Chapter Eight
Inna Grace
I desperately wanted to hit Cole for disrupting my sleep. I had just gotten some sleep after an entire night of turning, twisting, and arguing with my own thoughts. It was all because of one dangerously good-looking psychopath whose voice made a home in my head.
The worst was that he knew where we lived. That part sat in my chest and stayed there. I kept waiting to hear a knock at the door all night until sleep came in fragments. By the time I actually drifted off, it was past six in the morning.
Cole gave me an hour. One generous, gracious hour before he decided that was enough rest for a lifetime.
“I swear to God, Cole,” I muttered into my pillow, my voice still rough at the edges. “If you don’t stop, I will throw you out the window.”
I yanked the blanket over my head and gripped it with both hands.
“Then you’d go straight to jail,” he said, still pulling at me. “And the police officer would be my witness.”
“Oh, really.” I peeled the blanket back just enough to look at him. “Because I would gladly take that jail cell if it comes with five minutes of silence away from you.” I pulled the blanket back over my face. “Go eat cereal. You are nine years old, remember?”
“Should I offer them cereal too?”
That made me pause. I pulled the blanket down and squinted at him. “Offer to who?”
He stepped off the bed. “The police officer,” he said. “And the guy in the black suit. Didn’t I mention we have visitors at the door?”
I shot upright so fast that the room tilted. The blanket slid off and pooled around my waist as my heart dropped somewhere near my stomach.
“What do you mean?”
Cole didn’t have to say anything else. I moved toward the door, stepping on the books he had scattered across the floor as if he were building an obstacle course. My mind was already ahead of me, running through every possibility I didn’t want to land on.
I stopped at the door for a second.
Please don’t be him.
After that quick prayer, I unlocked the door and pulled it open just enough to see through. Relief came first. It wasn’t him.
Two men stood in the hallway, both unfamiliar and wrong in a way I couldn’t put into words.
One wore a police uniform, and the other was in a black suit so neat it looked like it had never met a wrinkle in its life.
They weren’t lost because they looked like men who knew exactly which door they were standing in front of and why.
I tugged my shorts down and smoothed my tee, aware of how I must have looked to them.
“Hi,” I said, pulling my voice into something that resembled normal. “Can I help you?”
“Good morning, Miss.”
The one in the suit spoke. He was tall, built like his body had an actual purpose, and composed in a way that felt practiced rather than natural. He looked dangerous, if I were being honest with myself.
“My name is Ivan,” he continued. “I represent Mr. Konstantinov. This is Officer Igor.”
Apparently, my life had decided that one disaster at a time was a slow pace.
I swallowed, the sound embarrassingly loud in my own ears. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You represent who?” I let the word sit there for a second. “And what exactly does ‘represent’ mean at seven in the morning at my front door?”
My eyes moved between the two of them, trying to figure out which of them was the bigger problem.
“I’m a lawyer,” he said.
My heart dropped.
Of course, that man sent a lawyer. Why would he show up himself when he could send someone neat, composed, and carrying a briefcase to rearrange my morning on his behalf?
“May I come in,” the lawyer added, “or would you prefer we speak out here?”
“Here,” I said, faster than I intended. “Here is perfectly fine.”
“Alright. I’ll be brief.”
He opened the briefcase and pulled out a file. “My client was made aware of the existence of a child you have publicly presented as his son.”
My throat went completely dry.
This had gone way past intimidation or threats whispered in the dark. This had a structure, a process, witnesses, and authority.
“Sir, look—”
He raised one finger without even glancing up at me. “Please. You’ll have time to speak.”
And just like that, I shut up. God, I hated this.
“My client intends to assume parental responsibility formally.” He maintained the same tone as if he were reading out a grocery list, “as well as spousal obligations.”
“He’s not the father.”
It came out sharp, as if saying fast enough would end whatever this was and land somewhere that mattered.
The lawyer nodded. “That is noted.”
He flipped a page, eyes scanning the document. “However, you have represented him as such. Under that representation, he has standing.”
I stared at him. Standing? All because of a lie I told in a moment of sheer desperation to a man who had no business being in my life.
“This is insane,” I said, and I meant every syllable. “Look, I lied, and I told him so. I even apologized for it.” I pointed to myself, then gestured back toward the apartment. “He is not his son. He is my brother.”
