Chapter 19
OLIVIA
The Antonia’s deck burns bright. Really bright.
Too bright? It’s the sort of bright that you just can’t quite trust. A devil’s brightness, a Hollywood producer’s brightness.
Picture-perfect orchids and candlelight licking at the teak flooring and the most perfect hint of a breeze, calibrated so the flames flicker and the flowers bob and all of it is a dream that’s just too good to be true.
A strong woman would know to turn her back on this.
I’m not that woman.
Stefan stands near the railing, his back to me. The suit fits him like it was painted on—charcoal grey, shirt white as snow. His hands rest on the rail, and even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders.
“Nice setup,” I say. “Been reading party planning magazines in your spare time?”
He turns, and blech, damn him for looking that good. The candlelight catches his eyes—that ice blue with its strange brown shard—and his jaw unclenches, the hard line of his mouth easing as his gaze finds mine.
“You wore the dress.”
“You sent it to my room,” I remind him. “Along with enough diamonds to fund a small country. Kinda felt like more of a request than a question.”
“They look better on you than in the box.”
I despise the warmth that spreads through my chest at the simple, stupid compliment. What would a strong woman do? Let’s try doing that.
I square my shoulders toward him. “Flattery won’t make me forget why we’re here, Stefan.”
“I wasn’t trying to make you forget.” He moves closer, and the scent of cologne and ocean brine is enough to make me almost moan. “Would you like some champagne? Non-alcoholic, of course.”
“Pass, thanks. Not really in a celebratory sort of mood.”
“Suit yourself.” He half-turns away from me, almost like a dismissal, though I could swear he’s doing it to hide a smile. “Dinner’s ready if you’re hungry.”
“You mean the dinner your chef prepared while you supervised?”
“You cooked?”
“Don’t look so shocked. I’m Russian. We’re genetically programmed to make borscht.”
“Please tell me you didn’t make borscht.”
Now, he does smile, just a little. “This is supposed to be enjoyable, not torturous. I made Beef Wellington with roasted vegetables. Though if you want borscht, I can probably manage that, too.”
“You made Beef Wellington. By yourself.”
“YouTube is very educational.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. The image of Stefan Safonov, Bratva boss and billionaire, following along with a YouTube cooking tutorial is too absurd. I add a frilly pink apron that says Smooch the Chef in my mind’s eye and giggle again.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just... you continue to surprise me.”
“Good surprises or bad ones?”
“Jury’s still out.”
He gestures to the table set for two, complete with more candles and a centerpiece of—what else?—white orchids. “Shall we?”
I let him pull out my chair because fighting him on chivalry seems pointless, and honestly, it’s the rock bottom least he could do. The food smells incredible, and my stomach growls loud enough that we both hear it.
“When did you last eat?” he asks as he starts serving me a portion that could feed three people.
“Breakfast, I think? It’s been a weird day.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of a lot of things. You’re definitely one of them, though.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The Wellington is perfect—tender beef, flaky pastry, just the right amount of seasoning. Either Stefan is lying about making this himself, YouTube chefs have really gotten good lately, or he’s been holding out on me.
“This is really delicious,” I admit.
“You sound surprised.”
“Did you not figure that out when I doubted you the first time?”
He chuckles and dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “I know what you think I am. The kind of man, the kind of… tyrant. But sometimes, it’s nice to do things yourself. To know you created something instead of just taking it.”
There’s plenty we could unpack behind those words, much of it relevant to the dumpster fire we’ve found ourselves in, but I’m not ready to dig into it. Not yet.
Because despite everything—the lies, the basement mystery, his criminal empire—I’m enjoying this. Stefan keeps stealing glances at me like he can’t quite believe I’m here and it’s sending a strange sort of thrill racing down the length of my spine.
“Tell me something,” I say, spearing a piece of asparagus. “When you were planning this whole yacht-dinner-seduction thing, did you consider that I might say no?”
“Every minute since I sent the dress.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“Hope is a dangerous thing for men like me.” He takes a sip of his champagne—the real stuff, I notice. Wonder if he needs it to calm his nerves. Surely not, right? “But try as I might, I’m full of it lately.”
