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Diana nods, processing this information with her typical efficiency. “I’ve prepared Bobik’s rooms for when he returns.”

“Khoroshiy. Good.”

“How is he?” she asks, her voice softening slightly. “Did the doctor give any more updates?”

I feel my expression harden. “He’ll be okay.”

The answer is deliberately vague, and Diana knows better than to press. We’ve communicated this way since childhood— saying more with silence than words.

“I’ll check on Stella later,” Diana says, turning to leave. “Let me know if she needs anything.”

As she walks away, I stand alone in the corridor. My fingers drum against my thigh in a rare display of agitation.

I eventually retreat to my office and pour myself two fingers of vodka, but don’t drink immediately. Instead, I stare at my reflection in the glass cabinet— the face of the man responsible for the death of Stella’s father, and indirectly responsible for the death of her mother.

Indirectly.

As if that makes a fucking difference.

The man who now harbors their daughter under his roof. The man who wants her to fall in love with him.

The contradiction doesn’t trouble me as much as it should. Nor does this revelation.

Love.

It’s not something I ever saw in my future.

I down the vodka in one swallow, feeling it burn a path down my throat. Some secrets will stay buried— not just for my protection, but for hers. For our child’s. For this new beginning.

My reflection shows a slight, dangerous smile forming. Perhaps Fate has granted me something I never deserved: a clean slate with the woman who never knew I’d already stained it with blood.

She must never, ever know what I’ve done. She doesn’t have to know the reason, either— now that her father is dead, there is no point in telling her Tomas Larkin caused Bobik’s condition.

Some things are better kept secret forever.

Chapter Seven

Stella

It’s a new day.

I’m sitting on the plush sofa in the sitting room, with Aleksei beside me. He’s looking at me intently, surveying my face like he’s trying to read my mind. We sit in quiet contemplation for some time, allowing the surroundings to sink in.

I shift slightly, feeling the soft velvet of the sofa against my bare arms. Aleksei’s presence beside me is overwhelming, his body heat radiating across the small space between us.

God, he smells good…

The thought comes out of nowhere, and I push it away. This is no time to give in to the strange attraction I feel to him. There’s more at stake here. Things I need to understand.

I can feel his eyes on me, studying every tiny expression that crosses my face. It’s unnerving how he seems to see right through me, as if he’s cataloging my thoughts before I’ve even registered them myself. I resist the urge to fidget under his intense gaze, wondering what he’s looking for— or what he’s already found.

The room is oppressively beautiful— crystal chandeliers casting prisms of light across antique furniture, oil paintings in gilded frames, and velvet curtains that puddle on the polished floor. It’s the kind of luxury that should impress me, but instead, makes me feel small and out of place.

As I take in the opulence of the room, a faint memory surfaces— a suitcase filled with money. Me giving it to Aleksei. An overwhelming sensation of anxiety washing over me like ice water down my spine. My hands trembling as I pushed it toward him, his dark eyes unreadable, calculating.

The image is vivid but disconnected from any context, floating in my mind like a photograph torn from its album. I try to grasp at the surrounding details— where we were, what words passed between us, why I was giving this man a bag of cash— but I can’t pin down the memory. Just that single, crystalline moment remains, sharp-edged and unsettling, refusing to fit into the puzzle of my fragmented past.

There was something else in that suitcase too— something… I can’t recall what.