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Maxim pulls a silver tie from the drawer and hands it to me. “Can you do the honors?”
I nod and step forward, taking the tie from his hands. The silk fabric slips through my fingers as I begin to loop it around his neck, standing on my tiptoes to get the length just right.
“What did you learn about me, lastochka?”
“Nothing, really. I did find that cute picture of you as a kid in your sock drawer.”
He freezes, pulling back to look me in the eyes. “That picture… That’s not me.”
"Oh." I focus on finishing the knot, pulling the tie snug. “Well, whoever that kid is, he's adorable.” I smooth down the front of the tie, stepping back to inspect my work.
Maxim's expression is unreadable for a moment, then he clears his throat. “That was my son, Ilya.” His voice is soft, almost lost in the quiet of the room. “He was killed eleven years ago, when he was four years old.”
My knees go weak, and I lean back against the dresser for support. There's a buzzing in my ears, like the distant sound of waves crashing, drowning out everything else.
“You had a son? I'm so sorry, I had no idea." I reach out, placing a hand on his chest, feeling the quickened beat of his heart under my palm. “How did he die?” My heart aches for him, for the loss he must have endured, a loss so profound that he kept it buried away, even from me. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I add.
Maxim holds my gaze. "Not many people know, but it's time I told you the whole story," he says with a voice that carries the weight of unresolved pain.
He leads me into our bedroom, where he sits me on the bed and pulls up a dressing stool so he can sit across from me. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs.
Taking a full breath, he steadies himself. “Irina and I weren’t exactly an arranged marriage, but it was close enough. She came from a family with influence, at a time when I had the money but needed the connections. It was never about love. I didn’t think love matches existed. I thought it was a fairytale people told." He pauses, swallowing visibly, the muscles in his neck tightening. I wonder if his view on love matches has changed. A flicker of hope rises in me, but now isn't the time to delve deeper.
"A few years into our marriage, Irina and I weren't in a good place. I worked constantly, and when I was home, spending time with my son was my priority. She met a man at some point—he was a fling, or at least, that’s what she told me—but she didn't know who he really was.”
The look in his eyes is pure anguish, and I’d do anything to take away his pain.
"The guy was actually part of a rival syndicate. Through Irina, they were able to track my movements, anticipate where I would go. We were at a family Christmas party, one of the few nights we were all together." Maxim stops for a moment, closing his eyes as if to brace himself against an invisible blow. "It was getting late, but Irina and I wanted to stay longer. We sent Ilya home with the nanny." He bows his head. "The car exploded as soon as the engine started. A car bomb meant for me. I-I saw the flames from the window."
My heart pounds against my chest, the gravity of his revelation making it difficult to breathe. My words come out in a broken whisper. "Maxim, I'm so sorry."
He nods—a single, curt movement. "It was my life, my world that put him in danger."
“Is that why you killed Irina?” I ask, pieces of the picture falling into place.
He tilts his head. “Killed her?”
“I don’t blame you at all.”
He shakes his head, a bitter half-smile tracing his lips. "I didn't kill her," he says. "But after what happened, after Ilya ... I couldn't bear the sight of her." He pauses as if the next words cost him. "She's in exile, as far from me as possible."
“Where did she go?" Not that it matters. But curiosity gets the best of me.
After a heavy silence, he replies, "Argentina. I gave her no other choice.” His hands clench and unclench, and I know it cost him something to share this with me. "She lives with the consequences of her actions, as do I.”
I stand, carefully lowering in his lap, pulling him close with an arm around his shoulder. “Were you serious about wanting another child? Like we agreed to before getting married?”
He sighs and traces my jaw with a finger. “I said that to keep you in line. It was something I could hold over you. But the truth is, I lost more than a son that day. I lost a piece of my soul, and I don't have the heart to try again. My relationship with Alyona … It's my second chance at being a father and the only one I'll take—if she can forgive me one day.”
"I see.” I pull away and give myself a moment to process. My voice is even, but inside there’s a rising tide of uncertainty. “I suppose we should have been more careful.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean … with birth control.” For someone adamant about not wanting more children, he could have taken a few more precautions.
“But you’re on the pill.” He smirks. “Don’t think Roman didn’t run to tell me that tidbit of information.”
I swallow. “I’m not on the pill. It took Liza a while to get it for me.” When I see his stricken face, something inside me breaks. “It’s fine,” I reassure him. “I’m expecting my period any day.”
