Page 24

The house is eerily quiet at night, the kind of silence that makes every creak of the floorboards and rustle of the curtains feel louder than it should. I lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling as the minutes tick by, but sleep won’t come.

Serge hasn’t come home yet.

It’s not unusual for him to work late—his world doesn’t abide by standard hours—but tonight, the emptiness of the house feels heavier. My mind drifts to places I wish it wouldn’t. I wonder where he is. Who he’s with.

Is he with someone else?

The thought hits like a sharp knife, quick and cutting. I shake my head, trying to dismiss it. Why does it matter? He’s Serge Sharov—powerful, controlling, dangerous. The kind of man who doesn’t owe anyone an explanation, least of all me.

And yet, the idea that he could be with someone else—a stranger, a woman whose name I’ll never know—makes my chest ache in a way I don’t understand.

I sit up, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to force the feeling away. This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t care. Serge and I are bound by circumstance, by the children, by this fragile illusion of a marriage. That’s all.

It’s not all, is it? Somewhere along the line, I’ve grown… attached. Fond of him, even. It’s infuriating and confusing, and yet, the way he makes Alyssa laugh, the way he steadies Leo’s quiet nature with his presence, even the way he looks at me when he thinks I don’t notice—all of it chips away at the walls I’ve built around my heart.

Frustrated, I throw the blankets off and head downstairs, my bare feet padding softly against the wooden floors. If I can’t sleep, I might as well do something productive—or at least eat something.

The kitchen feels cavernous at night, the dim glow of the overhead light casting long shadows. I rummage through the fridge, pulling out some bread, butter, and a block of cheese. A grilled cheese sandwich seems simple enough, something to occupy my hands and distract my mind.

I butter the bread, heat the skillet, and let the quiet hiss of melting butter fill the space. It’s calming, the small, mundane task of cooking. As the cheese begins to melt and the bread turns golden, I let out a soft sigh, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease slightly.

Then I turn around, and I nearly drop the spatula in my hand.

Serge is standing there, leaning casually against the doorway, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“You scared me,” I gasp, clutching a hand to my chest.

His lips curl into a smirk, and the low rumble of his chuckle fills the room. “I can see that.”

“Do you always sneak around like this?” I snap, more out of embarrassment than anger.

“I wasn’t sneaking,” he says smoothly, stepping further into the room. “You were too distracted to notice me.”

I narrow my eyes at him, though my heart is still pounding from the shock. “It’s late. Where have you been?”

He raises a brow, clearly catching the edge in my tone. “Working,” he replies, his voice calm but measured. “Why… did you miss me?”

The question catches me off guard, and I feel a flush creep up my neck. I turn back to the stove, flipping the sandwich in the pan. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His chuckle comes again, deeper this time, and I feel him move closer. “Making a midnight snack?”

“Yes,” I say shortly, refusing to look at him. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“You’re not the only one,” he murmurs, his voice lower now.

I glance over my shoulder and find him watching me, his gaze intense in a way that makes my breath hitch. He’s still in his suit, though the tie is gone, and the top buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a glimpse of his collarbone. There’s a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, and his blond hair is slightly mussed, as though he’s run his hands through it a few times.

“You should eat something,” I say, turning back to the pan to avoid his eyes. “You’re always skipping meals.”

“I didn’t know you were so concerned about my health,” he teases, stepping closer until he’s right behind me.

I freeze, the heat of his body so close to mine sending a rush of awareness through me. “I’m not,” I reply quickly, though my voice lacks conviction.

“Liar,” he murmurs, his tone light but edged with something deeper.

I turn off the burner, sliding the grilled cheese onto a plate and stepping away from him. “Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to eat?” I ask, shoving the plate toward him.

He takes it, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment, and the contact sends a jolt up my arm.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. He just watches me, the smirk fading into something softer. “You’re not like anyone else, Chiara,” he says suddenly, his voice low.

The words catch me off guard, and I look up at him, my heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says, stepping closer, “that you make this house feel alive. You make it feel like more than just a place to sleep.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the words don’t come. Instead, I find myself staring at him, the weight of his words settling heavily between us.

Just then, he leans down, his lips brushing against my cheek, then lower, grazing the corner of my mouth. My breath catches, my body frozen as the warmth of him surrounds me.

Before I can stop myself, my head tilts slightly, drawn toward him as though pulled by an invisible thread. His lips, warm and deliberate, brush against mine—not demanding, but coaxing, testing. My breath hitches, the spatula slipping from my hand and clattering softly against the counter.

“Serge…,” I murmur, but his name comes out more as an exhale than a protest.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his blue eyes searching mine, unreadable and yet heavy with intent. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, though there’s no sign he actually wants to hear me say it.

