"Thank you." My hand moves instinctively to my stomach, to the pronounced swell, my due date closing rapidly in three weeks. "For everything. The introductions, the guidance, the suppliers who actually showed up."
Her lips curve into something that might be approval. "You've earned their respect. That's not something I could have given you."
Movement catches my eye, and I turn to find Maya working the espresso machine with surprising competence. Six months sober, genuinely trying, her smile reaching her eyes for the first time in years. She catches me watching and grins, holding up a perfectly pulled shot like a trophy.
My throat tightens with emotions I don't have names for. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of trust that she won't break my heart again.
Then Nikolai moves through the crowd, and every thought evaporates like steam.
He's wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like a second skin, the fabric emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his body. The serpent tattoo on his neck peeks above his collar, a reminder of the violence that lives beneath his cultured exterior. His eyes find mine across the room, and heat floods through me despite the professional setting.
He stops to charm a food critic, his accent wrapping around English words in a way that makes the woman lean closer. Then he's talking to a local business owner, discussing supply chains and distribution with the kind of casual expertise that suggests legitimate operations rather than the criminal empire I know he runs. He shifts between worlds so seamlessly, it makes my head spin.
His hand finds the small of my back as he passes, the touch possessive and electric. "You're magnificent,Solnyshka."
The endearment makes my skin flush with warmth. "Stop distracting me. I have a speech to give."
"Then I'll stop." But his thumb traces circles against my spine through the thin fabric of my dress, and we both know he's lying.
I force myself to move toward the small platform we set up near the kitchen, my heart hammering against my ribs. Public speaking has never been my strength, but this moment deserves words. Deserves acknowledgment of everyone who believed in my vision when it would have been easier to walk away.
The crowd quiets as I step onto the platform, dozens of faces turning toward me with varying degrees of interest. I catch Nikolai's gaze across the room, and the fierce pride in his expression steadies me.
"Thank you all for coming," I begin, my voice trembling only slightly. "A few short months ago, this space was empty. Just brick and potential. Today, it's Thyme & Tide, and that transformation happened because of the people in this room."
I gesture toward the Bratva wives clustered near Lara. "These women took a chance on working for someone they barely knew.They've brought skill and dedication that goes beyond any job description."
Irina's eyes glisten with tears she's trying to hide. Svetlana nods once, sharp and final. Mila beams like I've just given her the world.
"My sister Maya." I find her near the espresso machine, and she straightens under my attention. "Who's shown me that second chances can be worth the risk."
Her hand flies to her mouth, and I see her shoulders shake with emotion she's trying to contain.
"And my husband." The word still feels foreign on my tongue, but saying it makes something warm bloom in my chest. "Who gave me the resources to rebuild but never tried to control what I built. Who understood that I needed this to be mine."
Nikolai's expression shifts to something raw and vulnerable, visible for just a heartbeat before his mask slams back into place. But I caught it. That glimpse of the man beneath the Pakhan, the one who quotes poetry and whispers endearments in the darkness.
"This restaurant represents more than just food," I continue, my voice gaining strength. "It's proof that we can build something beautiful even when the world tries to tear us down. That we can maintain our integrity while accepting help. That independence and partnership aren't opposites."
The crowd applauds, and I step down from the platform on legs that shake with relief. Nikolai is there immediately, his hand finding mine and threading our fingers together.
"That was perfect," he murmurs against my temple, his accent thick with emotion he's not trying to hide.
"I meant every word."
His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "I know."
The evening winds down gradually, guests filtering out with promises to return and recommendations to share. The food critics linger longest, taking notes and asking questions about my techniques and inspirations. I answer with enthusiasm that isn't forced, describing the coastal influences and seasonal ingredients that define my cuisine.
By the time the last guest leaves, exhaustion pulls at my bones with enough force that I can barely stand. My feet throb in the heels I insisted on wearing despite Nikolai's protests, and the baby has been doing somersaults all evening in response to my spiking adrenaline.
"Come here." Nikolai's voice cuts through my scattered thoughts.
I turn to find him standing in the empty kitchen, his jacket discarded and his sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos covering his forearms. The sight makes heat pool low in my belly despite my exhaustion.
He pulls me against his chest the moment I'm close enough, his hands framing my face with a gentleness that contradicts the predator I know lives beneath his skin. "I'm so fucking proud of you."
The words make tears sting my eyes. "Don't make me cry. I've done enough of that today."