The Wellington disappears bite by bite. Stefan drains his glass, refills it, drains it again.
Meanwhile, we keep dancing around everything that matters.
He tells me about the first time he tried to cook for himself at boarding school and nearly burned down the dormitory kitchen.
I tell him about the time I accidentally mixed up two patient files and almost inseminated the wrong woman before Camille caught my mistake.
We laugh. We drink. The candles burn lower.
And neither of us says a damn word about Mikayla in the basement or his mother or the fact that I’m carrying his child while he plots to steal my clinic.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
“This is nice.” I set down my fork. “Really nice. But it’s not why we’re here.”
Stefan goes still across from me.
“I appreciate the dinner and the lights and the ocean and all,” I continue, “but this isn’t a date, Stefan. You promised that you would answer my questions honestly.”
“You haven’t asked me a question yet.”
“Touché.” I twist the napkin in my lap. “I guess I’ve enjoyed this night more than I should have. Between being lied to and kidnapped, I’ve been worn thin. It was nice to have some fun.”
“Having a serious conversation doesn’t mean we can’t still have fun.” He leans back in his chair, studying me in that way that makes me feel naked even when I’m fully clothed. “Let’s make this interesting. Let’s play a game of truth and dare.”
“Are you serious? Are we twelve years old and at sleepaway camp?”
“If twelve-year-olds can do it, it should be easy.” He tops off his champagne. “Unless you’re scared…?”
I know what he’s doing, but I take the bait anyway. “I’m not scared of you.”
“Prove it.”
I should say no. This is exactly the kind of manipulation I swore I wouldn’t fall for. But the alternative is sitting here in awkward silence or launching into an interrogation that will ruin whatever fragile peace we’ve found.
“Fine. But we need a rule so you can’t avoid the truth by just picking dare every time.”
“Agreed. You can’t pick either truth or dare more than three times in a row.”
“Deal.”
Stefan gestures at me. “Ladies first.”
I start easy. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
He blinks. “That’s your question?”
“I’m warming up. Answer it.”
“Green. Like the ocean right before a storm.” He doesn’t hesitate before asking, “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
“What’s the real reason you became a fertility doctor?”
There are two ways to go here. I could give him the polished answer I give at fundraisers—about helping families and the miracle of life in all its messy, glorious beauty. But that’s not what he’s asking for.
He wants to know the real thing. The one that sets my skin on fire, that’s there when I wake up and when I go to sleep. He wants to know what’s pushed me, what’s preserved me. He wants to know. Not the pretty version—the authentic one.
“I wanted to create something perfect,” I whisper.
“Something I could control from start to finish. My whole life, I watched my mother save lives in the operating room, and I wanted that power. But I also wanted... I wanted to give people the families I never really had. I wanted to know that I was bringing someone into the world who was chosen from the start.”
A sudden puff of breeze snuffs out a candle at my elbow. As the thin trickle of smoke floats up between us, Stefan watches me.
He doesn’t move or say anything, just watches. The ocean laps at the boat, and Stefan watches.
I hold my breath, feeling painfully exposed, and Stefan watches.
I’ve never said that out loud before. Never admitted that my entire career is built on the foundation of my own childhood damage.
Every embryo I’ve helped create, every family I’ve helped build, is me trying to retroactively fix what was broken in my own origin story.
Like reshaping the future can reshape the past.
Finally, he shifts, and the terrible silence comes to an end. “Truth or dare?” he whispers.
“Truth.”
“Do you regret meeting me?”
“Sometimes,” I admit. I hold his gaze. “Other times, I think meeting you was inevitable. Like the universe was just waiting for the right moment to fuck up my life.”
He laughs. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Yes. But not for the reasons you think.” I take a breath. “My turn. Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
Here goes nothing. “How did you kill your mother and uncle?”
The air between us goes electric. Stefan’s jaw tightens, and I’m sure he’s going to refuse to answer. Then he speaks, his voice flat and cold.