Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Elena
"Move," I ordered, nudging him aside with my shoulder. "I'll do it."
He didn't argue. He stepped back—but he didn't leave the kitchen.
He leaned against the counter, arms folded, and watched me.
I felt his stare like heat at the nape of my neck.
I forced myself to focus on the motions—cracking eggs, whisking batter, tending the pan—habits I'd done a thousand times; under his gaze, even the simplest tasks felt off.
"You've always been this good at taking care of people?" he asked suddenly, his voice low and still husky from sleep.
My hand hesitated for a beat, then kept pouring batter into the pan. "I'm just making breakfast," I said, flattening my tone on purpose.
"Five years ago, you'd make me Russian pancakes on weekends," he said, as if remembering. "You always drizzled honey and brewed black tea."
His words cut through me like a blade. I remembered those lazy mornings—him wrapping his arms around me from behind, chin resting on my shoulder while I cooked.
"That was a long time ago," I said, flipping the pancake without looking at him.
"For me, it was yesterday."
I shut my eyes and inhaled, refusing to follow that dangerous thread. Igor wasn't giving up the connection between us, but I'd spent five years burying the past. I wasn't going to let him pull me back so easily.
The pan hissed. The pancake's edge began to smoke. I killed the heat and slid it onto a plate. "Go get Stella for breakfast," I said, keeping my back to him, keeping my voice steady. "The pancakes are getting cold."
A few seconds of silence, then his heavy, slow footsteps left the kitchen.
I braced my palms on the counter and closed my eyes, forcing my breath to slow. This was dangerous. His presence, his words, the memories he'd dug up—everything was gnawing at the defenses I'd spent five years building. Worse, I could feel those defenses softening, bit by bit.
Breakfast was strangely quiet. Stella poked at her pancake from her little chair and kept sneaking looks at Igor. He ate with that effortless, composed manner, as if sitting there were the most natural thing in the world.
"Mommy makes the best pancakes!" Stella announced, sweet as sugar.
"Yes," Igor agreed, eyes on me. "Your mom has real talent."
Heat rose to my cheeks, and I looked down at my plate.
After breakfast, I began clearing the table, getting ready to take Stella to kindergarten. Igor stood. "I'll take her," he said, flat and unquestionable.
"No—"
"Listen to me, Elena," he cut in. "I'll take her, then I'll drive you to your studio."
I opened my mouth to argue, but when I saw Stella's excited face, I sighed and let it go. "Fine."
Half an hour later, we dropped Stella off. She ran in, bounced, turned, and waved at us like we were a normal pair of parents. My chest tightened with that familiar, ugly knot.
"Go to your studio now," Igor said, already opening my car door.
He walked into the studio as if it were his right. Anna, my assistant, froze when she saw him—nearly dropping the fabric she held.
Igor's phone buzzed. He glanced at it and frowned. "I have to take a call," he said, moving to the corner.
Anna leaned over at once, whispering, "Elena, who is he? God, he gives me chills. I couldn't even get a word out."
I rubbed my forehead and said softly, "An old friend."
Anna's eyes flicked toward me, then she smiled, a little slyly. "The mystery guy who sent you flowers—was that him?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Turns out it was."
She patted my arm. "Well, at least he's someone you know. That's something you can relax about."
I returned her smile, but she didn't know Igor was a devil in a nice suit. He wasn't someone you relaxed around.
I forced myself to work, burying my attention in sketches and swatches while he sat on the sofa like a hawk, eyes never leaving me. Then Anna brought bad news. "Elena, Milan emailed again."
"About what?"
"They rejected our new designs. Again. They're threatening to cut ties. You know how picky they are—if we lose them, it will do real damage to the clothing line's reputation."
My head started to throb. Milan had been our first big clothes client, but he was impossible. I'd reworked designs until I could draw them in my sleep, and still they'd say no.
"Let me see their feedback," I said, tired.
I buried myself in the drawings for hours. My eyes blurred, colors bled together. I rubbed my temples, trying to push the pressure down.
