Clara draws him close, hiding her wince. One hand strokes his hair, the other stays near mine. Her eyes meet mine over our sleeping son.
I ease back, let his foot rest against me. The quiet fills with something new. Something whole.
My family. Here. Mine.
And I'll kill anyone who tries to take this away.
59
Clara
It’s a good thing this dangerously gorgeous man is my son’s father, because watching the two of them play Jenga like it’s an Olympic sport is doing weird things to my heart. And my brain. And fine, my ovaries.
The tower wobbles again as Elijah tackles another block, his tongue still poking out in concentration.
"If you stare any harder, the blocks might catch fire," Leonid says, and I have to bite back a smile at how he's leaning forward, completely invested in a children's game.
"I'm using my super powers," Elijah informs him seriously. "Like in that movie where the guy moves stuff with his mind."
"Telekinesis," Leonid supplies, then adds with perfect deadpan, "Though I should warn you, in Russia, we consider that cheating."
"Everything's cheating in Russia," Elijah says, mimicking Leonid's accent with surprising accuracy. "In Russia, breathing is cheating."
I almost choke on my water. Leonid's eyes meet mine, dancing with suppressed laughter.
"Who taught you to be so cheeky,malysh?"
"Mommy says I came this way. Factory settings."
This time Leonid does laugh, the sound rich and unexpected. My stomach does a little flip that I firmly ignore.
I shift in the chair, the plush cushions of this absurdly expensive armchair doing nothing to make me less squirmy. The chair, like everything in this ridiculous penthouse, screams Leonid Kuznetsov: sleek, bold, and entirely too much for me. Beyond the massive windows, the skyline stretches into jagged peaks, the sun sinking low and casting the snow-covered Alps in strokes of gold and pink. The view looks like it belongs on a postcard—or in the kind of retreat you’d use to disappear after staging a whole damn funeral for a spy’s benefit.
We’re still here, in the Alpine Aiguille Retreat. Leonid made sure to pull out all the stops, enough theatrics to convince anyone watching that someone—anyone—had died. The bloodstains, the black body bag being loaded into the chopper. It was a perfect performance. And for now, it’s working. No one has come knocking. Yet.
“You’re up,” Elijah says, watching Leonid like he’s the coolest person alive. There’s no “Papa” yet, no grand declarations—just this small boy who thinks Leonid is good at Jenga, and Leonid acting like this is the most important mission of his life.
We agreed to take this slow. No sudden revelations, no big speeches. Just time—time for Leonid to figure out how to be in Elijah’s life and for me to figure out what this new reality means.
Elijah grins, clearly oblivious to the silent conversation happening above his head. “You have to be really careful, or it’ll all fall. And if it falls, you lose.”
Leonid arches a brow at him, then reaches for the tower with deliberate precision. His hand hovers for a moment before he pulls a block free with a smooth, calculated movement. The tower wobbles, but it doesn’t fall.
“Like that?” he asks.
Elijah claps his hands together, his face lighting up. “Yeah! Like that! You’re really good at this.”
“Practice,” Leonid says, setting the block aside. “And patience.”
I lean back in the chair, trying not to let the knot in my chest tighten too much. It’s onlybeen three dayssince everything unraveled. Three days since I learned the truth about Jake, Stephan, and the life I thought I knew.
It should feel like chaos. It does feel like chaos.
I should still be furious. Hurt. Mad as hell.
And I am. Somewhere deep inside, there’s a version of me with fists clenched, ready to kill. But then there’s this version of me—the one sitting in this obnoxiously comfortable chair, watching my son laugh with his father like it’s always been this way.
It’s not the life I would’ve chosen. But somehow, it’s the life I’ve landed in.
