Chapter 16
Makari
Roxanne sits three chairs down from me, and I can feel the distance she’s trying to keep between us.
The distance that didn’t exist a few days ago.
Her shoulder doesn’t brush mine when she reaches for her pen, and her eyes don’t flick toward me the way they usually do.
She’s performing composure so well it’s nearly insulting.
I know why. So, this shouldn’t bother me. I should be able to shrug it off, play the same game, and either wait for her to come to me again or move on. But she’s like the drug I’d been searching for and never found.
Knowing why she’s avoiding my leveled gaze doesn’t settle me. It leaves me tense and wired.
She told me. Andrea is mine. I have a child, a daughter. It still boggles my mind, and her words haven’t stopped echoing in my skull since she said them.
Every time I blink, I see her face. The hesitation. The fear. The cautious calculation. Like she wasn’t sure if I would break, retaliate, or walk away. The thought that she might have considered it, sours and twists my guts.
I would never.
But how would she know that? What have you shown her to make her feel safe? You just keep fucking her, claiming her, letting her trail after you… why would she trust me with our daughter?
Now she won’t even look at me in this goddamn meeting.
Lauren is talking; she’s been talking for the last ten minutes, but I’ve retained almost nothing. My attention keeps slipping sideways to the way Roxy sits so still, how she writes something down in her notebook without once glancing up, her hand moving slowly, deliberately.
Jesse sits on the other side of the conference table, flipping through a stack of reports with all the subtlety of a man who hates paperwork and would rather be back in the field.
Or rather, the woods. He senses the strain in the room, but Jesse’s never been one to comment on emotional tension he can’t shoot at.
Lauren, on the other hand, is too sharp.
“…so the increase in foot traffic near the Western Corridor,” Lauren continues, tapping a map on the screen, “means we may want to up surveillance there, even if—”
“Fine,” I say. Too sharp. I hear it. They hear it.
Lauren’s eyes flick to me for half a second, surprised, but she recovers quickly. “All right. And the Board would like—”
“Later,” I grunt. “Send me the full report.”
She stops. Nods. Senses me shutting down.
Roxy lifts her eyes to Lauren, then back to her notes, but not once does she look at me. I should be glad. It’s better this way. Cleaner. Professional. So why does it feel like my blood is simmering?
Jesse clears his throat, leaning back in his chair with a groan. “As for operations out near the South Base, we’ve got—”
I wave him on. I’m listening, but only in fragments. I am more interested in the woman three seats down. The one who looks like she’s building a wall one brick at a time. The one who gave me life-changing information, and then walked away like my reaction didn’t matter.
Our daughter. She has wide, inquisitive eyes and my chin; I can see it now. I’m not sure which of us she inherited that from? Once I would’ve said me alone, but Roxanne has grown into a strong, beautiful woman.
The moment Jesse finishes his update, Roxy closes her notebook.
“I need to check on the house,” she says quietly. Polite and controlled. “My things are being delivered today, and Andrea’s are arriving tonight.”
Her voice hits something behind my ribs. Andrea has been back in Cambridge over the weekend, from what I’ve caught in snatches of conversation between Roxanne and my servants.
I straighten. “They can manage without you for another hour.”
She tenses—barely, but I see it. “I’d like to get settled before she gets there. It’s been a long transition for her.”
Her tone has a layer I can’t name. Protective, firm, defensive. The bear in me rears with a growl, and I feel the sneer on my lips—but another, quieter part of myself that I don’t recognize worries about Andrea. That this move might be exhausting or scary for her.
“Roxanne,” I say, letting her name sit heavily in the air, “we’re in the middle of—”
Lauren’s glances between us. Jesse glances down at the table like he wants to disappear.
Roxy looks at me—finally—and her expression is soft but unyielding. “I’d like to go, Makari. I promise I’ll get the meeting notes to you tonight and finish the paperwork from this morning’s shipments. Just from home.”
Something sharp catches in my throat.
I don’t want her to leave. I don’t like when she’s far from me, when I can’t see her. It keeps me up at night.
I don’t want her thinking I’m something she has to shield Andrea from.
But I nod once. “Fine. After lunch.”
