Page 23

RUTHIE

I wake up the next morning tangled in sheets heavy with the scent of him .

The warmth of last night still lingers, and I roll over instinctively to find him—but he’s not there. The space beside me is cool. Empty.

And for one second, I fear it all—I stepped too far. He doesn’t want me. I was only a temporary replacement for the loneliness he felt, and I?—

Then I hear it, the running water in the bathroom. He’s in the shower.

Oh god.

Way to catastrophize things again, Ruthie.

I sit up quickly the moment I hear little footsteps padding down the hallway and then—the sound of Luka’s door opening. My heart jumps into my throat.

Oh my god. Is he old enough to understand what it means if I come out of Vadka’s bedroom like this?

I scramble, tugging on a sweatshirt, my hair wild, my heart pounding, and bolt out of the room just in time—ducking into the guest room a second before Luka rounds the corner.

I throw the door open casually, stretching like I’ve been there all along, arms overhead, pretending I haven’t just staged a hasty escape from his father’s bed.

“Good morning,” I say brightly, forcing a calm smile.

He looks adorable, cheeks rosy, his hair an unruly mop of sleep-tangled curls.

“Good morning.” He grins, all teeth and innocence. “I’m hungry.”

“Of course you are. Let’s get you something to eat, buddy.” I glance toward Vadka’s room, but he’s still in the bathroom. A flicker of uncertainty passes through me. Are we going to talk about what happened last night? Do I even want to?

I know Luka’s routine now; I’ve been around long enough. I get him settled at the kitchen table with some toast, a sliced banana, and a cup of milk. His feet swing happily under the chair, his little face full of quiet contentment.

“Can you stay here today?” he asks, almost shyly. “I don’t want to talk to the mean lady.”

I know who he means. His nanny. And the guilt hits me harder than it did over anything I did with Vadka last night.

“Yeah, honey, I can stay today. I’m not sure what Papa has planned, but… ”

“She’ll be here soon though,” he says.

“She’s mean. She says mean things about Papa.”

I sit up straighter, narrowing my eyes at him. “What do you mean, she says mean things about Papa?”

“Who does?” Vadka’s voice cuts in from the hallway. And when he walks into the room, god help me, my ovaries combust.

He’s freshly showered, his dark hair still damp and slicked back.

His skin is flushed from the heat, and he looks like he just stepped out of some sultry, forbidden dream.

He’s in a charcoal-gray button-down, open at the collar—no tie, just confidence.

His slacks are a shade darker, perfectly tailored, hugging every muscle like they were sewn onto him.

He’s devastating. And standing next to his son, with that intense gaze fixed on me, he looks even more dangerous, even more magnetic.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is feel.

He moves toward me, braces his hands on either side of my chair, and kisses my cheek—slow, intentional, soft. It’s not just affection. It’s a message. A declaration. He doesn’t regret a single damn thing we did last night.

I smile, my eyes flicking to his.

Neither do I .

And for the first time in a long time, I feel free.

Even if my hair’s a wreck, my clothes rumpled, thighs still sticky from the night before. It all feels deliciously dirty—wrong in a way that makes my breath catch. The power dynamic, the imbalance, it makes me pause. It makes me wonder what comes next.

“Good boy, Luka,” Vadka says, ruffling his son’s hair. “Your mama would be proud of you for drinking your milk.”

My chest tightens. I remember when Luka was two or three, how Mariah used to beam every time he finished a cup. That ache is always there. But it softens in moments like this.

A car pulls up outside. Vadka glances toward the window, then back at me.

“It’s the nanny,” I tell him.

“Oh. Right,” he says, his tone a little too heavy. Did he forget?

“You going into the office?” I ask.

“No,” he says, jaw tensing. “I’m not. Rafail wanted me to go to London—there’s something urgent over there—but I’m not leaving you and Luka. Not with the Irish still out there. I don’t trust they won’t show up again.”

I nod. “Makes sense.” Then I realize what I look like—bedhead, yesterday’s clothes, last night’s sin still clinging to my skin. I’m not presentable to meet this nanny. Especially not if she’s the judgmental, old-school type.

I mutter, “I look like a mess.”

His eyes spark, and he kisses my forehead. “You’re beautiful.”

I walk toward the room like I’m floating. I’m still grieving, still wrecked by guilt—but part of me feels seen. Desired. I need to talk to someone. Someone older. Someone who won’t crumble under the weight of it.

