Page 118 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

"You like a lot of things that aren't good for you," my mother replies without missing a beat. She sets the plate in front of Marla, along with cream, jam, and honey. "Eat. The baby needs real food."

Marla looks at the mountain of food and then at me. I shrug, squeezing her hand. "Just eat it. Trust me, arguing with her is pointless."

"I can hear you," my mother says from the stove.

"I know, Ma."

Marla picks up her fork and takes a bite of the blini, and I watch her face transform as she tastes it. "Oh my God, this is amazing."

My mother looks pleased despite trying to hide it. "Of course it's amazing."

I watch Marla eat, noticing how comfortable she looks sitting here in the kitchen. She's not nervous or out of place anymore. She moves through this house like she belongs here, like she's always belonged here. This is right. Having her here, having my mother here, building something that feels like an actual family instead of just an organization. It's what I've wanted without realizing I wanted it.

My mother returns to the stove, flipping more blini with practiced efficiency. "I've been thinking," she says casually, too casually. "I'm ready to move in permanently."

I straighten in my seat, surprised. "Really? That's great, Ma. I'll have the guys start on the renovations for the mother-in-law building this week. We can upgrade the security system, maybe add another bathroom, whatever you want."

She turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised. "Why would I live in that little building when there's a perfectly good mansion right here?"

I blink. "What?" I'd thought she was talking about the mother-in-law house at my other estate.

"I'm not living separately," she says firmly, turning back to the stove. "I want to live here. In the main house. With everyone else."

She turns to look at me, holding her spoon like a weapon. "I want to be where my grandbaby is," she says, and the word "grandbaby" hits me harder than I expected. "I want to be close. I want to help. None of you men know the first thing about raising children."

Marla's hand tightens around mine, and when I glance at her, I see tears gathering in her eyes. It's the first time my mother has openly called the baby family, claimed it as her grandchild without hesitation. The significance isn't lost on either of us.

"Ma," I start, my voice rougher than I intended.

"Don't argue with me, Rustik," she says, using my full name the way she only does when she's serious. "I've already decided. I want the suite on the second floor, the one with the sitting room attached. It has good light in the mornings."

I'm too stunned to argue. My mother, who fought me for years about moving closer, who insisted on maintaining her independence, is now demanding to live under the same roof.

"And the nursery should be on the same floor," she continues, completely ignoring my shocked silence. "Close enough that someone can hear if the baby cries at night, but far enough that the noise doesn't wake everyone in the house. I'll need to see the room this week so I can start planning."

"The nursery is off of our room, Ma," I say. There's no way we're changing that. It wouldn't be fair to Marla. Plus, all of us want to be near the baby. "It's just a couple doors down from the room you want."

"Planning what?" Marla asks, her voice thick with emotion.

"Everything," my mother says matter-of-factly. "You'll want everything organized before the baby arrives. Trust me, once you're in labor, the last thing you'll want to worry about is whether you have enough diapers."

Marla laughs, wiping at her eyes. "I don't even know what I need yet."

"That's why I'm here," my mother says, finally abandoning the stove to sit across from us at the island. Her dark eyes are warm as she looks at Marla. "You're family now, dorogaya. That means you don't do this alone."

The word "family" hangs in the air between us, heavy with meaning. My throat feels tight watching them, watching my mother reach across the counter to squeeze Marla's free hand while Marla tries not to cry.

This is what I wanted. This exact thing. Not just the merger, not just the power and territory. This. A family that actually means something.

Footsteps on the stairs interrupt the moment. Nick appears first, already dressed in dark slacks and a black button-down, his phone pressed to his ear. His expression is irritated, the way it always is when he's dealing with business shit this early in the morning.

"I don't care what the shipment schedule says," he's saying into the phone, his voice cold and controlled. "If the containers aren't inspected by noon, heads are going to roll. Figure it out."

He ends the call and notices us in the kitchen. His expression softens slightly when he sees Marla, his green eyes moving over her like he's checking to make sure she's okay.

"Morning," he says, heading straight for the coffee maker.

"Good morning, Nikita," my mother says. "There's food if you're hungry."