Chapter Sixteen
Ilona
Biological father?
Osip?
What the actual everloving fuck?
Everything I thought I knew crumbles like dust. The last thing I expected today was to see Osip. The man I ran away from. The man who murdered my father. The man whose child I’m carrying— and he doesn’t even know I’m still pregnant with his baby. The man whose son I’m holding in my arms.
This feels like some twisted romance novel where coincidences pile up until reality becomes absurd. But this is my life, and I’m drowning in the impossibility of it all.
My head reels as I desperately try to piece together this nightmare puzzle. How is this even possible? What are the chances that the baby I’ve been caring for, the child I’ve grown to love, belongs to him ?
Mr. Simpson licks his lips nervously, his gaze bouncing between Osip and me like he’s watching a tennis match. The poor man looks utterly bewildered by the sudden tension. No wonder he’s confused— the tension in this room is strung taut, and it’s obvious he has no idea why.
“By law, I have to take Slava back to Beacon Hill for now,” Simpson says, clearing his throat as he looks at Osip, whose expression grows thunderous.
“He’s my son,” Osip snarls. “He belongs with me!”
“Mr. Sidorov, I understand your concerns, but there is a right way to do this if you want to maintain your custody. Let’s discuss it back at the office.” His eyes shift to me with genuine concern. “Can we give you a lift somewhere?”
Before I can even open my mouth, Osip interrupts me. “She’s coming with us.”
Not a question. Not a request. A statement delivered with the absolute authority of a man who expects compliance. He turns those pale eyes on me, and I feel caught in a trap. The way he looks at me— like he can see straight through every wall I’ve built, every lie I’ve told myself.
And fuck me sideways if I don’t have to clench my thighs together. Heat floods my core, and I’m certain I just destroyed my panties with a flood of wetness.
For fuck’s sake, get it together, girl!
But God, he’s still devastatingly attractive.
His thick dark hair is longer than I remember, falling slightly across his forehead in a way that suggests he hasn’t been keeping up with regular cuts.
The stubble along his jaw is uneven— where he used to maintain a perfectly groomed beard, now it looks like he’s been shaving carelessly, or not at all.
His gray eyes are the same storm clouds I remember, and those sharp masculine features still make my stomach flutter despite everything.
Time hasn’t dulled the dangerous magnetism that radiates from him, and my traitorous body responds like it’s been programmed to want him. The familiar ache builds low in my belly, the same desperate hunger that got me into this mess in the first place.
Stop it.
Just stop it, you idiot!
My pulse hammers against my throat as I drink in the sight of him— the way his expensive suit molds to his powerful frame, the controlled violence in his stance, the promise of rough hands and whispered threats that used to make me come undone.
Even now, pregnant with his child and hating everything he represents, I want him with a ferocity that terrifies me.
I hesitate, my thoughts a chaotic whirlwind of confusion and need. What am I supposed to do? Every instinct screams at me to run, but Slava stirs in my arms, his tiny fist clutching my blouse like I’m his anchor in a storm. He buries his head against my chest, and my heart breaks.
I can’t just hand him over and never see him again. I won’t.
“Alright,” I whisper, the word scraping my throat raw. “Let me get his things, and—”
“He doesn’t need anything from this place,” Osip snaps, glancing around as if we’re standing in the gates of hell itself.
“It’s alright, dear. We’re well-equipped to accommodate infants.” Simpson smiles reassuringly while Osip stalks away, and I follow on shaky legs. The four of us walk to the bottom of the stairs where a black Range Rover sits waiting.
Osip slides behind the wheel, his movements fluid and controlled, while Simpson claims the passenger seat.
I open the rear door and immediately notice the scent— expensive leather mixed with something distinctly masculine that makes my pulse quicken.
Cedar and smoke, Osip’s aftershave still lingering.
“There’s no baby seat,” I say, frowning.
“Good point,” says Simpson. “Legally, I can’t permit—”
“She can hold him,” Osip says, then glances at me. “Buckle yourself in.”
“Mr. Sidorov, I—”
“I said she can hold him,” Osip snarls, his lips curling up in a gesture that looks alarmingly like a wolf baring its teeth. Simpson sinks into his seat as if wishing his could disappear.
I settle into the back seat with Slava, the leather creaking softly under my weight.
The interior is pristine, dark surfaces and chrome accents, no sign of personality.
Cold. The baby’s tiny hand reaches for me instinctively, his fingers wrapping around mine.
I hold him close, memorizing the weight of his small body, the sweet scent of his hair.
The car feels heavy with unspoken words and violent undercurrents. Every breath tastes like tension.
