And Anton? Yeah, Anton once laid down the holy commandment: don’t cook for his men. Like he’s some Old Testament god of takeout. Well, fuck him. I’m cooking anyway. Call it petty rebellion. Call it survival. Either way, it’s mine. A middle finger dressed up as scrambled eggs.
Turns out Mary Sullivan does rebellion with butter and frying pans. Who knew?
By 7:30, I’m back in the penthouse, hair damp, skin still buzzing from the workout. The kitchen is quiet, too quiet, and Gordo greets me first, tail flicking, eyes half-closed, like he owns the damn place.
I’ll shower and get breakfast ready for the boys.
The boys. The thought actually makes me stop mid-step in the hall and press the towel harder to my neck. Since when do I have boys?
I used to have a couple of sad little basil plants on my windowsill. Half-dead most of the time, hanging on by guilt-watering and cheap potting soil. Now I’ve got a trio of mafia enforcers expecting eggs on demand. Life comes at you fast.
In the bathroom, steam fogs the mirror before the water even runs hot. I peel off the tank top, the sports bra stuck to my ribs with sweat. My skin blooms red under the light, small purple blotches already forming along my arms where Dima’s pads caught me wrong. They don’t hurt, not really. They look like proof.
I lean closer. My shoulders seem straighter. My waist tighter. There’s a firmness under the bruises I don’t remember seeing before.
I twist, catching the mirror at a new angle.
Well. Hello there.
My ass—my very average, don’t-look-twice ass—actually looks… perkier? Higher? Squats, you sneaky bastards.
I force out a laugh, then shake my head. Because who am I kidding? No one’s here to notice. No one’s going to whistle or grab me around the waist or tell me I look good enough to eat.
Not anymore.
The thought digs in like a thorn. I drag my gaze back to the front, to the faint bloat in my stomach. My hand presses over it, hard. Must’ve been the protein bar I choked down after training. Or maybe just too much salt.
I repeat it in my head until the words lose their shape, but the unease clings anyway.
The shower hisses when I step under it. Scalding. I let it burn the sweat off, let it turn my skin pink where the bruises don’t already mark me. My head tips back, eyes closed, and for a second, I let myself feel the water the way I used to feel comfort: like it could rinse away more than dirt.
It doesn’t.
By the time I towel off, my chest still feels hollow. I pull on a fresh T-shirt and jeans, tug socks up over my ankles, then stare at the pile of damp clothes slumped on the floor like they’re mocking me. They’re proof too. Proof that I’m not the girl I was a week ago. Proof that I can throw punches, take hits, sweat out anger instead of swallowing it.
Proof that I’m someone else now.
I catch myself in the mirror again. My hair hangs damp around my shoulders. My lips are still swollen from biting them while I hit Dima’s pads like they were a substitute for all the things I can’t say out loud.
It’s ridiculous, but I hear Anton’s voice still. His words stick like gum on the bottom of my shoe. Ugly. Annoying. Impossible to scrape off. Not here to play house.
It hits lower than my ribs, a dull sore spot I can’t rub out. Like a pulled muscle in my chest, the kind that lingers no matter how much you stretch. I can almost feel it there—tight, raw, stupid. That ache you get when you let yourself want something you were never promised.
What did I expect? That he’d smile at me across the kitchen like some normal guy, thank me for dinner, maybe even kiss my forehead?
Idiot.
This is on me. I signed myself up for this crash course in humiliation. I knew what he was from the start—danger wrapped in a suit and scars—and I still built castles in my head out of pasta and garlic butter.
I yank the towel tighter around my hair, and scowl at the damp, blotchy reflection staring back.
“Fuck him,” I whisper.
When I turn, Gordo is sitting square in the middle of the wooden floor, loafed up like he’s fresh out of an oven. Round, smug, every inch the bread loaf he thinks he is.
“Were you eavesdropping, Gordo?”
He doesn’t blink. Just stares at me, slow and steady, like he’s cataloguing all my pathetic choices and finding none of them impressive.
