Ruthless Daddies (Reverse Harem Daddies)

27. Alice

27

ALICE

I sit cross-legged on my bed, the soft glow of my bedside lamp casting a warm light over the room. My notebook is open in front of me, and I’m staring at the page, pen hovering.

I scrawl down a few notes under the heading Elena :

Died in an accident.

Was planning something before she died—evidence from her hidden phone.

Vadim blames the brothers for her death.

Svetlana’s reaction earlier—what does she know?

I tap the pen against my knee, my thoughts shifting to Sergei. He’s always lurking, always watching. Too often, I catch him looking at me with something I can’t quite name—curiosity? Suspicion? Malice? Could he have been involved?

Svetlana and Sergei , I write next.

I pause, biting my lip as I stare at the page. None of it makes sense yet, but the pieces are starting to fit together—or maybe I just want them to. I don’t know if I’m onto something or if I’m grasping at straws.

My phone buzzes beside me, and I glance at the screen. It’s Jenna. For a moment, I consider ignoring it—I’m too distracted to make small talk—but I pick up anyway, needing the grounding voice of someone who knows me. Besides, it’s been too long since I last spoke to her.

“Hey,” I say, leaning back against the headboard.

“Finally!” Jenna exclaims, her voice full of mock exasperation. “I was starting to think you’d fallen off the face of the earth.”

“Not quite,” I say with a small laugh. “Just…busy.”

“Busy with what?” she teases. “Or should I say, who ?”

My cheeks flush. I’ve been careful not to give her too many details about my current situation, but she knows enough to have plenty of questions.

“Jenna,” I warn, but she’s relentless.

“Oh, come on,” she presses. “Don’t act like I don’t know you. You’re still with them, aren’t you? The three gorgeous brothers?”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Yes,” I admit reluctantly.

There’s a brief pause before she bursts into laughter. “Alice Parker,” she says, her tone incredulous. “You’re living every woman’s fantasy. But seriously, are you sleeping with all three of them?”

“Jenna!” I hiss, my voice dropping even though I’m alone in the room.

“Well?” she demands, clearly enjoying herself.

I groan, feeling my face heat. “Yes,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

There’s a long silence on the other end before she speaks again, her tone more serious this time. “Okay, but…what’s the plan here? Like, who are you going to choose?”

“Choose?” I echo, blinking. “I’m not going to choose anyone.”

Jenna sighs, and I can practically hear her shaking her head. “Alice, that’s not realistic. You can’t have all three of them forever. It’s not sustainable.”

I swallow hard, her words hitting me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. “It’s not like I’m planning some big future with them,” I say, though the words sound hollow even to me. “We’re just…figuring things out.”

“Figuring things out,” she repeats, her tone skeptical. “Alice, this arrangement—whatever it is—it’s not normal. Are you their mistress or something? Because that’s what it sounds like.”

I bristle at her words, my grip tightening on the phone. “No,” I say firmly. “I’m not their mistress. It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” she asks softly.

I don’t have an answer. Not one that makes sense, anyway.

“Alice, I love you, and I just want you to be happy. But you have to ask yourself what you really want. Because this…it’s going to get messy.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “I know,” I say quietly.

“Good,” she says, her tone softening. “Just…be careful, okay?”

“I will,” I promise, though I’m not sure how much weight those words carry anymore.

We say our goodbyes, and I set the phone down, staring at the notes in my lap. Jenna’s words echo in my mind, intertwining with my own doubts and fears.

What is this?

And how long can it last before it all falls apart?

The kitchen is silent, save for the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors beneath my bare feet. The clock on the wall reads 2:47 AM, and most of the household is asleep.

Most.

But not me.

I can’t sleep. There’s this craving gnawing at me, something bizarre and specific that I can’t quite ignore. My taste buds are practically demanding something sweet and salty, with a hint of tang. So here I am, standing in the kitchen with an array of ingredients spread out before me—pickles, peanut butter, and a loaf of bread.

I hum softly as I work, spreading a generous layer of peanut butter on one slice of bread, carefully adding thinly sliced pickles on top. It’s not the most elegant creation, but I already know it’s going to hit the spot.

