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With that, Stassi dismissed the servant with a wave of her thin, delicate hand, her focus shifting back to her own meal.
For a moment, Alex hesitated, his mind flooded with images of a dilapidated kitchen, and a woman who persistently spoke in French. He comprehended every syllable, but never spoke a word of it. To this day, there’s no room on his lips for the language of love—a deep denial of any significant connection beyond a mere passing familiarity.
Stassi would always present the scarce ingredients she had managed to scrounge up, a mix of stolen goods and resourceful finds. With deftness, she would prepare a simple yet satisfying meal, and insist he eat.
Then, in a twist that both bewildered and hurt him, she’d find whatever it was he treasured—be it a book or some trinket he’d taken a liking to, and toss it into the fire without an ounce of remorse. “This will harden you,” she would proclaim, her eyes ablaze with determination.
Harden him, it did.
With a mix of reluctance and loathing, he took a spoonful of the soup, the flavors igniting a rush of emotions and nostalgia. Surprisingly, it was good.
For the duration, they ate in silence, until he’d had enough. “What do you want,Anastasia?” Granted, he gave her name the French enunciation. It was, after all, her name.
Her eyes grew dark and soulless. “You always call me that when you’re mad at me,” she said, pouting. “I want to meet her, Alex. Your wife. They said she’s with child.”
Her conversation set him on edge. It wasn’t like the place had cable TV or internet. “Who told you? Who’s they?” He gestured around the room. “And how is it you are here, in a mansion. When we last spoke—”
“You mean when you abandoned me.” Her words were cutting. The Stassi he knew and despised was bubbling to the surface.
He ignored her statement. “You were penniless. Why are you here?”
A playful glint formed in her eyes. “Because of Alexander, of course.”
And there it was. A confession. Verification that AJ was indeed hers.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe you named him Alexander.”
“What’s wrong with Alexander?” she asked.
He deadpanned.Why do I waste my breath?
She swirled the cabernet, nearly until it sloshed over the sides. “Alexander is a great name.”
“Oh, here we go.” He took a sip of the bourbon, pretty sure it was safe.
“Yourname is Alexander.”
“I know,” he growls angrily.
She poured more wine, though she hadn’t yet sipped. “And your great grandfather’s was named Alexander.”
“Ah.” That would be great grandad Alexander. As in Alexander the Third. Also known as Emperor of Russia, King of Congress Poland, and Grand Duke of Finland.
Great. Just fucking great.He pressed his temple.At least, her delusions haven’t changed.
Tapping the table, he returned the conversation sharply back to the matter at hand. “Where’s he been all this time?”
“Boarding school.”
“Boarding school,” he repeated. “A mansion…boarding school…staff…How?”
She leaned closer. “He’s valuable, Alex. More valuable than diamonds or gold. Like you, Alex, he’s priceless.”
Her words twisted in his gut. “I get it. He’s a pawn, is that it? For you to toy with? To get close to me?”
“What?” She stared, confused. “Pawn?”
He tossed the napkin to the table. He’d heard everything he needed to hear. “I’m leaving.”