Relief moves through her body like she’s been holding her breath. She rises and collects her things. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say. She’s already moving toward the door anyway. “And Roxanne,” I call.
She stops, turns her head a fraction.
“Your daughter…” My voice drops without my permission. “…she likes the ocean?”
Roxy’s eyebrows pinch, surprised, before she nods.
“She loves it. She’ll run into the waves no matter how cold the water is.
Has since she was three.” Her lips curve, the smallest smile.
“She says it’s alive. ‘Breathing.’ She wants to know how everything works.
Always asking questions. How did you know that? ”
I secret her answer away like something precious. “Dima,” I answer evenly, though that’s not true. Andrea told me herself—rambled about seagulls and the tide the last time she was here. Roxy’s smile freezes, and her eyes go far away. She closes me out again.
“Anyway,” she murmurs, “I should go.”
And then she’s gone.
The door clicks shut, and silence swells behind her.
Lauren exhales softly. Jesse scratches the back of his neck. Neither says a word. They don’t have to. The air is thick with what they both witnessed.
I rise slowly, setting my palms on the table to steady myself. My entire world used to feel solid. Structured and predictable, all routes and scheduled drop-offs.
Now it feels like it’s shifting—sliding like loose earth after a storm. I don’t like it. I don’t like how she affects me. I don’t like the way my chest tightened when she talked about Andrea.
And I don’t like the sick, quiet doubt gnawing at me: Does she think I wouldn’t be a good father? That I’d be a threat?
Is that why she hasn’t told me what’s been wedged between us?
The thought turns my stomach in a way no enemy, no betrayal, no bloody uprising ever has.
Lauren clears her throat. “Is everything all right, Mak?”
“No,” I say. Honest and brutal. “Everything is not all right.”
Her eyebrows lift delicately. “Noted.”
I end the meeting without letting anyone else speak. I need distance. Air. Something to ground me. The hallways feel too bright, too narrow as I move down them with clipped, impatient strides.
Back in my office, Dima is leaning against the far wall, scrolling through something on his phone. He glances up as I enter, taking in my expression.
“What now?” he asks. “Someone dead? Someone need to be?”
“No.”
He tilts his head. “You look like someone stole your favorite knife.”
I ignore him and pull out my phone, dialing Lauren directly even though we only just left the meeting. Dima raises an eyebrow as the call connects on speaker.
“Mak?” Lauren answers, mildly breathless as if she wasn’t expecting to hear from me again this soon.
“I need you to arrange a delivery,” I say. My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “Something for the house…Roxanne’s house.” I shake my head, feeling like an idiot as there’s a beat of silence on the other end.
“What kind of something?” Lauren asks carefully.
“Something—” I rub the bridge of my nose, annoyed at myself. “Luxurious. High quality. Appropriate for a housewarming.”
Lauren pauses. “Okay, like a floral arrangement? Champagne? A furniture piece? A—”
“All of it,” I snap.
She blinks audibly. “All of it? Mr. Medvedev, it’s a small cabin. I don’t think—”
“Flowers. Champagne. And something else.” God, why is this so difficult? And then I remember: I know nothing about her, despite how drawn we are to one another. It hurts more than any injury I’ve ever had, any knife or bullet wound, to want to know her. “She should feel welcomed.”
Across the room, Dima is staring at me like I’ve grown antlers.
Lauren’s tone shifts—warms, sharpens with interest. “Mak, this sounds like overkill.”
“It’s not,” I say immediately.
“It is,” Dima mutters under his breath.
I glare at him. He smirks. Lauren clears her throat. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” I breathe in, steadying myself. “Send a full crew to help her unpack. Move furniture. Whatever she needs.”
Another too-long pause. “Mak,” Lauren says carefully, “that’s not a standard employee benefit.”
I clench my jaw. “Do it anyway.”
“As you wish,” she says, amusement creeping in. “And dinner? Should I schedule something?”
I swallow. I don’t want to admit it. I barely admit it to myself. “Yes.”
Lauren inhales sharply, delighted. “From where?”
I grit my teeth. “From that pretentious farm-to-table place you dragged me to last year. With the ridiculous wine pairings.”
“Harbor even if she insists on staying silent and keeping secrets.