Chapter 12
Sergei
"Papa, why does Izzy smell different than Mama?"
I freeze mid-flip, pancake batter dripping onto the stovetop. Mila's perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging as she studies me. Behind me, I hear Izzy choke on her coffee.
"Different how, ptichka?" I keep my voice neutral, scraping the ruined pancake into the trash.
"Like flowers and vanilla." Mila tilts her head. "Mama smells like... cold."
Out of the mouths of babes.
"That's called perfume," Izzy says, recovering faster than I expected. She moves to stand beside me at the stove, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine. The contact is brief, but I feel it. "Your mama probably wears something different."
"I like yours better." Mila's declaration is matter-of-fact, no hidden agenda. "It's warmer."
Izzy's cheeks flush pink, and I watch the color spread down her neck.
"Thank you, sweetheart," Izzy says, and I notice she doesn't stumble over the endearment. Natural, like she's been calling Mila that for years, instead of hours.
I pour fresh batter, focusing on the griddle instead of the way my fake wife fits into this kitchen like she belongs here. Like this—morning light streaming through windows, Mila's laughter, vanilla perfume mixing with coffee—could be real, if I let myself believe it.
"Can we go to the park today?" Mila asks, already moving on with the mercurial attention span of eight-year-olds. "The one with the big swings?"
I glance at Izzy, catching the shadow that crosses her face.
"Different park," I say firmly. "Prospect Park. They have a carousel."
"And ice cream?" Mila's grin is pure manipulation, and she knows it.
"Maybe." I flip the pancake onto her plate, perfectly golden. "If you eat your breakfast first."
She attacks the pancakes with the enthusiasm of someone who hasn't inherited her mother's neurotic food issues. Izzy watches her with a softness in her eyes that makes my jaw tighten.
This isn't real. She's here for her inheritance. I'm here to keep Mila.
Prospect Park is crowded with weekend families. Kids shrieking on the playground, couples sprawled on blankets, the smell of grilled meat from the vendors near the lake. Normal. Safe. The kind of Saturday I've been trying to build for Mila since the divorce.
She bolts for the swings, and I follow at a measured pace, one hand instinctively checking for the Glock tucked against my spine. Old habits. Izzy walks beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush with each step, and I'm cataloguing every point of contact without meaning to.
"She's watching me," Izzy murmurs. "Mila. She's been watching me all morning, like she's trying to figure out if I'm real."
"She's smart. Takes after me." I catch Mila on the swing, giving her a push that sends her soaring. Her laughter cuts through the park noise, pure and unguarded. "She knows something's different, but she can't name it yet."
"Should I be worried?"
"About an eight-year-old?" I glance down at her, catching the genuine concern in her expression. "She's testing you. Seeing if you'll stay, or if you're another temporary thing in her father's life."
Izzy's quiet for a beat. "What should I do?"
"Show up." I push Mila again, timing it perfectly. "That's all she wants. Consistency. Someone who doesn't disappear."
"I can do that."
"Can you?" The words come out harsh. "This arrangement has an expiration date, Isabelle. Eventually, she'll have to learn you're leaving."
"Higher, Papa!" Mila's demand saves her from answering.
We spend two hours at the park. Mila drags Izzy to the carousel, insisting she ride the purple horse beside her pink one.
I watch from the sidelines, leaning against a fence post, cataloguing every moment: Izzy's genuine smile as the carousel spins.
The way she holds Mila's hand when they dismount.
How naturally she tucks a loose strand of hair behind my daughter's ear.
She's good at this. Too good.
"Ice cream now?" Mila appears in front of me, breathless and flushed. Izzy trails behind, equally flushed, and I notice the way her silk blouse clings to her curves, damp with exertion.
"Deal's a deal." I straighten, already scanning the vendor area. "But you share with Izzy."
"Why?" Mila's face scrunches in confusion.
"Because sharing is—"
"Because I'm going to steal half of it anyway," Izzy interrupts, grinning. "Might as well make it official."
Mila considers this, then nods solemnly. "Okay, but I pick the flavor."