I can’t.

Instead of pushing him away, my fingers curl into his shirt, holding him there, anchoring myself in the storm of emotions swirling around me. His eyes flash with something primal, and before I can second-guess myself, he closes the distance again, this time with certainty.

The kiss deepens, his mouth claiming mine as his hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. There’s nothing gentle about it now—it’s all heat and hunger, his control barely restrained. I meet his fervor with my own, surprised by the way I lean into him, craving the intensity of his touch.

He presses me back slightly, pinning me gently but firmly against the counter. The edge digs into my hip, but I barely notice, too consumed by the way his lips move against mine, the way his hands explore my waist, holding me close as though I might disappear if he lets go.

I gasp softly when his teeth graze my bottom lip, a spark shooting through me that makes my knees feel weak. His other hand slides to my lower back, pulling me flush against him. It’s dizzying, intoxicating, and for a moment, I forget everything else—where we are, who we are, all of it lost in the heat of the moment.

Then the faint scent of melted butter and burning bread drifts through the air, grounding me.

“Wait,” I breathe against his lips, my fingers pressing against his chest to create some space.

His forehead rests against mine, his breath ragged as he struggles to calm himself. “What is it?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

I glance at the counter, at the abandoned plate of grilled cheese. “We’re going to burn it if we don’t move soon,” I say, a shaky laugh escaping me.

He follows my gaze, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I suppose that would be a shame,” he says, though his tone suggests the food is the last thing on his mind.

Still, he steps back reluctantly, reaching for the plate and holding it up. “If we’re taking this, we’re doing it right,” he says, his smirk returning as he nods toward the stairs.

I raise an eyebrow, but I follow him, my heart still racing as we ascend together.

In the bedroom, he sets the plate down on the nightstand before pulling back the covers. “Come on,” he says, gesturing for me to sit.

I settle into the bed, suddenly aware of how intimate this feels, but the tension softens as he hands me half of the sandwich and joins me.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I laugh—softly, genuinely—as we sit there, sharing a midnight snack in bed. It’s strange and surreal, yet somehow, it feels perfectly right.

Serge leans back against the headboard, the warm light from the bedside lamp casting a soft glow across his face. He’s already halfway through his half of the sandwich, his sharp, calculating eyes darting between me and the remaining piece sitting on the plate in my lap.

I pick up the sandwich, holding it out to him with a raised eyebrow. “Here,” I say, my tone light but teasing. “You’re a big guy; you could use more food.”

He narrows his eyes at me, suspicion flashing across his face. “You’re being awfully generous all of a sudden,” he says, his tone dry.

I groan, rolling my eyes dramatically. “Oh, for God’s sake.” I take a deliberate bite out of the sandwich, chewing exaggeratedly before swallowing. “See? Not poisoned. Satisfied?”

His lips twitch as if he’s fighting a smirk, but he shrugs and takes the sandwich from me anyway, biting into it without further argument.

“You’re impossible,” I mutter, brushing crumbs from my fingers.

“I’m thorough,” he counters, his smirk breaking through this time.

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the remnants of the sandwich disappearing between us. It’s strange how easy it feels, sitting here with him, no tension or pretense. Just… us.

I glance over at him, studying his profile as he finishes the last bite. “So,” I say carefully, leaning back against the pillows. “Are you going to tell me where you were tonight?”

His head tilts slightly, his gaze flicking to me with faint amusement. “Why do you ask?”

I shrug, trying to keep my tone casual, though my stomach twists with an unfamiliar emotion. “It’s late. You’re not usually gone this long. I figured you’d want to be home with the twins.”

His smirk deepens, and he sets the plate on the nightstand before turning fully toward me. “You figured,” he repeats, his tone teasing. “Or you were worried.”

“I wasn’t worried,” I snap, though the heat rushing to my cheeks gives me away.

“No?” He leans closer, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Then why are you asking?”

“Because I….” I pause, flustered under his sharp gaze. “Because I’m curious, that’s all.”

“Curious,” he echoes, his voice low and smooth. “Or jealous?”

The word catches me off guard, and I stiffen slightly, my blush deepening. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

His chuckle is deep and rich, the sound wrapping around me like warm silk. “You’re terrible at lying, Chiara.”

I huff, crossing my arms over my chest. “Fine. Maybe I was wondering if you were with someone else. Happy now?”

His smirk softens into something almost affectionate. “I was working,” he says, his tone sincere now. “Not with anyone else. Just handling business.”

I glance away, embarrassed by my outburst. “Good,” I mumble, focusing on a spot on the wall.