I don’t even have a name for the dish. My stomach growls in anticipation. This is exactly what I need.

I’m so lost in my thoughts—wondering if I should add honey to the concoction—that I don’t hear the sound of footsteps until it’s too late.

“You’re up late,” a low voice says from behind me.

I jump, nearly dropping the jar of pickles. Turning quickly, I find Sergei standing in the doorway, his large frame casting a shadow across the tiled floor.

My heart races, though I force myself to stay calm. “Could say the same about you,” I reply, trying to keep my voice light.

Sergei steps further into the kitchen, his dark eyes scanning the mess of ingredients on the counter. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says simply, though there’s something about the way he’s looking at me—intense and unreadable—that makes my skin crawl.

“Join the club,” I mutter, turning back to my sandwich. I focus on my task, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lingers, his presence heavy and unsettling.

“You’re always full of surprises, Miss Parker,” he says, his tone casual but laced with something I can’t quite place.

I don’t respond, my shoulders tensing as I spread the peanut butter a little more aggressively than necessary.

“What are you making?” he asks, stepping closer.

“Something weird,” I say shortly, keeping my back to him.

There’s a long pause, and I can feel his gaze burning into the back of my neck. My hands tremble slightly as I add the final slice of bread to my sandwich.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around alone at night,” he says finally, his voice softer now.

I glance over my shoulder, forcing a small, tight smile. “I’m in the kitchen, Sergei. I think I’ll survive.”

Before he can respond, another voice cuts through the tension.

“Is that peanut butter and pickles?”

I whip my head around to see Alexei standing in the doorway, his expression amused as he takes in the scene. Sergei steps back slightly, his posture stiffening.

“Late-night snack?” Alexei asks, walking into the kitchen like he owns the place.

“Something like that,” I say, relieved by his presence.

Sergei lingers for a moment longer, his eyes flicking between me and Alexei, before muttering something under his breath and leaving the kitchen.

I exhale slowly, turning back to my sandwich.

“Thank God,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

Alexei chuckles, leaning against the counter. “He has that effect on people. But he’s trustworthy.”

“So everyone keeps telling me,” I say.

Alexei cocks his head. “Sounds like you think the opposite.”

I sigh. “No, it’s not that, it’s just that—” I stop, thinking. What exactly am I going to tell him? That Sergei might have killed Elena? It’s ridiculous. And yet…

I focus on eating my sandwich instead. The mix of flavors is bizarre but oddly satisfying, and I hum in approval.

Alexei watches me with a grin. “You know,” he says, “it’s funny. Morozov women love to eat that kind of thing.”

I duck my head, blushing. Is he implying what I think he is? Alexei is not a fool. He must have noticed. It’s not like we’re trying to be subtle. The kids haven’t caught on yet, though.

But then he says something that makes me freeze.

“Especially when they’re pregnant.”

I freeze mid-chew, the words hitting me like a truck.

Pregnant?

I swallow hard, setting the sandwich down as my mind starts racing. Pregnant? No. That’s not possible. Is it?

Alexei bids me goodnight and leaves, seeming not to notice my discomfort, and I clutch the counter, staring blankly at the half-eaten sandwich in front of me.

It’s been…what? Two and a half months since this started? Maybe a little more?

My stomach flips.

I lean against the counter, gripping the edge so tightly my knuckles turn white. My periods have never been perfectly regular, but they’ve never been this unpredictable either. And now that I think about it, I haven’t had one since…

Oh God.

My chest tightens as realization sets in. The signs have been there—fatigue, mood swings, cravings—but I brushed them off as stress.

Could I really be pregnant?

I press a hand to my stomach, my fingers trembling. There’s no way to know for sure without taking a test, but the timing makes sense. Too much sense.

And if I am…

The thought trails off, replaced by an even heavier one: Who’s the father?

Whose child would it be?

I can’t even begin to imagine how they’ll react. One thing is clear—I need to find out the truth.

And whatever happens after that…I’ll deal with it. Somehow.