“Don’t mind her,” Kayla says, reaching across the table to pat my hand. “She’s just jealous.”
The teasing continues through breakfast, but it’s good-natured. I slowly relax into Alex’s steady presence beside me. His hand rests on my thigh under the table, a warm weight that anchors me.
It would be so easy to get used to this—waking up in his bed, wearing his clothes, sharing breakfast with our combined group of friends who seem to have accepted whatever this isbetween us without question. So easy to forget all the reasons why we can’t have this.
The peaceful bubble bursts when the video intercom by the front door buzzes loudly.
Alex frowns, checking his watch. “Who the hell is that at nine on a Sunday?”
“Want me to get it?” Ed offers, already pushing back from the table.
Alex nods. “Yeah, thanks.”
Ed disappears into the foyer, and the rest of us resume eating, but Alex keeps shifting beside me, his body on alert, as if sensing a threat.
When Ed returns, his face is pale, shoulders rigid with tension. “It’s your father,” he tells Alex, his voice low and strained. “He’s coming up.”
The room goes silent. Alex’s hand on my thigh tightens. The breakfast I just ate turns to lead in my stomach. Yuri Orlov is here. In the same building. About to be in the same room as his son and the stepson he threatened to destroy.
I stiffen against Alex, ice replacing the warmth that filled me just moments ago. Every mark on my body suddenly feels like evidence of a crime. Every tender spot, a vulnerability that Yuri will somehow sense and exploit.
“Solnyshko,” Alex says quietly, and I realize I’ve stopped breathing. His fingers curl around mine under the table, squeezing gently. “It’s going to be okay.”
But the look in his eyes tells a different story. None of this is okay. And we both know it.
19
Alex
THE DOORBELL’S BUZZ STILL hangs in the air when Ed returns to the kitchen, his face drained of color. The moment he says “your father,” my entire body goes rigid. I don’t need to look at Vincent to feel him tense beside me. Three seconds. That’s how long it takes for the warmth of this morning to drain away, replaced by the cold dread that only Yuri Orlov can inspire. My father doesn’t make social calls on Sunday mornings. He’s here because he knows about Vincent and me. Someone told him, and I already have a pretty good fucking idea who.
“The doorman called up,” Ed explains, shifting uncomfortably. “Said Mr. Orlov insisted on being let up immediately.”
Of course he did. My father doesn’t wait for permission—not from doormen, not from his business associates, and certainly not from his son.
“Shit,” Ronan mutters, looking between Vincent and mewith wide eyes. “Should we, like… hide?”
Any other time, I might laugh at the idea of my friends hiding in closets from my father like we’re teenagers caught drinking. But Ronan’s right to be worried.
“No,” I say, standing up. “It’s probably better if you all leave.”
Kayla hesitates, shooting a concerned glance at Vincent. “Are you sure? We could stay—”
“Trust me,” I interrupt. “You don’t want to be here for this.”
Everyone scrambles to their feet, grabbing phones and whatever belongings they can find. Ed’s already halfway to the guest room to collect his backpack when the elevator dings from the foyer. Too late.
The energy in the penthouse shifts—the air gets heavier, colder, as if a storm front has moved in. I hear footsteps, not just my father’s but at least two others. The bodyguards. He brought fucking bodyguards to confront his own son.
I move to the archway separating the kitchen from the foyer, positioning myself as a barrier between my father and Vincent. Ed, Rina, and Kayla shrink back toward the windows, while Ronan and Mark hover uncertainly by the hallway leading to the bedrooms.
My father enters as if he owns the place—which, technically, he does. He’s impeccable as always in a charcoal suit, not a single silver hair out of place. His eyes sweep the room with cold calculation, taking in every detail.
Two men in dark suits flank him, their expressions blank, eyes hidden behind sunglasses even indoors. They scan the room, hands never straying far from the slight bulges beneath their jackets.
“Sasha,” my father says, his voice smooth and controlled. Hedoesn’t raise it—he never needs to. When Yuri Orlov speaks, people listen. “I see you’ve had quite the gathering.”
“Father,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. “This is unexpected.”
