Chapter 21
Roxy
Morning arrives the way it always does at the cottage—slowly, gently, as if the day itself is stretching awake.
Pale sunlight filters through the curtains in long golden strips, painting the floorboards and the quilt at the foot of my bed in soft, dappled warmth.
The river murmurs outside the open window, steady and familiar, a sound that has already braided itself around my sense of home.
I blink into the brightness, momentarily unsure what time it is. My body still feels heavy from last night, a mix of exhaustion and the lingering glow of having someone I love most in the world sleeping under the same roof again.
Then light footsteps eagerly pad across the hallway.
“Mama!” Andi bursts through the crack in the door, her curls wild and her pajamas crooked. “She’s still here!”
I laugh, pushing up onto my elbows. “Grandma?”
Andi nods so vigorously her cowlicks and curls bounce around her cheeks. I see the same curls almost every day in Mak’s hair, though he keeps his short. The thought of him growing it out, that luxurious metal-gray look, makes my fingers itch to run through it.
“I thought maybe it was a dream, but she’s real. She’s in the kitchen making coffee, and she said I could help stir the sugar.”
Her excitement sparks something warm in my chest. These are the moments I’ve wanted for her.
The little joys that don’t depend on anything complicated or painful, just the simplicity of having family who show up.
It makes me even more determined to talk Mom into moving up here, away from Kat’s exhausting orbit.
“Alright, alright,” I say, stretching. “Let me put on a robe.”
But she tugs my hand before I can stand. “Hurry!”
The cottage smells like brewed coffee, toasted bread, and the faint citrus scent from the candle Mom brought as a housewarming gift from Cambridge—along with our favorite pie and a bottle of wine for us to share.
When Andi and I step into the kitchen, my mother is standing at the stove, stirring something in a small pot she found in my cabinets.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” she says, smiling over her shoulder. She looks rested in a way I haven’t seen in years, as if the quiet near the river shook something loose inside her that had been clenched too long.
“Morning,” I say, grabbing two mugs from the counter. “How’d you sleep?”
“Like a stone. Your bed is much too comfortable. I might refuse to leave.”
Andrea laughs as if this is a real possibility, then clambers onto one of the stools and taps a spoon against her cup. Mom kisses the top of her head before returning to the pot.
It’s peaceful. The kind of simple, ordinary morning that slips under my ribs and roots itself there—coffee brewing, birds calling from the pines, sunlight drifting across the table. I stand there absorbing it, letting it smooth over the jagged edges of the last few weeks.
I’m mid-sip when a knock sounds at the door. Not loud, but a little too familiar? My brows crease; I don’t know anyone well enough to have visitors so sure of themselves.
Andi hops off the stool. “I’ll get it!”
“No, baby. I’ll go.”
When I open the door, I’m prepared to see one of Mak’s men, maybe Dima or one of the river-watch guys dropping off paperwork or supplies.
I am not prepared to see Makari Medvedev himself standing there.
He looks… wrong. Not wrong in a worrying way—wrong in the sense that he is wildly out of place here, framed by the soft morning light and the smallness of my porch. Did I somehow summon him just by thinking of his hair? My eyes flick to it, glinting in the morning light.
His shirt is high-end linen, the kind that probably costs more than my monthly mortgage, and the sleeves are rolled to his elbows.
His pants, tailored and dark, are streaked faintly with dirt.
The expensive leather boots he favors are damp around the edges, and there are pine needles stuck to one of them.
His hair is slightly wind-tossed, and he has that alert but unreadable look he wears when he’s pretending nothing in the world can surprise him.
He is also breathing harder than usual.
“Mak,” I say, startled. “Um, Mr. Medvedev. What are you doing here?”
“I walked,” he answers, as if that explains anything at all.
“Walked… here? From where?”
“Home.”
“That’s at least five miles.”
He glances past me as if the distance is insignificant. “It didn’t feel that far.”
I blink at him, utterly thrown. He is a man who owns cars that cost more than houses. He has drivers, helicopters, boats, and an entire network of people whose job is to make sure he doesn’t exert himself unnecessarily. And yet he walked five miles up a riverbank to see me.
“Did something happen?” I ask. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes.” He hesitates, which makes me wonder if he’s choosing his words carefully. “I wanted to check on a few things.”
He doesn’t specify what things. Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it without sounding obvious. The thought that he might have walked simply because he wanted to see me lands with a quiet thud in my chest.
He glances around, taking in the interior of the cottage—the curtains tied back with simple twine, the woven rug I got on clearance, the small couch that dips in the middle, the kitchen where my mother is invisible but audible.
I feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment. Of course, the men he hired to move everything into the cottage saw all this—my threadbare life—but I didn’t think he would.
Instead of judging, he looks almost thoughtful.
“It’s cozy,” he says finally.
I choke on a laugh. “Cozy?”
“Yes.” His gaze drifts to the bookshelf, then to the old ceramic bowl of river stones Andi collected last week. “It suits you.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. Compliments from him are rare. Compliments from him about my home are unheard of.
Before I can figure out what to say, Mom appears behind me, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Oh,” she says, tilting her head as she takes in Makari—his expensive clothes, the dirt and damp from the river, the faint flush on his cheeks. “You must be the one Roxy’s told me about.”