I wash up as best I can and throw on my clothes.

Then I hear the nanny’s voice. Sharp. Cold. She’s snapping at Luka, and I pull in a breath. This is not going to last.

I walk into the kitchen just as she barks, “Put your plate in the sink.” She’s dressed head to toe in black, arms crossed like a judge ready to deliver a sentence.

“It does no good to coddle him,” she says, stiff. “I’ve taught children his age for forty-five years. The sooner they learn independence, the sooner they stop relying on you.”

Vadka winks behind her back. “Yes. I think you’re right. That’s exactly what independence means.”

She continues, unfazed. “I understand young mothers these days like to baby their children. And I know your wife is no longer here, but she didn’t do your son any favors by cleaning up after him.” She rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she still wiped his bottom.”

A muscle jumps in Vadka’s jaw. My fists clench at my sides.

“My sister was an excellent mother,” I snap, my voice cold steel.

The woman spins around, eyes raking me down without even a pretense of subtlety. She’s assessing me—my messy hair, my crumpled clothes, the way I don’t match the polished facade she and Vadka both wear.

I smile sweetly. “I’m Ruthie.” I extend my hand. She doesn’t take it .

“Heard about you,” she mutters.

My eyebrows lift. “Oh, did you? Did Luka tell you about me?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

Charming.

“I’ve got a few things to do around the house today,” I say lightly, “but I’ll be in and out, running errands. Let me know if you need anything.”

I move to the fridge and start taking stock of what we’ve got. Groceries, chores, the usual. But underneath all that, there’s a spark. A slow-burning fire that I know is only just getting started.

I don’t want to leave my nephew here—not with this battle-axe of a nanny I’m apparently responsible for hiring.

“You working tonight?” Vadka asks, his voice low and quiet, the kind of tone he only uses when something’s gnawing at him.

His lips are pressed into a flat, unreadable line, and there’s a furrow between his brows that tells me he’s deep in thought—probably spiraling with all the ways things can go wrong.

I know that look too well, even as I write out a simple grocery list. I write down just the basics—things to cook and grill.

Something to feel normal again.

“Yeah,” I tell him, not looking up. “I have to work, Vadka. I’m almost out of sick time. ”

His jaw tightens like he wants to argue, but we both glance at the nanny, who’s watching us with that cold, flat look I hate. The kind of look that makes you feel like a problem she’s been paid to tolerate.

Luka’s little lower lip sticks out.

Oh no.

“Don’t go, Papa,” Luka pleads, his tiny arms wrapping tightly around Vadka’s legs like he can physically anchor him to the ground.

My heart aches. I hated this when Mariah was still alive—how Luka would sob and beg her not to leave, how she’d cry after closing the door.

It hasn’t changed. It’s still gutting, and I know it’s just part of having a small child.

Still, no one said I have to like it.

I don’t miss the shadow that crosses Vadka’s face, the way he holds his little boy as if he doesn’t ever want to let him go. I guess parting from each other holds a different kind of weight these days.

“I’ll be back soon, buddy.” Vadka kneels and kisses Luka’s forehead, but his voice falters. He doesn’t want to go either.

We finally peel Luka off, and of course, Vadka does the rounds—checks in with the security team, glances at the surveillance feeds, and reads the angles like a general prepping for siege. He finally exhales, long and hard, shaking his head.

We both have jobs to do. We can’t just sit here like targets.

And I can’t take him with me. Not to the bar. It’s not a place for a child. Today’s the worst of the week—the only day we open early for “specials”—cheap drinks and sketchy characters. I’ll take a half-empty bar of regulars any day.

Shit .

“It’s gonna be all right,” Vadka murmurs, placing his hand on the small of my back.

His touch is grounding and electric at the same time.

It feels like it belongs there, even as my skin prickles like I’m on fire.

The memory of last night burns in the corners of my mind and refuses to leave me.

I keep reliving it—again and again and again—wanting to freeze it, to hold onto every inch of that memory.

For so long, I’ve been stumbling through darkness. Alone. The future seemed murky and scary, but now… now it’s like I can actually see into a future that brings me hope.

Maybe… maybe … with a man I actually care about.

And I don’t know how to feel about that.

Correction— Sigh. I do . I know exactly how I feel, and I’m absolutely fucking riddled with guilt.

It feels like hell.

Guilt clings to me like a second skin. I feel inadequate, tainted.

But if I’m being honest… I didn’t feel worthy of love even when Mariah was alive.