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I nearly spit out my wine.
“Ivy?” My mother asks, paling.
“That’s me,” Ivy says, reaching for a glass of milk I poured for her.
“Ivy, careful—” I warn, but I’m too late. Her little hand knocks the glass over into the glass of wine beside it, sending the liquid in it soaring straight into my mother’s lap. She leaps to her feet with a screech. Aleks has the audacity to snort, but poor Ivy looks like she’s about to burst into tears.
“It’s alright,” I tell her gently. “Accidents happen. You didn’t mean to.”
I reach for a napkin and mop up the milk.
“Leave it,” Aleks says. “Staff will get it. Is she alright?”
Oh God, he’s looking at Ivy with concern. If he starts to care for this little one, I’m going to fall head over heels in love with him. I’m already halfway there.
I nod, but he leans in close to her anyway. “It’s alright. Mama’s right. We don’t cry over spilt milk here.” He winks at me. “Maybe vodka…”
My father stiffens.
Ekaterina ushers my mother away from the table, promising to help her clean up.
Nikko grins at me. “Roll?” he asks, his eyes twinkling. We have a secret, just between the three of us. I can’t fuckingwaitto get back to that gun. If only my father knew.
“This is your daughter?” my father asks, his eyes boring into mine.
“She is,” I say proudly, my chin lifted high.
“It’s a shame you didn’t tell me before negotiations what Harper brought to the table,” Aleks says. He takes a platter of sliced chicken and puts a piece on our plates before serving himself, then handing it to his brothers. “The Romanov family is in dire need of expansion. Harper has a child.”
“What’d Mikhail say to that?” Viktor asks, passing a large bowl of salad around the table.
“Jealous,” Aleks says with a grin. My father shakes his head, confused and obviously furious, but doesn’t respond.
Despite my resolve, I feel the weight of my father’s disapproving glare. It’s been too long. I’ve been on the receiving end of hisvicious temper too many times and need more distance than I’ve had thus far. The silent indictment of my choices burns me.
“It’s a pity,” he says, helping himself to another glass of wine. “In our family, we uphold the sanctity of marriage. We discourage those who bring children into the world without a proper family in place.”
The table falls silent. I can’t believe he dared to bring his hatred and prejudice here and display them, right in front of my husband and his family. My cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment. I look down at Ivy, who’s thankfully unaware she’s the subject as she happily munches a buttered roll.
Aleks places his fork down and leans on the table. I open my mouth to say something, to protest, but he gives a gentle shake of his head. He’s right — anything I say my father will dismiss. Addressing him needs to come from Aleks.
“A proper family,” Aleks says calmly, even as his eyes burn with fire, “is not defined by societal approval and most definitely not by you. It’s built on love, respect, and the courage to stand by each other no matter what.”
My father’s eyes narrow on him. “Well said for someone who heads a mongrel family. We all know who you are and how your father piecemealed street orphans together to structure his ‘family.’”
Aleksandr’s eyes narrow right back at my father. “You’ll leave my late father out of this. Harper has shown more strength and integrity than those I’ve met who hide behind the facade of tradition. She is not alone, and I stand by her and her child unquestioningly.”
My father sputters, his cheeks flushed with rage, as Ekaterina and my mother enter the room again. I feel sick to my stomach.
Aleks, however, placidly goes back to his meal and begins to cut his chicken. “Now would be a good time for you to go. The only reason I’ve given you any leeway at all is because you’re an old man.” He spears my father with a look. “No onetalks about my wife that way. Old man or not, if you ever disrespect her again, you’ll answer to me.”
My heart swells with gratitude, love, and newfound strength. His declaration in the face of my father’s judgment means more to me than he can ever know.
“We’re leaving,” my father sputters, as if it’s his idea, and gets to his feet. My mother, dressed in too-tight clothes because she’s obviously several sizes larger than Ekaterina, only stares.
I hate her in this moment. I hate her for never standing up for me. I hate her for never defending me or making anything in my life easier. I hate her for staying with my father when he abused me and used me and for her own complicit part in all of this.
My hands shake when I cut up Ivy’s chicken. Aleks’s hand covers mine.