As we drive through the city streets, I’m barely holding back tears.
My emotions threaten to overwhelm me completely.
My mind is a clusterfuck of confusion. I can’t imagine never seeing Slava again, never hearing his babbling attempts to say my name or feeling him fall asleep in my arms. In such a short time, he’s become so important to me— hope and joy and innocence in a world that’s tried to destroy all three.
The most twisted irony? I had no idea he was Osip’s son.
But something about this whole situation feels wrong, like puzzle pieces forced together when they don’t quite fit. If Osip is Slava’s biological father, why was the boy given up for adoption? Where has Osip been all this time? Why wasn’t he in Slava’s life before this tragedy struck?
And why did he want a surrogate when he already had a child?
The questions multiply, each one more disturbing than the last. Then my mind trips over the photograph I found in his room in Budapest— the radiant young woman with her hand resting on her swollen belly. Galina. The woman he said had died.
The realization crashes into me.
Slava is the baby she was carrying in that photo.
Holy shit!
My breath catches as the pieces slam together. Galina must have been Slava’s mother. She died, and somehow Slava ended up in the system. But how? Why? Why didn’t Osip take his own son?
“Everything alright back there?” Simpson’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. He’s twisted in his seat, studying me with professional concern.
I force a smile that feels brittle. “Fine. Just… processing.”
Osip’s eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, and the contact burns. For a heartbeat, something raw and unguarded flickers across his features— vulnerability so brief I might have imagined it. Then his mask slides back into place, and he’s the dangerous stranger again.
“Slava’s lucky to have someone who cares about him,” Simpson continues, oblivious to the tension between the front and back seats. “It’s clear you’re fond of him.”
“He’s special,” I murmur, stroking Slava’s soft hair. The baby makes a contented sound, nuzzling deeper into my arms.
“Clearly runs in the family,” Simpson says with a chuckle, glancing at Osip. “Amazing how genetics work, isn’t it? The resemblance is unmistakable, now that I see the two of you so close together.”
Osip’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Yeah. Amazing.”
The word drips with something dark and bitter. I study his profile— the sharp line of his jaw, the tension radiating from his shoulders. There’s a story here, one written in blood and loss, and I’m only seeing fragments.
“Must be overwhelming,” Simpson continues, apparently determined to fill every silence. “Finding your son after all this time. I imagine there’s quite a bit to figure out.”
“You could say that.” Osip’s voice is granite, offering nothing.
I want to scream at Simpson to shut up, to stop poking at wounds that are clearly still bleeding. But maybe his obliviousness is mercy— it gives me time to collect myself, to prepare for whatever comes next.
Slava shifts in my arms, his fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. The gesture nearly breaks me. This innocent child has no idea his world is about to change again. No idea that the man driving this car is both his salvation and his curse.
“Here we are,” Simpson announces as we pull into a circular driveway. The sign above the entrance reads Beacon Hill Orphanage in uniform letters.
My stomach drops. This is really happening.
Simpson climbs out first, holding the door open for me with smooth courtesy. Osip is already standing beside the car. Every line of his body speaks of violence held in check, but when his eyes land on Slava, something shifts. Softens.
I unbuckle the seatbelt and shift Slava in my arms. He clings to me immediately, his head nestling into my shoulder like he belongs there. The trust in that simple gesture twists something deep in my chest.
“It’s clear he loves you.” Osip’s voice comes from right beside me, closer than I expected. The heat of his body sends shivers racing down my spine, and when I look up, he’s studying me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
I can’t decide if I want to hate him or tear his clothes off. Both emotions war inside me, leaving me breathless and confused.
I can’t meet his gaze. Won’t give him that power over me. Not again.
“He’s just scared,” I whisper, my voice husky. “He doesn’t understand what’s happening.”
“Neither do you.”
It’s not a question. Osip sees too much, knows too much. He always has.
We walk up the stairs together, our footsteps echoing in the crisp air. Slava’s weight in my arms feels heavier with each step, like I’m carrying something precious and fragile. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking him toward another upheaval in his fragile little life.
The modern brick building rises before us, clean lines and large windows. Welcoming in theory, but institutional in reality. Like everything else in this situation.
I don’t know if I can let him go.
The realization shakes me.
Osip stops walking. When I glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but there’s something burning in his eyes. Something that looks almost like understanding.
Does he know what I’m thinking? If he does, what does this mean for us?
As we approach the heavy glass doors, I realize that nothing about this situation is going to be simple.
Nothing ever is, when it comes to Osip Sidorov.