She sighs back at me.
I drop Leo off at school, watching him sprint toward the entrance with his backpack bouncing against his shoulders. He doesn’t look back. He never does, and a part of me is grateful for it. He’s too full of innocence to carry the weight I’ve been shouldering these past few weeks.
These past fewyears, actually.
Once he disappears inside, I head for the diner.
My shift is ordinary like it always is. It blurs into every other morning. The clatter of plates, the hiss of the griddle, the same old men sitting in the corner booth nursing their coffee like it’s a sacred ritual. The biggest event is a regular ordering a stack of pancakes without syrup, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it.
The monotony is almost comforting.
If I let myself lean into it, I can forget the tight, buzzing unease that’s been crawling under my skin for days. For a few hours, I focus on refilling cups, scribbling down orders, and wiping counters until they shine. It’s mechanical, mindless work, but it gives me something to cling to.
By the time I clock out, I’ve convinced myself the feeling will pass. That it’s just paranoia, exhaustion from not sleeping, nerves for my child slowly growing older and time feeling so damn fleeting.
Whatever the reason, I’m determined to shake it off.
The house is quiet when I pull into the driveway. Lettie’s still at work, my parents mentioned errands this morning, and Leo won’t be home for another couple of hours. The silence that greets me as I unlock the front door is ordinary, unremarkable—exactly what I expect.
I push the door open, stepping inside with my bag still slung over my shoulder. I’m already planning the next thing—change into something warmer, maybe make some tea to settle my nerves, maybe fold the laundry still sitting in the dryer downstairs.
Small, ordinary thoughts that keep me moving.
But then for some reason, my entire body locks up. Because there’s someone sitting in my living room. A tall man, broad-shouldered, dark haired, still as stone in the armchair over by the window. He doesn’t stand when I enter, just waits as if he’s been here waiting for my return.
It’s not just any man, any stranger, who’s invaded my house.
It’s the one man I swore I’d never see again.
Maksim Antonov.
28
IVY
The air seems to thin in my lungs, my heartbeat slamming against my ribs. For a moment, I think I must be dreaming again, that I’ll blink and he’ll vanish back into the shadows where he belongs.
But he doesn’t. He’s real.
Here.
He has the same sharp lines to his face, though time has carved them a little deeper. His hair is a little longer, his posture more pronounced. His presence is still suffocating in its sheer overwhelming aura.
The years haven’t softened him.
If anything, they’ve made him harder, more dangerous. His eyes—those ruthless, familiar, dark things—are locked on me. My throat locks. The sound that comes out is jagged, barely a whisper.
“Maksim?” His name tastes foreign on my tongue.
He simply leans forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees, gaze steady while staring me down. A shiver rolls through me at the attention.
“Ivy,” he answers. My name in his mouth is a weapon, a vow, a tether pulling me back into a world I thought I escaped long ago. The sound of it shakes me harder than if he’d shouted it.
I grip the strap of my bag so tight, my fingers ache.
I stagger back a step, hitting the edge of the doorframe with my shoulder. My pulse is wild, every instinct screaming to run. To grab the phone and call… who? The police? Lettie? None of them could understand what it means that Maksim is here, in this room,alive.
“How…” My voice cracks. I swallow and try again. Everything in this room is spinning in a dizzying motion. “How are you here? You’re supposed to be…”
