35. Chapter 35

35

Clara

T en minutes later, I’m looking at the way the entire kitchen glows under the noon sun. The air smells of fresh basil and marinara with the faintest undertone of lavender soap.

Elijah swings his legs under the table, barely tall enough to keep his plate steady as he digs into another forkful of spaghetti. His red mustache—watermelon juice this time—stretches wide as he grins at me.

The peacefulness is almost offensive.

I glance at Kayla. She’s wiping the counter, but her gaze keeps flicking to Elijah, lingering just a second too long.

Oh, shit.

I feel this icy chill creep over me, like I just realized I’ve been walking around with my tits out in public.

We need to leave. Soon.

Before EVERYONE connects the dots.

“Mommy, can I have more juice? Pleeease?” His puppy-dog eyes are in full effect, but I see right through him.

“You’ve had two glasses already,” I say, picking up the jug. “Do you think you’ll grow taller if you drink more?”

He gasps, nodding furiously. “Yes! Uncle Bear said it makes you strong like him—’cause he’s a big bear!”

I snort, pouring a small amount into his glass. “Did he now? That explains so much.”

Kayla chuckles softly, her hands steady as she stands at the counter, slicing more fruit with practiced precision. “ Se?or Dmitry is quite the influence on him.”

“Oh, he’s a role model,” I say dryly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Next, he’ll be telling him to skip naps because ‘real men don’t need rest.’”

Elijah giggles, kicking his legs. “Uncle Bear said I can beat anyone if I eat spaghetti every day!”

“Did he?” I raise an eyebrow, leaning closer. “Well, did he also tell you that spaghetti turns little boys into silly noodles?”

“No, it doesn’t!” Elijah protests, laughing so hard that his fork clatters onto the plate.

“REEE-yaaah!”

“REEE-yaaah!”

I jump so hard that the plate in my hand jolts, sending a splash of marinara onto my dress. Right on my left tit.

“For f—uuuudge sake, Pavel!” I hiss, grabbing a napkin to dab at the stain.

The peacock freezes mid-strut, turning his head slowly to level me with the kind of side-eye that belongs to ex-boyfriends who “accidentally” show up at your favorite café. His feathers shimmer as he straightens, his beady eyes practically screaming, “How dare you?”

“Mommy said the F word!” Elijah sings, giggling through a mouthful of pasta. Red sauce now decorates his Burberry pants like an abstract art project.

Great. Hopefully, someone’s stocked more clothes for him.

“No, baby, Mommy said fudge . Fudge starts with F.” I shoot Kayla a sheepish glance as her eyebrow arches slightly. “Because Pavel is being a little sh—” Her brow lifts higher, and I course-correct mid-word. “—show-off.”

Elijah laughs harder, his tiny legs kicking under the table as more sauce makes its way from plate to pants. “Pavel’s silly! Like a dancing chicken!”

“Elijah,” I say, crouching slightly to meet his eye level. My tone is firmer now, though I soften it with a smile. “Sit still, buddy. We don’t kick the table, and we definitely don’t eat pasta like it’s a mud fight, okay?”

His giggles slow, and he blinks at me, tilting his head like he’s deciding whether to listen. “But I’m eating!” he protests, waving his fork in the air like a tiny conductor leading an orchestra of spaghetti.

“Yes, and you can eat without wearing half the plate.” I pluck the fork from his sticky fingers and demonstrate. “See? Scoop, twirl, and—bam—clean bite. Now you try.”

He frowns, grabbing the fork back and mimicking my movements with exaggerated precision. It’s awkward but effective—mostly. A single noodle dangles from his lips like a comedic mustache, but at least it’s progress.

“Good job,” I say, ruffling his curls as he grins proudly. “Now, keep practicing.”

“REEE-yaaah!” Pavel’s piercing call draws all our attention back to the garden. He flicks his tail, clearly feeling himself, and pauses by the fountain to admire his reflection. Then, as if on cue, he starts flexing—stretching his wings out like he’s auditioning for a bird fitness ad.

This is what rock bottom looks like—watching a peacock practice self-love while my revenge plot crumbles.

The silk of my dress twists in my grip. Stephan’s probably at the office right now, running what’s left of our operation, while Dad drowns in his fancy whiskey. What would Stephan say if he knew? That Leonid—the man we’ve been gunning for, the reason he’s been keeping our family’s empire from crumbling—didn’t kill Jake, after all.

I exhale sharply.

Even Mitch confirmed it.

Fourteen years of vendetta. Fourteen years of Stephan picking up Dad’s pieces, training me to take over while Dad talked to Jake’s ghost in his study.

All that hate. All that planning. Wrong target.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

The rhythmic sound of the knife on the cutting board jolts me back to reality, snapping me out of my own mind.

“You’re a good mom, Se?orita Clara ,” Kayla says. She doesn’t look up from her slicing, but the words catch me off guard.