The lawyer studied my face in silence as though waiting for the first crack to show. But I didn’t give him one.
“The court will require the appearance of the child’s parents,” he declared, “if they are alive. If not, a death certificate will suffice.”
My fingers curled into a fist. “My parents aren’t dead.”
“I’m aware.”
Clearly, that man had handed him everything. Coldness moved through my chest and settled there. He wasn’t bluffing. He came to this door, already knowing what he wanted.
“Absent guardians complicate custody matters,” the lawyer continued. “The court does not favor ambiguity.”
“DNA,” I said, cutting in before he could build any more of whatever this was. “We can do a DNA test.”
For the first time, he smiled. It was a fake one that bothered me. “That won’t be necessary.”
He reached into the briefcase again and pulled out another folder. He opened it just enough for me to see the charts, graphs, and official stamps.
My vision blurred for a second as I tried to make sense of what I was looking at. He already had the results that pointed to him as the father. That made no sense.
My eyes caught the name printed across the top of the document.
Dmitri Konstantinov.
The first name landed almost ordinarily. The last name was something else. It settled into the air with a weight. A name that didn’t belong in casual conversation, small rooms, or the mouth of someone who didn’t already know what it carried.
The kind of name that came with consequences.
What did I just walk into? Was this even real? Did he fake the results?
“What the hell is this?” I whispered, my voice barely holding its shape as I looked back at the lawyer.
“Probability of paternity is ninety—”
“That’s impossible.” My words cut across his sentence before he could finish it. “This is insane. That doesn’t even make sense.”
My thoughts scrambled over each other. Nothing came. I kept staring at the page, and the page stared back.
“You’re welcome to challenge it in court.” He closed the folder like he hadn’t just dropped a grenade into my doorway. “But my client prefers discretion. He said you’re aware of what you’re supposed to do.”
“I want to see him,” I blurted. “We can talk and sort this out. There has to be a way to fix this without—” I stopped, because I didn’t even know how to finish that sentence anymore.
He smiled again. I was starting to hate that smile with a specific kind of energy.
“He expected that,” he said. “The car is waiting outside. Bring his son.”
The lie I told had grown teeth. And it was already biting.
When we got into the car and the driver pulled off, I spent the entire ride convincing myself we were heading somewhere quiet. A place with no witnesses and no one who would think twice about two people disappearing into it.
Instead, the car slowed in front of a building that rose above everything around it. It was all glass and clean-edged, throwing the city back at itself like a mirror that decided it owned the moment. It looked not only expensive but like a place where serious business happened.
DK Holdings was engraved in an attention-seeking way on the building.
If he worked here, even at the lowest level, power didn’t always come with a title. Sometimes it just came with proximity to the right rooms. And Dmitri did not strike me as a man who had ever stood at the bottom of anything in his life.
The driver turned in his seat. “You’ll be escorted to the boss’s office at reception.”
Boss?
I let that word settle in my chest. Without a word, I took Cole’s hand and stepped out of the car. I glanced around, expecting to see the lawyer and the officer, but whatever role they played ended before this part.
“Nice,” Cole said, tilting his head all the way back to follow the glass stretching up into the sky. “Do you think the people who clean those windows are supermen?”
I stared down at Cole in disbelief and the specific exhaustion that came from knowing him too well. Of all the things to land, were window cleaners? I didn’t even have the energy to answer. I tightened my grip on his hand and guided him toward the entrance.
People moved in and out of the building with efficiency. They had confidence that came from belonging to a world that ran on purpose and never had to raise its voice.
Then there was me, wearing jeans, a t-shirt advertising Coca-Cola loudly enough to count as a sponsorship deal. My backpack hung off one shoulder. Not the version carrying books or the random debris of a normal day. This one carried every dollar I had left. I adjusted the strap and kept walking.
The doors slid open as we reached them, and the cool air inside wrapped around us.
I walked straight to the reception desk.
The woman behind it looked exactly like someone who had earned her position in a building like this.
Her hair was in a high bun, with no strand out of place, and her makeup was applied with intention.
“Hi, good morning. How can I help you today?” She had a practiced smile that would work on everyone.