Chapter 27 #2
I shrug, looking away, cheeks burning. He doesn’t understand. I’m not this open, this honest, or even this shy with anyone else. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I only let myself be difficult with him because… he seems to read me like an open book.
“You’re applying for a transfer, right?” he asks. His voice is gentler now, but there’s something underneath it—an urgency, a quiet demand that makes my chest tighten.
I nod, thinking that maybe that’s enough. But apparently it’s not.
His fingers find my chin, tilting my face back toward his. The touch is firm but careful. His gaze holds mine like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment.
“I need words, Lucas,” he says. “ Not silence, talk to me.”
Something in me folds.
“Yeah,” I whisper, eyes flicking between his. “I’m applying to transfer. To a College. A good one.”
I pause, swallowing the knot in my throat.
“My advisor said my GPA is strong enough now. She called it remarkable, actually. Some of the schools I want are expensive—one of them stupidly expensive.” I let out a shaky breath. “And I’m applying for scholarships. There’s a financial aid program for DHH students, too.”
“You see?” he says, voice calm but firm. “It’s really not that hard to just tell me, Lucas. Instead of letting your thoughts spin into knots and convincing yourself of things that don’t make sense.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Not when it’s something that’ll benefit you.”
My chest tightens at that because he’s right. And I hate that he’s right.
I look away, swallowing down the ache in my throat. But his fingers are already there, curling under my jaw, holding me steady. He doesn’t let me hide.
“Baby, look at me.”
Baby.
Hell, it always makes something in me stutter. He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like I’m his to protect, to care for. And even though he’s said it before, I can never seem to get used to it. I lift my gaze to his.
His eyes are soft but steady, like he’s trying to ground me. Like he won’t let me float away from this moment.
“I don’t want you acting this way with me,” he says quietly, thumb brushing along the edge of my jaw. “I don’t want you to feel ashamed. Or small. Or like you have to hide any part of yourself. Not with me.”
It doesn’t sound like a scolding. It sounds like a promise. A vow. As if he’s trying to teach me something I never really learned —how to be seen and not flinch.
I nod, small and unsure.
But that’s not enough for him.
His brow lifts, eyes never leaving mine. He waits.
“Okay,” I whisper, almost too soft to hear. But he hears it. I know he does, because something flickers in his expression—relief, maybe. Or something quieter, something warmer.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans in and kisses me. It’s gentle, lingering, and soft like he’s sealing a pact between us. Like he’s reminding me that I’m not alone in this anymore.
Then he pulls back, fixes my seatbelt with a careful touch, buckles his own, and starts the car. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it’s grounding. I watch the streets pass by through the window, my fingers still loosely gripping the edge of my bag like it’s a lifeline.
“You hungry?” He asks, one hand on the wheel, his voice casual.
I shake my head.
“No,” I say quietly. I pause, then add, “I’m nervous.”
He glances at me briefly.
“About my mom?”
I nod again. “She asked to see me. Just me. I don’t know what to expect.”
“You’ve already met her,” he reminds me, turning smoothly onto a quieter road. “At the dinner party. She likes you. A lot.”
I glance at him, unsure.
“That was different. That was your whole family.”
“And now it’s just her. Which makes it easier,” he says, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “I just have to warn you that she’ll want to spoil you.”
That makes me laugh under my breath, a little tension leaving my shoulders.
“She knows I can’t talk most times, right?” I ask my voice, unsure, “I mean, I can only talk to you, I’m not sure-”
“She does Krasivy,” he cuts me off gently, “you do not have to worry about that.”
I give him a grateful smile at that, and after a few more minutes, the car pulls into a small private parking area beside a beautiful French-style cafe with outdoor tables.
And then I see her.
Davika.
She’s sitting at one of the outdoor tables, a cup of something delicate in her hand, posture perfect, every inch of her radiant and composed.
Her long dark hair dances in the breeze, and the light catches the gold of her necklace.
She looks exactly how I remembered her—elegant and effortless, sharp-eyed but kind.
My stomach knots.
Alex kills the engine and looks over at me. I meet his eyes, still unsure. He doesn’t say anything, just brushes a strand of hair away from my eyes and gives me a reassuring smile.
“You’ll be fine,” he murmurs.
And for a second, I believe him.