"Take a break."
Igor's voice behind me made me jump—I hadn't noticed him move. "I'm working," I said without looking up.
"You've been staring at that page for fifteen minutes and nothing's changing," he said. "This isn't working, it's torturing you."
He was right. I had gone round in circles. "I need to fix this," I insisted.
"I can help," he offered, reaching for his phone.
"No." The word snapped out. "Not now. I want to try on my own."
He didn't press. He went back to the sofa, but I felt him watching every line I drew.
The day passed in revisions until evening finally offered a small mercy. "Time to pick up Stella," I said, gathering the scattered sketches.
Igor rose, grabbed his coat. He was coming with me.
We picked Stella up and returned to the apartment. She chattered all the way about kindergarten, and I laughed at the funny parts; Igor asked questions like he belonged. The moment we walked in the door, the bell rang.
Igor opened it. One of his men stood there with a large suitcase. "Boss, your stuff," the man said respectfully.
Igor took the bag and set it by the entryway. Stella grabbed my hand and tugged me into the living room. "Let's build the castle!" she squealed.
She ran to her room, returned with a box of blocks, and we sat on the carpet to build. Igor joined us, watching, his expression unreadable. When the castle was halfway up, I rose to pick up a pair of tiny shoes in the hallway and knocked the suitcase.
It toppled. Clothes spilled out.
I crouched to gather them, and my hand froze. There, between men's shirts and a jacket, lay a champagne-silk nightgown I had thought lost. My fingers trembled as I picked it up. Beneath it were my underwear.
Heat slammed into my face. I swung around to find Igor standing behind me.
"Igor," I said, my voice shaking—part shock, part shame. "You stole my clothes? You sick bastard!"
He walked toward me, eyes fixed on the nightgown. No shame, no embarrassment. His look flared hotter. "Put it down," he said low. "They're mine now."
"Why would you steal what I wore?" I demanded, cheeks burning.
He closed the distance until I had to tilt my chin up to see him. "You know why," he said, and his voice carried a dangerous honesty. "When I was following you, I used it to jerk off, then came on your pictures."
Air left my lungs so quickly my chest ached.
Shame and exposure slammed into me. If some stranger had done this, I'd have been disgusted and furious, ready to call the police.
But it was Igor. With him, it wasn't only revulsion—there was a complicated, dangerous heat that had nothing to do with legality.
"You..." I tried to speak, but the words stuck.
"I thought about you under me," he continued, voice dropping darker, "smelled you on the fabric so I could come faster."
He stepped closer, his heat pressing toward me.
"Elena," he said my name low, folding it into the room in a way that made my knees go soft, "tell me—these past five years, have you ever lain awake thinking of me and touched yourself to the thought of me?"
I opened my mouth to deny. To lie.
"Mom!" Stella's voice cut through the moment like a blade.
I spun away as if burnt. Stella stood on the carpet, clutching her teddy. "Mom, the castle fell," she said, small and upset.
"I'll be right there," I said, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "Mommy's going to take a quick bath and then we'll rebuild, okay?"
"Okay!" she cheered and sat back down.
I couldn't look at Igor. I snatched up the nightgown and panties and nearly ran to the bathroom. I slammed the door and leaned against it, trying to slow my breathing. In the mirror, my face was flushed, my eyes bright with something I didn't want to admit.
Damn Igor.
Because he was right. In those long nights over the past five years, I'd thought about him—about the way he'd been on top of me, his hands and mouth, how he'd left me wrecked. I had tried to bury it, but the memories were there.
And now he stood on the other side of the bathroom door with those memories in his pockets and a kind of dangerous pull I couldn't seem to fight.
I turned the faucet and splashed cold water on my face, trying to wake up. But I knew—no matter how hard I tried—I couldn't pretend the entryway hadn't happened. I couldn't unhear what he'd said. I couldn't pretend the sick, complicated mix of shame and something else hadn't stirred in me.