Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
LUCAS
Oliver keeps playing freaking candy crush on his tablet, that annoying smirk glued to his face.
The old foldadble chair I'm sitting on might as well be made of bricks with how tense I am. My mother’s beside me, her breathing shallow, eyes narrowed and trained on Oliver like she’s trying to keep herself from lunging at him again.
Her chest rises and falls too fast. She’s scared—but she’s trying not to show it.
We’re not tied up. Not bound. But we might as well be. The two men Oliver brought with him are posted just behind us, tall and unblinking, their silence more threatening than any weapon. I can feel their presence like guns at my back.
One wrong move and it’s over. I know it. We know it.
Oliver lounges on the couch like this is his home, like he’s some king and we’re just in his court, waiting for his sentence. He’s toying with a cigarette lighter in his tattooed hands, clicking it open and closed, flames dancing for split seconds, like sparks teasing gasoline.
“We have been sitting here for the past thirty minutes, and you are still not saying anything,” my mother spits, her voice cutting, edged with fury and fear. “How did you know my son was going to be here?”
Oliver chuckles, slow and deep, as he drops the tablet on the table then pulls out a cigarette and lights it in one smooth motion. He takes a long drag, the ember glowing red before smoke coils out between his lips.
“Been keeping track of him,” he says, and then his eyes slide to me, sharp and amused. “Nice necklace, by the way. Cartier, right? That little Love line— it’s about $6k, maybe more?”
My stomach sinks.
My fingers twitch on my lap, curling tighter. I don’t look down, but I feel the necklace against my skin, the warm weight of it. One of the pieces Alex gave me. I should’ve taken it off. I should’ve known better before coming here. But I didn’t think. Fuck, I didn’t think.
My mother’s eyes shift to me, sharp and questioning. I know she’s looking at the necklace now, too. She hadn’t noticed it before.
“How long have you been watching me?” I ask, signing slowly as I glare at him. My hands feel like they’re trembling. I don’t care if he doesn’t know sign language. I need to know why the hell he’s been keeping track of me. My mother translates it for him.
Oliver grins, blowing another lazy puff of smoke toward the ceiling.
“Long enough,” he says. “Long enough to see where you’ve been sleeping, who you’ve been sleeping with.”
My heart drops. Then his smile twists into something cruel.
“So, you’re Alexander Petrov little toy, huh?”
His words land like a slap.
How the fuck does he know that name?
I can’t mask the panic fast enough. I see it in Oliver’s face—the way he eats it up like candy. He leans back against the cushions, spreading his arms across the top like he’s the goddamn king of this moment. Like he’s got me cornered.
“What?” My mother’s voice breaks through, confused. “Who is Alexander… Pe-tov?” She mispronounces his name, frowning hard. Then she turns to me, eyes narrowing.
“What is he talking about, Lucas?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
I stare at Oliver. My mouth is dry. My mind is spinning. How much does he know? How close has he been watching me? Has he followed me? Watched Alex’s home? What the fuck does he want?
I don’t look at my mother. I can’t stand the idea of her knowing anything about Alex. That world doesn’t belong in this place.
“You know, Lucas,” Oliver says, his voice shifting—no longer mocking, but something far more dangerous: calm. Serious. “When I met you for the first time two years ago… I was impressed.”
His cigarette glows as he takes a slow drag, smoke curling up toward the flickering ceiling light. He watches me like I’m something he’s studying, like I’m a puzzle he already solved, just picking apart the pieces for fun.
“You were just a kid,” he goes on, flicking ash onto the floor without care. “Still raw from whatever hell you’d been through. Trying to crawl your way out of your mother’s mess. When you came to me begging on her behalf, you swore you’d pay three grand a month.”
He pauses, letting the number settle between us like dust.
“I don’t do monthly payments, especially not with crumbs like that.
But something about you…” He tips his head slightly.
“You had this look in your eyes—haunted, broken, desperate. Couldn’t blame you, really.
Shitty mother. Shittier past. And for a moment, I thought, maybe you’d be different. Maybe you’d actually pull through.”
His gaze sharpens. “So I took the deal. I trusted you.”
His smirk returns, slow and ugly.
“And you failed me.”
The words land hard. Like bricks.
“For two years, you were on and off. Some months, payment came through. Some months, nothing. My collectors would show up, and your mother would just shrug and say you didn’t send anything. Over and over. A game of excuses.”
