♛Chapter Ten♛
Lola
I hum to myself, dancing on my toes as I prepare breakfast in his kitchen, wearing his shirt. The fabric smells like him—smoke, cedar, and something darker underneath.
I won.
Not only did he not tell me no once, but when he finally snapped? Oh, he took me apart, obsessed over me just like I obsessed over him, and God, it was glorious. I'm on cloud nine, floating, untouchable. That is, until a certain grumpy man storms into the kitchen. He scrubs a hand over his face.
"Jesus. I thought people who commit crimes usually flee before sunrise," he mutters, heading straight for the coffee machine.
I arch a brow, flipping the eggs. "Crime? That's a strong word."
"What else would you call it?"
I roll my eyes. "I don't know, Mikhail. From where I was sitting—" I pause, tapping the spatula against the edge of the pan. "Or should I say kneeling... you didn’t say no once."
"Seems like I need a male victim support group after this, sweetheart."
I scoff, plating the eggs. "Don’t leave out the part where you broke through the ties and fucked me like a goddamn animal."
"Tch." He sinks into the chair at the counter. "You seem awfully pleased with yourself this morning."
"And why wouldn’t I be? I had a great night. You had a great night. For once, you let yourself enjoy something instead of brooding about it like it’s some great sin."
He huffs, stabbing his eggs with a little too much force. "I'm starting to think you're a demon."
"A demon who makes you breakfast, though."
He grumbles something under his breath. "What was that?" I tease, kicking him lightly under the table.
He sighs, long and suffering. "...Thank you."
"See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?"
"You really like testing me, don’t you?"
"More than anything."
He looks at me like he's debating flipping the entire table over. Instead, he stuffs his mouth with toast. "You're going to regret this, Lola."
"Mmm. Doubt it."
I hear knocks outside, and pause mid-bite. Across from me, Mikhail barely reacts, just sips his coffee like the world's slowest-moving storm. Broody. Half-awake. Still shirtless. Another knock, louder this time. I frown. Who the hell…?
"Yours?" Mikhail grumbles.
I wipe my hands on his shirt. "Probably. Lucky me."
I stride toward his front door, unlock it, and slip into the hallway. The second I step out, my stomach sinks. My father is standing at my door. Pounding. Expensive flowers in one hand. That familiar look of disapproval etched into his face. Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I lean against Mikhail’s doorframe, crossing my arms. "Hi, Father."
My father freezes. His eyes trail over me, the bare legs, the oversized shirt, the fact that it is very obviously not mine.
His face turns an alarming shade of red.
His gaze shifts past me. And Mikhail is right behind me.
His coffee in hand, looking like every single one of my father’s worst nightmares.
Father grips the flowers so hard I’m surprised the stems don’t snap. "Lola."
"Father."
"I set you up with the best money can buy, and this is where I find you?" His lip curls. "Some man’s apartment?"
I scoff, rolling my eyes. "I’m twenty-two.
What did you expect? A convent? Besides, don’t you want grandkids?
You’re not getting any younger, no matter what that eighteen-year-old secretary says.
" Behind me, Mikhail chokes on his coffee. I’m not sure if he’s sputtering because I mentioned grandkids or because he just found out I’m ten years younger than him .
Not that he needs to panic—I'm on birth control. Father’s eye twitches.
His mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again.
"At least tell me he’s a boyfriend this time, Lola. "
I hesitate. I don’t want to say yes and have Mikhail throw me under the bus. Technically, we’re not labeled. But we’re… something. The air shifts behind me, Mikhail radiating lethal energy. "I'm the boyfriend."
My breath catches. Father’s brow arches, his gaze flicking between us, assessing. Mikhail extends his hand. "Mikhail Volkov. Nice to meet you. Please, come in."
My father hesitates before grasping his hand. "William Astor."
God, I really owe him one. We head back inside.
Mikhail leans back in his chair with that ever-present scowl, while my father lowers himself stiffly into one of the seats.
He doesn’t touch the food right away. Instead, he folds his hands like he’s at a business meeting he’d rather skip.
Which, knowing him, he probably would. The only reason he’s here is obligation.
