Chapter 13
PENELOPE
Five days.
Five long, agonizingly quiet days since Dmitri Volkov had knelt on my doorstep and cracked himself open at my feet, spilling apologies that still rattled through my skull like distant thunder I couldn’t outrun.
The sound of his voice—raw, stripped bare of arrogance—had followed me into sleep and haunted my waking hours, surfacing at the most inconvenient moments.
While brushing my teeth.
While watching Vanya eat breakfast.
While lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering when exactly my life had turned into something so painfully complicated.
That first evening, I’d sat Vanya down at the small dining table, choosing my words with surgical care.
I told him his father was in Greece. Close, but not intrusive. Here, but not demanding.
I watched his face carefully as I spoke—those wide, observant eyes that mirrored Dmitri’s so perfectly it made my chest ache.
He listened without interrupting, legs swinging gently beneath the chair, absorbing everything.
When I finished, he nodded once, solemn and thoughtful in that way children get when they understand more than they’re saying.
“I want to see him,” he said after a pause. “But only when I feel ready.”
I hadn’t argued. Hadn’t pressed. Hadn’t mentioned that Dmitri was literally next door—that a single wall separated father and son, thick enough to hold back years of damage, yet thin enough that I sometimes imagined I could feel his presence through it.
Like a ghost. Like an unresolved wound.
Every morning since, without fail, I’d opened my door to find a single flower resting on the threshold.
Never two. Never anything extravagant.
Sometimes it was a white lily—pure, understated, almost painfully symbolic.
Other days, a red rose, its thorns carefully stripped away as if to say I will not hurt you again.
Beneath it, always a folded letter. No name. No flourish. None needed.
Dmitri’s handwriting was unmistakable, the kind of script that spoke of discipline and restraint even when the words themselves trembled with emotion.
He never showed his face.
He respected the boundary I’d set—probably because he was terrified that one wrong move would have Ruslan’s men escorting him out of Greece before he could blink.
Smart. Cautious. Almost... decent. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I’d begged for this version of him once—quiet, attentive, controlled—and now that he existed, I didn’t know what to do with it.
The letters weren’t pleas anymore. Not really.
They were fragments. Memories of the days before everything shattered.
Regrets written without justification. Apologies offered without demands. Promises to wait. To stay. To accept whatever scraps of presence I allowed him.
I read them in secret, always alone, then folded them carefully and tucked them into the drawer beside my bed.
The stack grew thicker with each passing day, heavy with words I wasn’t ready to forgive but couldn’t bring myself to discard.
They felt like silent accusations—not of what he’d done, but of the fact that some part of me still cared enough to read them at all.
Forgiveness wasn’t a switch. It wasn’t something I could turn on just because he’d found the truth too late or because remorse now came so easily to him.
The scars he’d left behind—emotional, physical, invisible—ran too deep, etched into places even time struggled to reach.
More than once, my finger had hovered over my phone.
I could call Ruslan. I could say the words. He’s bothering me. He won’t leave me alone.
It would be enough. Dmitri would be gone within hours. The limbo would end. The ache would have a clean edge again.
But I never made the call.
Not when Vanya needed his father—even if he didn’t fully understand that need yet.
Not when some traitorous, stubborn part of my heart still cared whether Dmitri lived or died with that guilt gnawing him hollow from the inside.
Today, the sun hung low and golden over the estate, spilling warmth across the sprawling gardens.
The air was heavy with blooming jasmine and the faint salt of the nearby sea, a scent that felt like Greece itself—ancient, patient, watching.
Vanya and I wandered along the winding paths, olive trees stretching their twisted branches overhead, bougainvillea bursting with color on either side.
He’d warmed to me slowly over the weeks.
A hand slipping into mine without thinking. A shy smile when he thought I wasn’t looking. Letting me tuck him in at night instead of the nanny. Small victories. Fragile ones.
But the question still lingered between us, unspoken and heavy: Was I really his mother?
Some days he called me “Penelope,” careful and polite. Other times—usually half-asleep—“Mama” slipped from his lips, soft and unconscious, only to be withdrawn the next morning like it had never happened.
Each time it happened, hope flared painfully in my chest... only to dim again.
It frustrated me more than I liked to admit.