They walk ahead toward the ice cream cart, Mila's hand somehow finding Izzy's, and tension knots in my chest watching them. Two dark-haired figures, one small and one graceful, moving through the crowd, like they've done this a hundred times before.
This is dangerous.
Not the Bratva. Not Matthew Ashford or Elena's custody threats. This. The way my daughter looks at Izzy with hope. The way Izzy looks back with tenderness she's not faking.
When they return, Mila's got chocolate smeared across her face, and Izzy's laughing, licking vanilla off her thumb. The sight makes heat coil low in my gut, and I force myself to look away before I do something stupid, like kiss her in front of my daughter.
Bedtime arrives too fast. Mila's had her bath, changed into pajamas covered in stars, and she's bouncing on her bed when I bring her the stack of books she insists on reading every night.
"Can Izzy read them?" she asks, and I see the test for what it is.
"If Izzy wants to." I look at my wife, standing in the doorway, like she's not sure she's allowed to enter.
"I'd love to." Izzy moves to sit on the edge of Mila's bed, and my daughter immediately curls into her side, like she's always been there.
I settle into the chair by the window, watching them. Izzy's voice is soft as she reads about dragons and princesses, doing different voices for each character that make Mila giggle. My daughter's suspicious edge has melted entirely, replaced by the open trust of a child who's decided you're safe.
By the third book, Mila's eyes are drooping. By the fourth, she's asleep, head pillowed on Izzy's shoulder.
Izzy looks up, meeting my gaze across the dimly lit room.
I stand, moving to carefully extract Mila from Izzy's lap. She doesn't wake, just mumbles incoherently and burrows deeper into her pillow as I tuck the blankets around her. I press a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo.
"Goodnight, ptichka," I whisper.
Izzy's already at the door when I turn. She's watching me with eyes that see too much, and her hand finds mine as we step into the hallway. Her fingers thread through mine, the touch grounding.
We don't speak as we head downstairs. In the living room, I light the candle on the mantel, the same vanilla and bergamot scent that Isabelle said was her father's favorite. The flame catches, small and defiant.
Richard Davenport's lighter sits beside it, gold and scorched. Izzy's left it out like a talisman, a reminder of what we're fighting for.
I stare at the flickering flame and think about how easily this could all burn down. Mila's trust. Izzy's safety. The fragile thing building between us that feels too real to be fake.
"Thank you," Izzy says softly. She's standing beside me now. "For today. For letting me in."
"You're good with her. She likes you."
"I like her, too." She turns to face me fully, and the candlelight paints gold across her features. "She's easy to love."
The words hang between us. Easy to love. She's talking about Mila, but the way she's looking at me makes my hands tighten.
"Don't," I say quietly.
"Don't what?"
"Get attached." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "To her. To this."
"Too late." She steps closer, eliminating the space between us. "I'm already attached. To both of you."
Ice floods my veins. Not the cold of danger but the cold of fear, the kind that comes from having something precious and knowing you'll lose it.
"This isn't real, Isabelle."
"Feels pretty real to me." Her hand finds my chest, palm pressing against my heartbeat. "Feels real when she calls me by name. When you look at me like you did at breakfast. When we pretend we're a family and it doesn't feel like pretending anymore."
I capture her wrist, but don't pull her hand away. "You're here for your inheritance."
"I was." Her blue eyes hold mine, unwavering. "Now I'm here because I want to be."
The candle flickers. Shadows dance across the walls. And I stand there holding my fake wife's wrist while my daughter sleeps upstairs, and everything I've built threatens to crumble because I'm falling for the wrong woman at the worst possible time.
"You should go to bed," I tell her, releasing her wrist.
"Come with me."
"Isabelle—"
"Just to sleep." She steps back, breaking the moment. "Like last night. Two broken people trying not to have nightmares."
I should say no. Should maintain distance, keep this professional, remember this arrangement has an expiration date.
Instead, I follow her upstairs.
We lie in the darkness again, her back pressed against my chest, my arm around her waist. Her breathing evens out slowly, and I feel the moment she falls asleep, her body going soft and trusting against mine.
I stay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about temporary things that feel permanent.
About being easy to love.
About how I'm going to survive when this ends.