He never visits because he wants to. He didn’t even give me the stupid flowers properly, just tossed them on the table like I should be grateful he spared a second from his oh-so-busy schedule.
In his dreams. I drop into the chair beside Mikhail, scooping eggs onto my fork.
“Eat, Father. That way, at least you won’t judge my life choices on an empty stomach. ”
He finally picks up his fork and takes a slow bite. As expected, his attention shifts away from me entirely. His gaze lands on Mikhail. “What do you do?”
Mikhail wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I run a construction company.”
Father barely reacts. “Which one?”
“Volkov Development.”
My father's fork stops halfway to his mouth. His brows lift, his lips part, but he quickly reins himself in. “That’s your company?”
Mikhail nods once.
“That’s an impressive operation. A friend of mine contracted you for a high-rise last year.”
Mikhail shrugs. “We do good work.”
When my father looks at me again, any hint of approval vanishes. His face hardens into the familiar cold mask I grew up with. “And you? How’s your preparation for the exhibition?”
“It’s going well.”
I catch the flicker of curiosity in Mikhail’s eyes, but he doesn’t ask me.
“Good.”
And just like that, the conversation flat lines.
I need a drink. I know my father. I know how his mind works.
Right now, he’s sitting there, mapping out every flaw I have like a mental checklist. A mantra of disorders he thinks I have, the instability he knows exists.
He wants to tell Mikhail. Not to protect him, but to manipulate him. To get something out of it.
He doesn’t think I’m good enough. He’s convinced Mikhail will toss me aside the second he’s done with me.
And that scares him; because Volkov Development is too valuable to lose.
So, he tries to earn Mikhail’s trust the only way he knows how: by tearing me down.
Pointing out my flaws like he’s doing him a favor.
In his mind, he’s the hero. The one saving Mikhail from the unstable woman. From me. What he doesn’t realize is that Mikhail has already seen it all. He’s experienced my obsessive tendencies firsthand. Lived through them. And if I’m not mistaken, he liked them. Really liked them.
So, I give my father the opportunity, because a small part of me wants to see if, for once in my life, someone won’t believe I’m a monster, even if he does. I push back from the table and stretch my arms overhead. “Excuse me. I need to use the bathroom.”
I walk down the hall and plant myself just outside the doorway. And I listen. For a moment, there’s only the sound of silverware. My father exhales slowly. “She’s a beautiful girl, my daughter.”
Mikhail doesn’t answer.
“Charming, too,” my father continues. “I don’t blame you for being drawn to her. Men usually are. But…” A pause. Then, quieter now, careful so I won’t overhear. “You should watch yourself, son.”
“That so?”
“Since she was a child, she’s had… obsessive tendencies. When she wants something, she will stop at nothing to have it.”
“She fixates,” he murmurs. “She latches onto whatever she wants. She consumes, in a way that—” He hesitates. “—in a way that can be... dangerous.”
Still, Mikhail says nothing.
“And she believes in justice. Her own kind of warped version of it.” There’s fear now, creeping into his voice. If he keeps going, I might have to step in.
“Just be careful,” he finally concludes. “Some things are better left alone.”
I expect Mikhail to question him, to ask what the hell he means. But what I don’t expect, what sends my pulse skittering against my ribs, is the low, furious sound that comes from him instead.
“Get the fuck out.”
“Mikhail, I—” My father sputters.
“I said get the fuck out,” Mikhail growls.
“Now hold on—”
“Now.”
“Listen, son, I didn’t mean—”
“I’m not your son,” Mikhail hisses. “And if you ever come here with that kind of bullshit again, you won’t like how I respond.”
I walk back into the kitchen. Mikhail towers over my father, arms crossed, jaw tight. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Mikhail says smoothly, turning toward me. “Your father just remembered he had somewhere to be.”
I narrow my eyes. “That right?”
My father clears his throat. “Yes, I—” He swallows hard. “Something came up.”
Liar. Mikhail doesn’t tell me the real reason because he’s shielding me. It’s sweet.
“Well, aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?” Father grumbles, his thumb already flying across his phone screen, no doubt texting his driver.
I let out a sharp laugh. “Kissing goodbye was never our thing, Father.”
Mikhail smirks. And just to make a point, he grips my waist and kisses me. Hard.