Page 53 of Nine Months to Love

“My father would be horrified that I’m repeating his mistakes.”

“Your father’s only mistake was not fighting harder for what he wanted. Don’t make the same error.” She pats my cheek, then steps back. “Tell her the truth. All of it. Even the ugly parts. Especially the ugly parts.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll do more than think.” She heads for the door, then pauses. “You owe your child that much.”

She leaves before I can ask more questions, the tap of her cane marking her progress down the hallway until it fades away altogether.

I sit in the silence of my office, processing. Natalia at the Vladislav house. Olivia trying to break into my basement. Mikayla still refusing to talk. Iakov still in the wind.

And in an hour, I’m supposed to sit across from Olivia and pretend everything is fine.

No. Notpretend. Babushka’s right—the pretending has to stop.

I pull out my phone and text Denis:Keep eyes on the house. If anyone matching Natalia’s description leaves, follow at a distance. Do not engage.

Then I grab my keys and head for the door. The drive to the harbor takes thirty minutes if I obey traffic laws, twenty if I don’t. I have just enough time to make sure everything’s perfect on the yacht before Olivia arrives.

Because tonight, I’m going to tell her everything. About Mikayla in the basement. About my plans for her clinic. About how terrified I am of losing her. About how I’ve never wanted anything the way I want her—not money, not power, not even revenge.

The truth might destroy us. But if I let them fester, the lies definitely will.

As I drive through Boston’s narrow streets, I let myself imagine a different future. It’s a dangerous fantasy for a man like me. But then again, Olivia Aster has always made me want dangerous things.

The harbor comes into view, and I can seeThe Antonialit up like a constellation against the dark water. My team outdid themselves with the decorations. I park and make my way aboard, checking every detail. The champagne is chilled—non-alcoholic for Olivia, the real thing for me because I’m going to need it. The dinner I spent all day working on is keeping warm in the galley. The orchids are perfect, their white petals glowing in the candlelight.

Everything is ready.

Everything except me.

I stand at the rail, looking out at the city lights reflected in the harbor. Somewhere out there, Olivia is getting ready, probably second-guessing herself, definitely plotting my demise. I sent her diamonds and Dior as an apology, but what she really deserves is honesty. Nothing less than that will suffice.

My phone buzzes. It’s Taras:En route with your girl. She looks fucking incredible, by the way. If you screw this up, I’m proposing.

I type back:Over my dead body.

19

OLIVIA

The Antonia’sdeck burns bright. Really bright. Too bright? It’s the sort of bright that you just can’t quite trust. A devil’s brightness, a Hollywood producer’s brightness. Picture-perfect orchids and candlelight licking at the teak flooring and the most perfect hint of a breeze, calibrated so the flames flicker and the flowers bob and all of it is a dream that’s just too good to be true.

A strong woman would know to turn her back on this.

I’m not that woman.

Stefan stands near the railing, his back to me. The suit fits him like it was painted on—charcoal grey, shirt white as snow. His hands rest on the rail, and even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders.

“Nice setup,” I say. “Been reading party planning magazines in your spare time?”

He turns, andblech, damn him for looking that good. The candlelight catches his eyes—that ice blue with its strange brownshard—and his jaw unclenches, the hard line of his mouth easing as his gaze finds mine.

“You wore the dress.”

“You sent it to my room,” I remind him. “Along with enough diamonds to fund a small country. Kinda felt like more of a request than a question.”

“They look better on you than in the box.”