Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Papa nods again, slow and deliberate. “And his business is going well?”
My eyes narrow a fraction. “Why are you really asking?”
He looks at me, really looks at me. His eyes soften, yet something unsettling lingers. “Because I worry, that’s all.”
“I’m about to have a baby, and it’s my husband’s business you’re so worried about?” I ask tightly.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Katya,” he says, backtracking. “I was just making conversation.”
“It doesn’t feel like it,” I push. “You’ve said barely ten words to me for nearly seven months. It’s like you’ve forgotten how to talk to me.”
“Katya…” he begins, but I’m too far gone to let him finish.
“I wish Mama were here,” I say, blinking against the burn behind my eyes. “I’m terrified of labor, of raising a child, of making a million mistakes. If she were here, she’d comfort me, tell me it’s going to be okay. Instead, I have an absent father who apparently couldn’t care less about what I’m going through.”
That shuts him up. He stares at his plate, chastened, and I might feel guilty if I weren’t so angry.
“She would have loved seeing you like this,” he says at last, his whole demeanor softening. “You really are glowing, Katya. You’re strong and unshakable, even inside your fear. She was the same way when she carried you, brave, stubborn, always happy to put me in my place.”
A tear escapes and I swipe it away, hating how fragile I feel. Papa stands, circles the table, and stands beside me.
He takes my hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says softly. “For not being more present the past few months.”
He offers no excuse, and I choose to let it go. As Oleg’s second-in-command, he’s always carried heavy responsibilities, but I’d hoped my pregnancy would rank higher than a cursory text every few weeks.
“I miss our talks,” he says after a moment, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “We used to check in every few days.”
“You asked a lot of questions about Isaac’s dealings,” I answer defensively. “And as I’ve told you before, I don’t get involved in Isaac’s business. That’s never been part of our relationship.”
Papa leans back, one brow arched as though I’ve said something outrageous.
“You’re his wife, Katya. You’re carrying his heir. You’re part of his business whether you like it or not.”
“I’m part of the family, yes,” I answer slowly, watching him carefully. “But I made it clear to Isaac that I didn’t want to be involved in his business. I don’t ask questions, and he doesn’t offer answers. We respect that boundary.”
He says nothing at first. His jaw flexes, eyes narrowing just enough to make me question whether I’ve disappointed him again. It’s an expression I know too well. But he recovers quickly, masking it behind a thin smile.
“You always were a stubborn one,” he mutters, taking a slow sip of his wine.
“I just want a different kind of life,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “If I’m not with Evie, I’m in the studio. My focus is on my art, the baby, and our future. His day-to-day dealings aren’t my business any more than my artwork is his.”
He taps a finger against the side of his glass.
“You’re not naïve, Katya. You know your future is directly tied to the business. It affects your finances and the safety of your family. Closing your eyes to it won’t change what you married into.”
“What you forced me to marry into,” I seethe. “And it’s not about closing my eyes. It’s about not letting it consume me. Maybe you don’t remember, because Mama died so long ago, but a husband and wife don’t have to share every single second of each other’s lives.”
His gaze sharpens. “Well, I’m certainly glad that your five minutes of marriage have made you into an expert,” he answers dryly. “I just think you’d be a little more interested in what your husband gets up to. But far be it from me to tell you how you should conduct your marriage.”
I study him, noting how his hands curl into fists and his expression tightens. Is he really angry that I fell in love with the husband he chose for me? Whatever’s wrong with him hovers just below the surface, unreachable. There’s an insurmountable distance between us, and I’m not sure anymore that I want to cross it.
He exhales slowly and sets his wineglass down. “I don’t want to live in that kind of energy,” I say, honest yet firm. “It isn’t healthy for a marriage, and I have enough to worry about with this baby. If that’s not what you envisioned when you sold me to the highest bidder, that’s on you, not me.”
I take a deep breath and steady myself. If Isaac were here, he’d want me to keep my blood pressure down. He’d squeeze my hand and give me a sympathetic smile and remind me to try to make peace.