He glances at me, eyes all steel and full of questions. My heart thuds in my chest; what if he thinks she’s talking about someone else? What if he thinks I’m seeing someone? I freeze. “Mom—”
Makari visibly straightens, as if bracing himself. And then it happens—something I never thought I’d see. He looks nervous.
Not afraid. Just… completely out of his depth. Like the ground has shifted beneath him, and he’s scrambling for footing.
“I’m Makari,” he says, voice uncharacteristically formal, slightly accented, as he holds out his hand for hers. When he takes it, he turns her knuckles upward and presses a chaste kiss to them, earning a breathy laugh from her.
Mom smiles warmly, and I watch a man who has stared down armed syndicates and international authorities suddenly look like someone who desperately wants a mother’s approval.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” she says. “Are you hungry? We have coffee.”
“I—no,” he stammers. “Thank you. I can’t stay.”
My mother’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly at his flustered tone. She flicks her gaze toward me, and I know exactly what she’s thinking.
Oh, there’s something here.
Mak clears his throat, reaching into the small messenger bag at his side—another expensive item now smudged with dirt. He pulls out a wrapped parcel tied with baker’s twine.
“I brought Andrea something,” he says, and suddenly he sounds more like himself. “Honey cake. From Zoya.”
I can’t help smiling at the mention of the elderly Russian woman who runs Mak’s kitchens like a lieutenant; she’s feared by most of his soldiers and even Dima knows to stay out of her way. But Andi won her heart over quickly.
He gently presses the parcel into my hands, careful not to brush my fingers, though his attention lingers there for one charged beat.
Then he steps back, the sunlight catching the damp edges of his boots.
“I should go,” he says, searching for some excuse, eyes vacant for a moment. “I was planning a hike.”
I almost laugh. He looks like a man who has never willingly “planned a hike” in his life, but Mom’s presence clearly has him scrambling for an exit.
“You walked five miles,” I remind him quietly.
He shrugs, as if that’s barely worth noting. “Another few won’t matter.”
Before I can reply, he dips his head in a quiet farewell and turns, climbing the path back toward the trees.
The river light catches him as he goes—broad shoulders, steady stride, confidence barely disguising his discomfort.
He looks strangely human like this, peeling away the armor he wears everywhere else.
Mom waits until he disappears around the bend of the trail before she finally speaks.
“Well,” she says, crossing her arms. “That man is very handsome.”
I groan. “Mom.”
“And clearly interested,” she adds.
“He’s my boss.”
“Mhmm.”
“And he’s… complicated.”
She softens. “Roxy. Complicated doesn’t mean impossible.”
I sink onto the couch, honey cake still in my hands. No doubt my daughter will catch its scent any moment, and arrive like a badger to wrestle it from me. “He walked five miles upriver just to bring Andi this.”
“And?” Mom prompts, lowering herself beside me.
“And… I don’t know what to do with that.”
She studies me gently. “Your heart’s been guarded for a long time, sweet girl. Longer than it should’ve had to be.”
My throat tightens.
“And your sister hasn’t helped,” she continues, her tone becoming thoughtful. “I know you think Katherine’s always been cold because she’s disciplined or practical. But that’s not it.”
I look over. “What do you mean?”
Mom places a hand on my knee. “She’s jealous of you, Roxy. She always has been.”
I blink. “Jealous? Of me?” How? Kat is the one who has always had her shit together. She married rich, early, and got Mom into a secure and safe home after Dad died.
“Yes. Because you’re warm. And expressive. And you feel things with your complete self. She’s always been afraid to do that. Her marriage… well.”
She trails off, but I know enough to fill in the blanks—David’s indifference, the awkward silences at holidays, the way Kat seems brittle instead of content. Always ready to snap at someone.
“It’s loveless,” Mom says softly. “Your father and I had something real. She saw that, of course, just like you did, but she’s never found that. She envies you for having the kind of heart capable of it.”
I exhale slowly, the weight of her words settling over me. I’ve never really thought of it before, mostly because Kat is always coming at me, but it must be lonely. Living without love.
Through the doorway, I can see Andi curled in the armchair, the flicker of morning light catching her eyelashes as she dozes with a half-eaten pancake on her plate.
She really shouldn’t have actual cake so early in the morning.
Standing, I walk into the living room and pull her into my lap, and she nestles instinctively against my chest, warm and soft and safe.
Mom follows quietly, watching with a small smile. “It matters who you choose,” she whispers, leaning in the doorway. “A life is long when you choose wrong. And short and beautiful when you choose right.”
I look toward the window again, toward the trail where Mak disappeared. The thought of him stirs something I don’t want to admit—a strange mixture of fear and curiosity, skepticism and longing.
A man like Makari Medvedev, who has blood on his hands and an empire built on shadows, could never offer anything like the love my parents had.
Right?
The question lingers as the river flows outside, steady and unhurried.
Right.
…except the certainty I’m trying to force behind the word won’t settle. Not when the image of him in damp boots, expensive shirt, wide-eyed and awkward in front of my mother keeps rising in my mind like sunlight through water.