“Alex,” Davika says warmly as we approach, rising from her seat. There’s a man and a woman dressed in suits, standing a few feet away from her, who are undoubtedly her bodyguards. Alex leans in and kisses his mom on the cheek, and for a second, he looks softer than I’ve ever seen him.
Then she turns to me, and that same smile holds.
“Nice to see you again, Lucas,” she says, and before I can respond, she pulls me into a gentle hug. It’s brief. Polite. But something about the way she hugs me—like I matter—makes my chest tighten a little.
She smells expensive, like white florals and a hint of sandalwood.
When she pulls back, she tilts her head just slightly and asks,
“Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat here before we go?”
I shake my head, giving her a pleasant but nervous smile. I feel young again, awkward and small under her attention.
She smiles, as if she’s used to that reaction. Then she turns her gaze to Alex, her expression shifting slightly playful, but with an undertone of something motherly and firm.
“Well, you can leave now,” she says, the way someone might dismiss a chauffeur. It’s clearly a tease, and Alex snorts like he’s used to it, his hands tucked into his pockets as he looks at his mother with something between wariness and fondness.
“I’ll pick him up by five.”
“No need. I’ll drop him off at your penthouse when we’re done.” Davika says firmly.
He gives a soft, almost silent sigh, clearly defeated. His shoulders loosen just a bit as if he knows arguing with her is pointless.
Then he turns to me.
Our eyes meet, and everything around us blurs for a second. The quiet buzz of the café, the faint rustle of wind, and even the stiffness I’d been holding in my spine. It all fades when he looks at me like that—steady, searching, like I’m the only thing in his line of vision.
And just like that, butterflies take flight in my belly. I feel my fingers twitch, wanting to reach for his. Wanting to ask him if he really has to go. But I don’t move. I only give him a small shy smile. Then Davika gently threads her arm through mine, breaking the moment.
“Come, darling,” she says, her voice light but with that same confidence that tells you she’s used to being followed. “We have a whole day ahead.”
I blink and nod, letting her guide me. The male bodyguard moves ahead, pulling open the door to the Car parked at the curb.
I glance back at Alex one more time.
He’s still watching.
And I don’t know why, but it gives me courage. I slide into the plush backseat beside his mother, heart thudding, nerves tingling, but strangely… safe.
***
I thought spending a whole afternoon alone with Davika Petrov would be terrifying. I mean, she’s Alex’s mom.
But walking here beside her in a giant botanical garden, watching her take an exaggerated bite of a chocolate-covered strawberry like it’s a sacred ritual, I realize she’s not what I expected.
“Listen,” she says with a playful glint in her eyes, holding up her strawberry dramatically. “Whoever decided to open a café inside a flower garden and serve chocolate strawberries was either a genius… or heartbreakingly single.”
She pops the strawberry into her mouth like it’s the most luxurious thing she’s ever tasted. “Either way, I’d marry them.”
I let out a chuckle, biting into my strawberry. There’s something calming about walking beside her. Maybe it’s the way she moves, with elegance and quiet confidence, or the way she smiles at the world like she’s already figured it out and decided to love it anyway.
Being with her is nothing like I thought it would be.
I was nervous, but now… I feel peaceful strolling side by side with little paper cups of chocolate strawberries in our hands.
The sweetness of it clings to my mouth, melts slowly on my tongue while the sun filters through the high trees above us.
The garden is massive, like its own quiet world tucked away from everything else.
Petals brush gently against the breeze. Some are so bright they look unreal.
Butterflies flutter between stalks. We pass under archways of blooming vines, soft music playing from a speaker somewhere we can’t see. It smells like fresh leaves and sugar.
“You’ve got that look,” she says suddenly, squinting at me like she’s trying to read my thoughts. “Like you weren’t expecting me to be this delightful, I noticed it since the dinner party.”
I give her a shy nod, and that makes her smile.
She slows beside a bed of vivid, curling petals—bold reds edged in yellow flame—and gestures toward them with the same graceful ease she carries in everything she does.
“That’s the Gloriosa lily,” she says, her voice smooth, almost reverent. “One of Africa’s most breathtaking flowers. It’s a symbol of life’s endless cycles—fertility, rebirth, continuity.”
She turns to look at me then, her gaze softening.