I was beginning to accept the truth I’d been avoiding: convincing him might take more than patience and love. It might require both of us. Dmitri and me. Standing together. United. Offering him certainty instead of fragments.
And that realization terrified me more than any apology ever could.
We paused near a stone fountain, its tiers worn smooth by centuries of water and time.
Moss clung to the edges like stubborn memory, and the sound of trickling water softened the air, steady and soothing.
Vanya slipped from my side and crouched low, utterly absorbed as a ladybug crawled along the edge of a broad green leaf, its red shell gleaming like a tiny jewel in the sun.
That was when I felt it.
The sensation crept up my spine—slow, deliberate. Eyes on us.
Not the casual awareness that came with living inside Ruslan’s estate, where guards were always nearby, always watching. This was different. Heavier. Focused. Charged with emotion. I didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
Dmitri.
From his apartment window overlooking the gardens, he had a clear view of this path. I’d known it from the first day.
Every time Vanya and I walked here, I’d felt that same distant awareness, like a held breath behind glass.
He never appeared. Never crossed the line. Just watched—silent, restrained, almost reverent. Protective in the only way he was allowed to be.
But today, the weight of his stare was different.
Sharper. Rawer. As if something inside him had snapped or tightened too far. It pressed against my back insistently, demanding acknowledgment, demanding to be seen.
I turned.
There he was.
His silhouette filled the window frame, broad shoulders rigid, posture taut with barely leashed control.
One hand was braced flat against the glass, fingers splayed as if he could reach through it if he only tried hard enough.
The late-afternoon sun caught him at an angle, outlining his form in gold and shadow, turning him into something almost unreal—half man, half apparition.
For a fleeting moment, he looked less like the feared Dmitri Volkov and more like a man trapped behind invisible bars.
“Is that him?”
Vanya’s voice was quiet but clear, cutting through the moment like a blade through silk.
I hadn’t realized he’d stood up. Or that he’d followed my gaze.
I looked down at him, my chest tightening painfully. “Yeah,” I said softly. “That’s your dad.”
He studied the window intently, his small face unreadable, eyes thoughtful in a way that felt far too old for his years.
He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Didn’t frown.
Then, to my surprise, he turned away first.
His fingers curled around mine, tugging gently, a silent request to keep moving. I fell into step beside him automatically, my heart thudding hard as confusion and something like awe washed over me.
“You don’t want to see him right now?” I asked carefully, keeping my tone light, nonjudgmental.
“Yeah,” he murmured after a beat. “Not yet.”
I swallowed. “Because... he hurt me in the past?” I asked, echoing the words he’d used once before, when he thought I hadn’t noticed how closely he watched me whenever Dmitri’s name came up.
Vanya nodded, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against a pebble embedded in the path. “He made you cry,” he said simply. “A lot.”
The bluntness of it stole my breath.
Children didn’t dress pain up in pretty words. They didn’t soften truths to make them easier to swallow. They just saw. And remembered.
I squeezed his hand gently. “If you ever change your mind,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice, “and you want to meet him, I’ll take you. Whenever you’re ready. There’s no rush.”
He didn’t look up at me, but his grip tightened slightly. “I like it here,” he said firmly. “With you.”
The words wrapped around my heart, warm and devastating all at once.
I nodded, unable to trust my voice, and we continued down the path together. Behind us, I knew—without looking—that Dmitri was still watching.
Still frozen at the window. Still absorbing every small movement, every step that carried his son farther away from him.
The weight of that gaze followed us like a shadow until the fountain disappeared behind a bend in the garden.
An hour later, the sky had softened into shades of lavender and pale blue, the sun dipping low enough to cool the air.
The breeze carried salt from the sea and rustled through the olive trees.
Vanya’s steps were lighter now, the contented looseness of a child who’d spent the afternoon outside, pockets full of small discoveries.
Then I heard it.
Footsteps—quick, purposeful—crunching over gravel behind us.
I turned just as Edward rounded the curve in the path. The butler’s usual composed elegance was gone, replaced by urgency etched deep into his features.
My stomach dropped before he even opened his mouth.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, already bracing myself.
“Mr. Volkov,” Edward said, slightly out of breath, “he collapsed. He’s been taken to the private clinic.”
The world tilted.