Page 20

6
LILA
When I wake up, the first thing I notice is how soft the sheets feel against my skin, cool and impossibly luxurious. The second thing I notice is the sunlight spilling through the curtains.
I pull on my clothes, my hands trembling slightly as I try to smooth out the wrinkles. The memory of last night lingers in every part of me, leaving a flush on my skin that I can’t seem to shake. But there’s no sign of Mikhail.
The suite feels eerily quiet as I step out of the bedroom.
I make my way toward the small kitchenette, grabbing a glass and filling it with water from the sleek faucet. The coolness of the glass in my hand is grounding, and I take a small sip, trying to steady myself.
That’s when I see him.
My heart stops.
“Hello, Lila,” a familiar voice says, calm and smooth.
The glass slips from my hand, shattering against the marble floor. The sound echoes in the silence, and I stand there frozen, staring at the man sitting on the couch.
“Dad?” I whisper, the word catching in my throat.
He looks older than I remember, but only slightly. The same sharp features, the same piercing gaze that always made me feel like he could see right through me. He’s dressed in a dark suit, his posture relaxed but exuding authority. And he’s not alone.
Two men flank him, both wearing similar suits, their expressions unreadable but menacing. They sit silently, their presence a silent warning.
“Careful,” my dad says, nodding toward the broken glass. “You wouldn’t want to hurt yourself.”
I can’t speak, can’t move. My feet feel glued to the floor as I stare at him, my mind reeling. I haven’t seen him in years. Not since the divorce. Not since my mom packed us up and left, taking me as far away from him as she could.
And now he’s here?Why?
“Hi, Dad,” I manage, my voice shaky and small.
He studies me, his expression unreadable, though there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—approval? Relief? I can’t tell.
“You look well,” he says finally, his tone almost casual.
I glance at the two men beside him, their silence making the room feel suffocating. “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice stronger now.
He leans back, one arm draped over the back of the couch. “I came to see you.”
I blink, my stomach tightening. “Why?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze shifting to the shattered glass at my feet. One of the men stands, moving to clean it up without a word. The gesture is efficient, almost too rehearsed, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
“I’ve missed you,” my dad says, his voice softer now, but it doesn’t match the tension radiating from him.
I laugh, the sound bitter and involuntary. “Missed me? You didn’t care enough to check in for years, and now you’re sitting here like it’s nothing?”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think I see guilt flash across his face. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by that cool, unshakable demeanor I remember too well.
“I’ve been busy,” he says simply.
I scoff. “Right. Busy. With what exactly? Shady business deals?”
His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t deny it. He never does. I don’t know the full details, but I know enough. I’ve heard the whispers, seen the glimpses growing up—the men in suits, the thick tension whenever he was on the phone, the stacks of cash that never seemed to run out. My father isn’t just dangerous; he’spowerful.And that power has always terrified me.
“What do you want?” I ask again, crossing my arms as I try to keep my voice steady.