I glance at her, and my laugh comes out too quick, too forced. “Yeah, well… thanks.” I shrug like it’s no big deal.

Kayla glances up. Her eyes catch mine over Elijah’s head—soft, knowing. Like she sees me in a way I’m not used to being seen. And for a moment, I wonder if this is what it feels like—to have a mom. Someone who’ll be in your corner when you’re barely holding it together.

My throat tightens, and I quickly turn my attention to Elijah, trying to wipe his hands as an excuse to keep myself from unraveling.

Because how do you explain to someone that you don’t know how to be nurtured? That you never had a mom who looked at you like that, with pride and affection, like you were enough?

“ Tía Kayla!” Elijah bounces in his chair, his hands sticky from watermelon juice and cheese crumbs. “Pavel’s doing the dancing thing again!”

Kayla, ever composed, approaches with a fresh tray of watermelon slices and a subtle smile. “ Si, peque?o . Perhaps he is lonely.”

“Or overcompensating,” I mutter, picking up Elijah’s discarded fork and placing it back in his hand. The absurdity of it all—this massive estate, the sun-dappled garden, the damn peacocks—isn’t lost on me.

Two mountains of designer suits suddenly fill the kitchen doorway. My brow twitches upward as I glance at them, the corner of my mouth tightening before I can stop it. Dmitry looks like a bodyguard auditioning for a Bond villain role, his pristine Armani suit somehow making him even bigger. Meanwhile, Maksim’s rocking that “tech billionaire at a Met Gala afterparty” vibe—broad shoulders, effortless confidence, and just the right amount of scruff to make him look annoyingly perfect.

“It’s too early for a hostile takeover in the kitchen, isn’t it?” I drawl, dabbing at another splash of marinara on Elijah’s chin. “Or did someone declare war?”

Neither of them answers. Dmitry grunts, already looking unimpressed, while Maksim leans against the doorframe, his smirk as sharp as ever. My eyes flick between them before sliding to the space behind them.

Empty.

My chest tightens, just for a second—a quick, stupid squeeze I shove down before it shows. Of course he’s not here. Why would he be?

Why would I care?

But my fingers tighten on the napkin, twisting it into a mangled knot.

It was just sex. Casual. Nothing.

What did I think—hope?—that he’d suddenly appear? Stupid.

Urgh!

A low chuckle pulls my gaze back. Maksim’s watching me, his smirk curling into something meaner, sharper, like he’s caught me red-handed. My stomach clenches. He doesn’t say a word, just quirks an eyebrow, the unspoken “ Looking for someone?” hanging in the air.

My lips press into a tight line as I force my attention back to Elijah.

“Uncle Bear!” Elijah squeals, pasta forgotten, as he launches himself at Dmitry. The huge Russian catches him with practiced ease, seemingly unbothered by the red sauce now decorating his pristine suit.

“Little warrior!” Dmitry’s voice booms through the kitchen. “Growing strong with spaghetti, yes?”

Kayla sets a fresh bowl of fruit on the counter and picks up her knife, the soft thunk of each slice breaking the quiet.

“ Se?ora, no need for dinner preparations tonight.” Maksim leans against the doorframe, his smirk making my teeth itch. “We have that charity gala at the Astoria.”

Kayla’s knife pauses mid-slice, her chin lifting slightly. “ Sí, se?or .”

My fingers go still on Elijah’s napkin. I catch Maksim’s reflection in the window—he’s watching me, waiting. I don’t ask. I won’t ask.

“Ah, yes,” he continues, his smirk widening as our eyes meet in the glass. “Boss left early. Something about picking up Fiona Blackwood.” He pauses, savoring each word like expensive wine. “That pretty little young blonde.”

Kayla looks up from her chopping, brow furrowed. “No, se?or. I do not know this Miss Blackwood.”

“Oh, Kayla, Kayla.” Maksim’s voice drips with fake sympathy. “You should see her. All legs and designer dresses. And the way she looks at the boss…” He fans himself dramatically. “So passionate. They might not make it to the gala at all.”

“ Se?or Maksim.” Kayla gathers her fruit platter with precise movements. “I do not care for gossip.” She catches my eye as she heads to the fridge, her slight eye-roll making me bite back a smile.

Dmitry mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “idiot” in Russian.

“Come, little warrior. Let’s clean that pasta face, yes?” He turns to Elijah, who’s still wielding his fork like a tiny conductor’s baton.

The napkin shreds between my fingers.

Nice try, Joker. But I don’t play jealous ex-lover in your little theater.

Dmitry picks Elijah up in one smooth motion, muttering something in Russian under his breath. He spares Maksim a quick glance that practically screams, “Are you retarded?”

I stack plates with enough force to make Pavel screech his judgment from the garden. The sound perfectly matches the laugh I’m choking back because, really? This is his play?

Fiona, huh. I don’t care. Not a fuck given.

The plate in my hand wobbles, my grip tightening until my knuckles ache.

Not. One. Fuck.