I can feel my hands trembling in my lap. My stomach twists.
“Out of $80k…” He chuckles bitterly. “Only twenty was paid.”
My chest tightens.
I want to scream. I want to grab my mother and shake her. Shout at her for putting me in this mess.
I want to tell him that I’ve been paying.
Every time I got a paycheck, it went first to her, before food, before rent, before anything else.
I’ve worked myself bloody. Picked up extra shifts until my body gave out.
Skipped meals and sleep, falling asleep on textbooks just to wake up two hours later and run to the café.
I’ve spent weekends scrubbing floors, cleaning bathrooms for cash.
I gave up everything—just to pay off her fucking debt.
My gaze shifts to my mother.
She won’t meet my eyes at first. Her head is bowed, her shoulders hunched like the weight of all her shame is finally pressing her into the earth. But then, slowly, she looks up and our eyes meet.
Red-rimmed. Exhausted. Older than I remember. And full of something that makes my chest ache.
Sadness.
It’s not enough to undo everything she’s done. But for a split second, I see the version of her I used to believe in. The woman I cried for when she disappeared. The one I used to think would save me.
She opens her mouth. I know what she’s about to say. She’s going to tell him. Tell Oliver that I’ve been sending the money. That I’ve been paying the price for her choices, for her lies.
Without thinking, my hand shoots out and grabs hers. She flinches, then stares down at where our hands meet. My fingers grip hers tightly. She looks back up at me, confused. But I shake my head once.
Don’t. Don’t say it. Don’t make this worse. Don’t make him turn on you.
She nods—barely. Just once. But it’s enough.
I look away and face Oliver again.
He’s watching us like we’re putting on a play for his amusement. His eyes gleam with something cold and ugly. Then he sighs and crosses one leg over the other, casual, like he doesn’t have a damn care in the world.
“After I came down here personally,” he begins, flicking ash from his cigarette with a smile, “and told your sweet mother I’d blow your head off if payments weren’t made… suddenly, the money started flowing again.”
His grin widens.
“I was grateful. Really. Thought you’d finally grown a pair. But what I didn’t expect—” he leans forward slightly, his tone tightening “was the frequency. Weekly deposits. Five thousand at a time.”
His gaze slides over to my mother.
“You never asked how your son suddenly started making that kind of money?” he says smoothly, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t think it was strange?”
She swallows, but her eyes never leave his. She holds his stare with quiet defiance, even though I can see her trembling.
“You think he would tell me?” she replies, her voice soft but steady. “After the way I treated him?”
Oliver chuckles like she’s told him a joke.
“I admire how self-aware you are,” he says brightly, then turns back to me, wicked amusement flickering in his eyes. “Well… let me tell you how your boy’s been making his money.”
My stomach coils tight. My fingers dig into my jeans, nails biting into denim like it might hold me together.
“You remember when you used to sleep with men for money, Kathryn?” Oliver says, his voice low and grating like gravel dragged across concrete.
“Your son does the same now. The only difference is, he’s fucking upscale.
And dealing with wealthy men. The kind of old money that owns countries in whispers.
Right now, the man he’s bending over for?
He is stupidly rich and his family is one of the wealthiest in this damn country… and in Russia.”
Something snaps inside me.
“I am not sleeping with men for money,” I say—my voice slicing through the room before I even know I’m speaking.
The fury behind it scorches my throat. My heart is pounding so loudly I can barely hear anything else.
My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms, and I don’t care that I’m trembling.
Oliver’s face lights up with something sick and triumphant.
“See? I knew you could talk. Fucking knew it.” He grins widely, eyes glittering with mock delight. “C’mon, Lucas, don’t be shy now. It’s alright. You’re a high-end manwhore, at least you’re getting good money for it.”
“Don’t you dare call my son that,” my mother hisses, surging up from the chair. Her voice cracks, ragged with rage, but she doesn’t get far, one of Oliver’s men grabs her roughly by the arm and shoves her back down into her seat.
“You stand again,” Oliver says, all the amusement bleeding from his voice as it turns ice-cold, “and I’ll tell him to blow your boy’s brain out.”
My stomach tightens.
She’s frozen now, pinned in place. I can see her entire body trembling—not with fear, but fury. The kind of fury that simmers into heartbreak. She turns to me, her eyes wide and wet, searching my face like maybe I’ll give her something to cling to. Her voice is softer this time. Broken.