“It smelled like mango margarita!”
We laugh. Together. For the first time in what feels like weeks.
But then… silence again. Not her usual dramatic pause. This one’s heavier. And I know exactly what she’s about to ask.
“So,” she says too casually. “Where’s Tall, Brooding, and Russian?”
I blink at the ceiling. “New York.”
“What, just—vanished? After the world’s most awkward family dinner?”
“Said he had to check out a new construction site.”
“In person? With a healing wife and three kids and a literal assassination attempt in the rearview mirror?”
“Elena—”
“I’m just saying,” she huffs. “That’s some top-tier avoidance. Did he even text? Call? Send a raven?”
I hesitate. Because no, he didn’t. Not since he cut my duck breast and told a table full of mafia royalty that he was feeding his wife.
“It’s been eight days,” I say quietly.
Elena lets out a slow breath. “So, what’s the plan?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I spend time with the kids. Help Lev and Nikolai with their essays. Alya’s glued to me like a koala. It’s… weirdly sweet. They’ve all grown on me.”
“Of course they have. You’re basically biologically engineered for chaos and small humans.”
“You know what else I just realized?” I shift upright, heart skipping.
“What?”
“I’m late.”
Pause.
“Like, your period?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Maybe it’s stress,” she offers.
“Maybe it’s something else.”
“You mean… Russian-swimmer-sperm-level something else?”
I groan. “Please never say that again.”
“Too late. I’m sending you a care package. It’s going to include five kinds of chocolate, a heating pad, a test, and an exorcism kit.”
I laugh. Again. But this time, I feel it in my ribs and in the place behind them. The part that aches a little too much when I remember he’s been gone.
Eight days. And not a word.
Outside, the sun dips lower beyond the glass doors of my balcony, spilling amber light across the rugs. I rest my head back. And wait.
