Kayla glances up. Her eyes catch mine over Elijah’s head—soft, knowing. Like she sees me in a way I’m not used to being seen. And for a moment, I wonder if this is what it feels like—to have a mom. Someone who’ll be in your corner when you’re barely holding it together.
My throat tightens, and I quickly turn my attention to Elijah, trying to wipe his hands as an excuse to keep myself from unraveling.
Because how do you explain to someone that you don’t know how to be nurtured? That you never had a mom who looked at you like that, with pride and affection, like you were enough?
“TíaKayla!” Elijah bounces in his chair, his hands sticky from watermelon juice and cheese crumbs. “Pavel’s doing the dancing thing again!”
Kayla, ever composed, approaches with a fresh tray of watermelon slices and a subtle smile. “Si, pequeño. Perhaps he is lonely.”
“Or overcompensating,” I mutter, picking up Elijah’s discarded fork and placing it back in his hand. The absurdity of it all—this massive estate, the sun-dappled garden, the damn peacocks—isn’t lost on me.
Two mountains of designer suits suddenly fill the kitchen doorway. My brow twitches upward as I glance at them, the corner of my mouth tightening before I can stop it. Dmitry looks like a bodyguard auditioning for a Bond villain role, his pristine Armani suit somehow making him even bigger. Meanwhile, Maksim’s rocking that “tech billionaire at a Met Gala afterparty” vibe—broad shoulders, effortless confidence, and just the right amount of scruff to make him look annoyingly perfect.
“It’s too early for a hostile takeover in the kitchen, isn’t it?” I drawl, dabbing at another splash of marinara on Elijah’s chin. “Or did someone declare war?”
Neither of them answers. Dmitry grunts, already looking unimpressed, while Maksim leans against the doorframe, his smirk as sharp as ever. My eyes flick between them before sliding to the space behind them.
Empty.
My chest tightens, just for a second—a quick, stupid squeeze I shove down before it shows. Of course he’s not here. Why would he be?
Why would I care?
But my fingers tighten on the napkin, twisting it into a mangled knot.
It was just sex. Casual. Nothing.
What did I think—hope?—that he’d suddenly appear? Stupid.
Urgh!
A low chuckle pulls my gaze back. Maksim’s watching me, his smirk curling into something meaner, sharper, like he’s caught me red-handed. My stomach clenches. He doesn’t say a word, just quirks an eyebrow, the unspoken “Looking for someone?”hanging in the air.
My lips press into a tight line as I force my attention back to Elijah.
“Uncle Bear!” Elijah squeals, pasta forgotten, as he launches himself at Dmitry. The huge Russian catches him with practiced ease, seemingly unbothered by the red sauce now decorating his pristine suit.
“Little warrior!” Dmitry’s voice booms through the kitchen. “Growing strong with spaghetti, yes?”
Kayla sets a fresh bowl of fruit on the counter and picks up her knife, the softthunkof each slice breaking the quiet.
“Señora,no need for dinner preparations tonight.” Maksim leans against the doorframe, his smirk making my teeth itch. “We have that charity gala at the Astoria.”
Kayla’s knife pauses mid-slice, her chin lifting slightly. “Sí, señor.”
My fingers go still on Elijah’s napkin. I catch Maksim’s reflection in the window—he’s watching me, waiting. I don’t ask. I won’t ask.
“Ah, yes,” he continues, his smirk widening as our eyes meet in the glass. “Boss left early. Something about picking up Fiona Blackwood.” He pauses, savoring each word like expensive wine. “That pretty little young blonde.”
Kayla looks up from her chopping, brow furrowed. “No,señor.I do not know this Miss Blackwood.”
“Oh, Kayla, Kayla.” Maksim’s voice drips with fake sympathy. “You should see her. All legs and designer dresses. And theway she looks at the boss…” He fans himself dramatically. “So passionate. They might not make it to the gala at all.”
“SeñorMaksim.” Kayla gathers her fruit platter with precise movements. “I do not care for gossip.” She catches my eye as she heads to the fridge, her slight eye-roll making me bite back a smile.
Dmitry mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “idiot” in Russian.
“Come, little warrior. Let’s clean that pasta face, yes?” He turns to Elijah, who’s still wielding his fork like a tiny conductor’s baton.