His hand brushes mine lightly, drawing my attention back to him. “Good?” he repeats, arching a brow.

“Yes, good,” I say firmly, though my voice lacks the bite I want it to have. “The twins deserve a father who prioritizes them.”

He watches me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding. “I always will,” he says quietly.

Before I can respond, the door creaks open, and a small voice cuts through the quiet.

“Papa? Mama?”

We both turn to see Alyssa standing in the doorway, her stuffed rabbit clutched tightly in her arms. Her wide eyes are filled with worry, and her lip trembles slightly as she steps inside.

“What is it, sweetheart?” I ask, sitting up straighter.

“It’s Leo,” she says, her voice wavering. “He… he fell.”

Serge is on his feet instantly, his expression darkening. “Fell, what do you mean? From where?”

“The bunk bed,” Alyssa says, her voice cracking as tears well up in her eyes. “I told him not to climb up in the dark, but he didn’t listen!”

I’m already moving, rushing to scoop Alyssa into my arms as Serge strides toward the door. “Is he awake?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm for her sake.

Alyssa nods against my shoulder, sniffling. “He’s crying. He says his arm hurts.”

Serge glances back at me, his jaw tight. “Let’s go.”

We hurry down the hall, Alyssa clutching me tightly as we make our way to the twins’ room. My heart pounds in my chest, fear clawing at the edges of my thoughts.

When we reach the room, Leo is sitting on the floor, cradling his arm against his chest. His face is red and tear-streaked, and he looks up at us with wide, frightened eyes.

“Leo,” I breathe, dropping to my knees beside him. “Sweetheart, what happened?”

He sniffles, his voice trembling. “I—I wanted to see if I could climb fast like Alyssa, but I slipped.”

Serge crouches beside me, his large hand resting gently on Leo’s shoulder. “Let me see,” he says, his voice calm but firm.

Leo hesitates, his small body trembling as he extends his arm toward Serge. I can see the pain etched across his tear-streaked face, and my chest tightens. Serge’s jaw ticks as he carefully takes Leo’s arm in his large hands, his touch as gentle as I’ve ever seen it.

“Does this hurt?” Serge asks, moving Leo’s arm ever so slightly.

Leo winces and lets out a choked sob, nodding rapidly. “It hurts a lot, Papa,” he whispers, his voice trembling.

My breath catches in my throat as Serge’s expression hardens, a mix of concern and frustration shadowing his features. He glances at me, and the unspoken truth passes between us. It’s not just bruised—it’s broken.

“Chiara,” Serge says, his voice calm but with a steely edge. “We need to get him to the hospital. Now.”

I nod quickly, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Alyssa,” I call out, turning toward her. She’s still standing in the corner, clutching her stuffed rabbit tightly, her face pale.

Her wide eyes dart between us, tears threatening to spill. “Is Leo going to be okay?”

“He’s going to be fine, sweetheart,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can manage. “We just need to get your shoes on. Can you do that for me? Quickly?”

She nods, sniffling, and darts off to her side of the room, dropping to her knees to fish her shoes out from under her bed.

I pull my phone from my pocket, my hands shaking slightly as I dial emergency services. The operator picks up quickly, her calm voice a strange contrast to the chaos inside me.

“My son’s arm is broken,” I explain, my words coming out in a rush. “He fell from a bunk bed, and he’s in a lot of pain. We need an ambulance.”

The operator assures me that help is on the way, asking for details about our location and Leo’s condition. I give her the information as best as I can while Serge kneels beside Leo, murmuring quietly to him.

“It’s going to be alright, Leo,” Serge says, his voice low but firm. His hand rests gently on Leo’s uninjured shoulder, grounding him. “You’re a strong boy. We’ll get you taken care of.”

Leo’s sobs quiet slightly, though his little body still trembles with pain. “It hurts so bad,” he whimpers, leaning into Serge’s steady hand.

“I know, son,” Serge says softly. “I know it does, but the doctors will fix it. Just hold on a little longer.”

Alyssa reappears at my side, her shoes haphazardly on her feet, and runs back to my side. “I’m ready, Mama,” she says, clutching my hand tightly.

I crouch down, pulling her into a quick hug. “You did so well, Alyssa,” I whisper, kissing her hair. “Now stay close to me, okay?”

The sound of the ambulance siren in the distance brings a mix of relief and urgency. I exchange a look with Serge, who scoops Leo up carefully, cradling him as though he’s the most fragile thing in the world.

“Let’s go,” Serge says, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from him. Together, we head downstairs to meet the paramedics, the weight of the moment heavy but united in our focus on Leo.