My spine stiffens, my jaw clenched tight, and I force my expression to remain impassive, betraying none of the fear that courses through me.
He can’t know the truth. I won’t let him.
Leonid doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens, and the way his arm flexes is enough to make Maksim take half a step back, his smirk twitching as if bracing for what comes next.
“Blayt,” Leonid mutters, his voice heavy with frustration. His hand moves fast, planting firmly on Maksim’s chest and shoving him back into the chair with enough force to scrape the legs against the floor. Maksim catches himself before he tipsbackward, muttering something under his breath, but Leonid’s glare keeps him silent.
“Well, then,” Maksim says, rising and smoothing the front of his shirt like it’s all part of the show. “I’ll take that as my cue.” His smirk is back, full and deliberate, as he straightens his cuffs.
He takes a step toward the door, but he doesn’t leave without turning over his shoulder to glance at me.
“Good luck, Clara,” he says, the words laced with just enough weight to leave my stomach in knots.
The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, but the silence he leaves behind is suffocating. Leonid doesn’t move, his back still to me, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he’s trying to let the tension bleed out of him.
A twitch runs through my arm as I grip the chair tighter, my body’s silent protest against the pain.
He finally turns, eyes zeroed in on mine like a hawk on its prey. His hard gaze softens for a brief moment, exposing a hint of vulnerability as he asks, “Where’s Elijah?”
“In your room,” I say.“Maksim gave him a Switch.”
Leonid doesn’t wait for more. He strides to the connecting door, yanks it open, and disappears inside. From where I’m stuck in the chair, I can hear the low timbre of his voice, followed by Elijah’s sleepy response. A minute later, Leonid returns, his movements slower now as he closes the door with care.
“He’s asleep,” he says, but his eyes are already back on me, taking in every detail—the way I’m clutching the armrest,
“We need to talk.” The same words, spoken at the same time.
I’m going to deny everything.
DNA doesn't make you his father.
56
Clara
Leonid's words hit me like bullets, one after another. My brain refuses to process them, short-circuiting with each revelation.
Jake. Stephan. The lies.
No, this can’t be…
I blink at him. He’s on his haunches in front of me, but I’m not really seeing him anymore because my brain is stuck, snagged on the words I just heard. It’s like someone flipped my life upside down and handed it back to me as a cruel parody. A joke. The punchline is mine, and it isn’t funny.
“No…” I can’t breathe. My ribs feel tighter, like someone’s wrapped them in barbed wire.
“Clara, everything you thought you knew…” His voice changes, goes soft in a way that makes my stomach clench. “The story you’ve been carrying all these years…”
I lift my hand to push him away, but damn him – he catches my wrist. His touch burns through my skin, and I hate how fucking strong he is.
"Look at me."
I can't. Because the Leonid I know doesn't sound like this – gentle, careful, like he's handling something breakable. And I'm not breakable. I'm not.
His lips are moving, but my brain's stuck on replay.. All these years of Sunday dinners. Christmas presents. Birthday cards. Each memory twists like a knife, cutting deeper than the last. My hands won't stop shaking.
“Stephan…?” The name barely comes out, half-whisper, half-wheeze. It doesn’t sound like my voice at all. My hands shake harder, my fingers flexing uselessly before they clench again.
The man who taught me how to drive. Who brought me soup when I had the flu at 17. Who stood beside me at Jake’s funeral, his hand on my shoulder.
