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“Okay. That’s fine.”
“I’ll call him back and tell him.”
I nod even though she can’t see me.
When I do finally hear her footsteps retreat, I drop my head into my hands.
In the end, it is the love between a mother and child that will endure forever.
Your brother is the reason you’re stuck in this life.
I lift my head.
I swear, if there’s ever a day I’m forced to make a choice, I won’t choose Jonas or Pavel.
I’ll choose my child.
And I hope I’ll never have to make that choice.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Pavel
To love her means to come to terms with the possibility of losing her.
I stare into the Hudson, water sloshing the sides of the yacht as I lean against the railing. The murky depths below reflect me, a mere speck, on its rippling surface, mirroring my thoughts. They’re all a haze. The mid-afternoon sun can’t penetrate the darkness blanketing my mind.
And you have to fight like hell to make sure that doesn’t happen.
Liya sits behind me at the table. I’m aware of her presence, her aura brimming with life despite her silence. She’s decked out in that adorable sun hat with sunglasses and a white summer dress, bare legs propped up on the edge of the table like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
The way she tilts her face to the sky reminds me of the things she told me the other night while we recuperated—languid and breathless—on the living room floor.
She wants to help people. She wants to live a normal life. She doesn’t want to look over her shoulder anymore.
My heart sinks.
Shecouldhave those things. The moment she gives me a child, she could go her own way. Maybe the timing of her giving birth would line up with the beginning of her first school year. There’s no doubt she’ll nail that interview. She’s too smart.
I grin fondly.My little fox.
The thought of taking her child from her burns me. It’s an image I don’t want in my head. It’s a feeling I don’t want to experience.
And more than that, I don’t wantherto experience it.
“Are you lost again?”
Her voice slices right through the fog of my thoughts. I force a smile that surely isn’t as convincing as it feels. But I can’t read her expression with her sunglasses on. She stands a few inches from me with her hands in the pockets of her dress. Her bare toes point slightly as she tries to match my height.
She’s cute when she acts like this—relaxed, playful, a little mischievous.
“The seamstress was alarmed when you asked her to sew in those pockets,” I point out. I’m not distracting her. But I am distractingmyself. “Thought her brain was going to short circuit or something.”
“What’s the use of a dress like this if I can’t have pockets? It’s cuter this way.”
I roll my eyes. “‘Cute’ doesn’t serve a function.”
“Then why the heck do you keep me around?”
