The food arrives fast—plates piled high, steam rising, butter melting into golden pools on the pancakes. I’m suddenly ravenous. I attack the stack in front of me, cutting big bites, syrup dripping from the fork. Ivan eats methodically, but I notice he’s watching me more than he’s eating.
Halfway through my second pancake I set the fork down.
“Something’s wrong,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t deny it. Just takes a slow sip of coffee.
I lean forward, keeping my voice low. “It’s about my father, isn’t it? He made it clear he wouldn’t pay. Wouldn’t negotiate. Wouldn’t give upanything.”
Ivan’s jaw tightens. He sets the mug down carefully, like he’s afraid it might crack if he uses too much force.
“Landon…” Ivan begins.
But I keep going because if I stop now I might never start again…
“He always said it when I was growing up,” I continue, undeterred. “No matter what happens, no matter how much it hurts, you don’t give in to rivals. You don’t pay ransom. You don’t trade territory or pride for a life. Because once you do,they own youforever. He told me that more than once. Like it was scripture. And I know what that means for me, now. I’m no exception to my father’s rule.”
Ivan exhales. Long. Slow.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “You understand the situation.”
The words land like stones in my stomach.
I stare at my half-eaten pancakes. Syrup is pooling around the edges, turning the plate into a sticky lake.
I lift my eyes again.
“When did you find out?” I ask. “Have you always known?”
“Yesterday morning,” Ivan answers without hesitation. “Before we left the penthouse. Viktor told me. Mikhail’s not budging. Not an inch. Not for you.”
I close my eyes for a second. Let the information settle.
It doesn’t hurt the way I expected. It hurts worse—deeper, duller, like a bruise that’s already turning purple before you even feel the impact.
I open my eyes again.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t.” He meets my gaze straight on. No excuses. “I wanted to protect you. Just a little longer. You’d already been through enough.”
I reach across the table. My fingers find his. He doesn’t pull away.
“Thank you,” I say. “For trying to shield me. But I’m big enough to handle the truth now, Daddy.”
The word slips out—quiet, public, but easy.
His eyes darken. Not with anger. With something raw and unguarded.
I squeeze his hand once, then let go.
Ivan clears his throat. Changes the subject the way people do when the air has suddenly become too thick to breathe.
“You want another coffee?”
I look down at my empty mug.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
