Page 24 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

They leave quickly, and I'm alone again with my thoughts, which is exactly what I don't want.

I've been short-tempered all day, snapping at my men over minor issues, unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes before my mind drifts back to Marla.

This is ridiculous. I've had plenty of women. Beautiful women, experienced women, women who knew exactly what they were getting into when they shared my bed.

Marla shouldn't be any different. She was supposed to be a one-night stand, nothing more. That's what she'd been after, too.

But she is different, and that's the problem.

By the time evening rolls around, I'm so frustrated with myself that I decide to get out of the warehouse entirely.

I need to clear my head, and there's only one place I know that might actually help.

My mother's house sits on the outskirts of the city, a modest two-story home that she's lived in for as long as I can remember.

It's nothing like the luxury penthouses and downtown condos that Alex and Nick prefer, but it's home in a way those places never could be.

I pull up in the driveway and sit in my car for a moment, trying to get my head straight before I go inside.

My mother has always been able to read me like a book, and the last thing I need is her asking questions I don't want to answer.

But I'm here now, and turning around would only make things worse.

I get out of the car and head up the front steps, letting myself in with the key she gave me years ago.

"Rustik?" Her voice comes from the kitchen, warm and familiar, calling me by my full name. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, Ma," I call back, closing the door behind me. "It's me."

She appears in the doorway a moment later, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

She's a small woman, barely five-three, with long blonde hair streaked with gray that she keeps pulled back in a bun.

Her dark eyes study me carefully, and I can see the exact moment she realizes something is off.

"You look terrible," she says bluntly, crossing her arms. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I lie, following her into the kitchen. "I just thought I'd stop by for dinner."

She gives me a look that says she doesn't believe me for a second, but she doesn't push. Not yet. Instead, she gestures to the table. "Sit. I made borscht."

I sit, watching as she ladles soup into a bowl and sets it in front of me.

The kitchen smells like home and comfort, like everything that's good in a world that's mostly dark and dangerous.

My mother has always been my anchor, the one person who keeps me grounded when everything else threatens to pull me under.

She sits across from me with her own bowl, and for a few minutes, we eat in comfortable silence.

But I can feel her watching and studying me, and I know it's only a matter of time before she starts asking questions.

"So," she says finally, setting down her spoon. "Are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or am I going to have to guess?"

"Nothing's bothering me," I say, not meeting her eyes. "I'm fine."

"Rustik Stepanov, I know you better than you know yourself. Don't lie to me."

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "It's nothing, Ma. Just work stuff. The merger negotiations are complicated."