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I shake my head, glancing at her with a forced smile. “I’m okay, thank you.”
Just my chest feeling like it’s about to cave in. No big deal.
“Ilona,” she calls out, glancing at the wall behind us. “Bring in some water, please.”
His father finally breaks his silence to ask, “Rough night?”
Again, there’s no hint of sympathy. If anything, I think I sense a quiet taunt in his words.
My stomach sinks, and I have to fight every instinct I have not to get up and run away from this horribly uncomfortable sensation.
Silvan’s mom puts a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder and leans in to whisper, “Be nice.”
His gaze finally breaks away from mine. That’s the only reason I look up to see him glance over at her, his lips tugging up ever so slightly. “I’m always nice.”
She smiles and leans in to kiss him. “That’s not true at all,” she teases.
An older blond woman in a traditional maid’s uniform comes in with a pitcher of water and distracts me from Silvan’s dad for a moment. She goes to their side of the table first and fills water goblets for his dad, then his mom. Then she comes over to our side of the table, but she reaches past me to fill Silvan’s glass before she fills mine.
“Thank you, Ilona,” his mom says. “We’re ready for breakfast now.” Her gaze flickers to me. “You don’t have any food allergies, do you, dear?”
I shake my head, but her asking me a question brings Silvan’s dad’s gaze back to me, so I keep my head down to avoid looking at him.
When Ilona comes back, she has another younger woman with her. Ilona puts plates down in front of Silvan’s parents, and the younger one brings plates to Silvan and me. When she puts his plate down, he says, “Thank you, Olena.”
The maid blushes prettily and shoots him eyes like the girls at the party did.
I forgot how women reacted to Silvan. I usually have him all to myself.
My attention drifts to my plate when the aroma hits my nostrils. Breakfast is Belgian waffles with fresh fruit and scrambled eggs that look so fluffy, my mouth starts to water.
I didn’t realize how hungry I was, but my stomach rumbles at the sight and smell of all this delicious food. I grab the gleaming fork and butter knife from my place setting and start cutting my waffles.
I’m so famished, I practically inhale my food. When I drag the last bit of waffle around the plate to soak up the juices and pop it into my mouth, I’m remorseful about eating it so fast. Now it’s gone, and everyone else is still eating.
Well, this is awkward.
Silvan’s father notices my empty plate, but doesn’t remark on it. He takes a long sip of his coffee, then puts the mug down with a dull thud. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand moves and seems to settle on his wife’s thigh under the table. As if signaled, she drops her fork and reaches for the silver carafe on the table. It’s between them, as easily accessed by him as it would be her, but he waits for her to fill his cup.
I search her face for some sign of displeasure or annoyance, however minute, but nothing registers. In a house with at least two servants and him being entirely able-bodied himself, she seems genuinely content to serve him.
Maybe she is.
Despite the sense that he keeps some level of control over her at all times, she has a friendly, approachable air about her, like she genuinely wants to make things nice for her husband. There’s no resentment, no sense that they’re used to or desensitized to each other even though they must have been together for a long time since they have a grown son.
They still gaze at each other with such warmth. His dark eyes dance when he watches her put the pitcher back down. He still enjoys watching her.
I wonder if Silvan would still look atmelike that in twenty years?
My tummy jumps when the thought passes through my mind. It’s the way he looks at me now. I thought that must always fade, but his parents seem to have found a way to keep the spark alive.
Maybe that’s why Silvan is so confident when he says crazy things about marrying me like we’ll spend our whole lives together. Marriage must not seem daunting when you have parents who still adore each other after decades together.
When she sits back down, I’m curious enough to finally summon the nerve to speak. Keeping my gaze trained on his mom like a horse wearing blinders, I ask, “What is it you do? I don’t think Silvan has mentioned it.”
She cocks her head curiously like my question doesn’t compute.
“For work,” I clarify.
