiency. "I have several calls scheduled this morning."
The dismissal is clear. I push off the doorframe and leave before I do something stupid like pull her against me and kiss away her careful composure. The rejection stings more than it should, settling in my chest like a bruise I can't stop pressing.
The drive to the office is suffocating.
We sit in the back of the SUV, separated by mere inches that feel like miles. My driver navigates morning traffic with his usualefficiency, but I'm acutely aware of every breath Eva takes, every small movement she makes. The light floral scent of her perfume fills the confined space, mixing with the leather seats and my own cologne, and I want to bury my face in her neck, to taste her skin, to make her remember how good we are together.
