“I’ll call you back.” I end the call, slipping the phone into my pocket and straightening up like I haven’t just been talking about secret pregnancies and tantric circus performers.
She moves toward me. Doesn’t smile.
I force my body to stand fully. “Yelena.”
“Walk with me.”
It’s not a request. I fall into step beside her, slow and careful on my bad leg. The gravel crunches under our feet like it’s aware of the tension. The air smells like citrus blossoms and quiet threats.
“You’re healing well,” she says finally.
“Dr. Nilsson says so, too.”
A beat of silence.
“I know.”
I glance at her. “Know what?”
“That you’re pregnant.”
The breath leaves my lungs like she’s shoved it out with a knife. I stop walking. She doesn’t.
“I saw the tests,” she continues, calm like she’s reading a grocery list. “Two of them. Hidden in your drawer beneath a bundle of socks. I had them removed before the maids could gossip.”
Shame and fury war inside my chest. Not because she found out—because I didn’t even have the chance to tellhimfirst.
“Does Konstantin—”
“No. He does not.”
I catch up to her, limping slightly. “And you don’t want him to.”
Yelena stops at a marble fountain, the kind sculpted to look like it came from some forgotten empire. Her hand trails over the edge, elegant, precise.
“No,” she says. “I do not.”
My throat tightens. “Because you don’t trust me.”
Her gaze flicks to mine. “Because I know exactly what you are.”
And there it is. Finally. The mask she wears so well—perfectly poised matriarch, gentle observer, quiet queen—cracks just enough to show steel beneath.
“You think I’m a gold digger,” I say.
“I think you’re a survivor,” she replies. “Which is infinitely more dangerous.”
I blink.
“You married my son under a contract. You think I didn’t know? I’ve known for weeks.” Her tone isn’t cruel. It’s worse—it’s disappointed. “You may think you’ve played this game well, Isabella. But I was married to a man who played it better than any of you.”
Her eyes narrow—not at me, but at something I can’t see. Something that lives in her past and hasn’t forgiven her.
“I know my son. And I knew his father. Men like them—they fall too easily. They make promises they never planned to keep. They rewrite history in their own favor. I’ve lived long enough to recognize that pattern.”
Her gaze cuts sharper than any blade. “I’ve been in this family for thirty years,” she continues. “I’ve watched Anatoly make the same mistakes over and over. Women who distract him. Womenwho think they understand the game they’re playing.” Her voice turns bitter. “Women like Tatiana, who wormed their way in with convenient pregnancies and pretty smiles.”
And there it is—the ghost behind all this.
