Chapter 19 Luca
LUCA
I know it’s Anna before she reaches my door. The staff moves differently, quicker and quieter. Her footsteps are slow, hesitant. She stops outside my study. I can hear her breathing on the other side of the wood.
She doesn’t knock immediately. Just stands there. Deciding whether to come in or walk away. I set down the shipping manifest I’ve been staring at for the past twenty minutes without actually reading and wait.
Finally, she knocks. Soft. Almost apologetic.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and she’s there. Barefoot, hair loose and tangled like she’s been running her hands through it. She’s changed out of the dress from dinner into gray sweatpants and an oversized sweater that hangs off one shoulder. Her eyes are red-rimmed. Swollen from crying or exhaustion or both.
She looks wrecked.
“The twins?” I ask.
“Asleep. Finally.” Her voice is hoarse. Raw. “Mila cried herself sick. Had to get her a bowl because I thought she’d throw up. Alexei wouldn’t unlock the bathroom door for an hour. Just sat in there in the dark refusing to come out.”
She walks into the room but doesn’t come close. Just stands near the bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines without really seeing them.
“I kept trying to explain,” she continues.
“Kept trying to find words that would make it make sense to them. But how do you explain to four-year-olds that you’ve been lying to them their entire lives?
That their father isn’t dead, he’s just been living in the same house pretending to be their stepfather? ”
“You tell them the truth.”
“I tried that. Alexei asked me why I lied. I said I was scared. He asked what I was scared of. I couldn’t answer without telling him his father kills people.” She laughs. It’s a broken sound. “So I just sat there. Silent. Useless. Great parenting.”
I lean back in my chair. “They’ll adjust.”
“Will they? Because right now they look at me like I’m a stranger. Like they don’t know who I am anymore.”
“Give them time.”
“How much time? Days? Weeks? Years?” She turns to face me. “When do they stop looking at me like that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Helpful.”
“You want me to lie to you? Tell you everything will be fine by morning?”
“I want you to tell me something other than ‘they’ll adjust’ and ‘give them time.’ I want actual answers.”
“I don’t have answers. This is new territory for both of us.”
She makes a frustrated sound and goes back to staring at the books. Her fingers trace the leather binding of a volume on maritime law. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Maxim called,” she says after a moment. “While I was trying to get Mila to stop crying. He called my phone. I don’t know how he got the number.”
“What did he say?”
“That he was sorry for upsetting the children, but not sorry for what he said to me. That he stands by every word. That I trapped you, and everyone knows it.”
“He’s angry.”
“He’s cruel.”
“He’s scared. There’s a difference.”
She turns to look at me. “Scared of what? Of me? Of two four-year-olds?”
“Of losing his position. Of being replaced. Of watching his father build a new family that doesn’t include him.”
“You kicked him out to defend me. Why?”
The question hangs between us.
“Because what he said was unacceptable,” I say finally.
“You’ve said worse things to me. You’ve threatened to take my children. You’ve called me a liar to my face.”
“In private. Between us. Not in front of the twins at a dinner table where they had to watch their brother question their legitimacy.”
“Half-brother.”
“Brother. And he crossed a line.”
She walks closer. “I didn’t think you’d do that. Kick him out. Choose us over him.”
“I didn’t choose. I enforced boundaries. Maxim disrespected my wife and questioned my children’s legitimacy. That’s not acceptable from anyone. Including my own son.”
“But he’s your heir. Your successor. Everything you’ve built is supposed to go to him.”
“And it will. Eventually. That doesn’t give him the right to insult you.”
“Why do you care if he insults me?”
“Because you’re mine.” The words come out harder than I intend. More possessive.
She goes very still. “I’m yours.”
“Yes.”
“Like property.”
“Like family. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? Because from where I’m standing, it feels the same. You own this house. You own my parents’ company. You own me through this marriage. Now you’re claiming ownership of how people treat me.”
“I’m protecting what’s mine. That’s different from ownership.”
“How?”
I stand and walk around the desk. She doesn’t back away. Just watches me approach with those exhausted blue eyes.
“Ownership is control,” I say. “Protection is choice. I chose to kick Maxim out because what he said was wrong. Not because I own you. Because you’re the mother of my children and you don’t deserve to be disrespected at my dinner table.”
“Even though I lied to you. Even though I kept your children from you for years.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“You don’t have to understand me. You just have to accept that this is how things are now.”
She’s close enough now that I can see the pulse beating in her throat. Fast. Nervous.
“I came here to say thank you,” she says quietly. “For defending me. I know it cost you something with Maxim.”
“It cost him something. Not me.”
“He’s your son.”
“And you’re my wife. The twins are my children. When he insulted you, he insulted all of us. There are consequences for that.”
“You keep saying that. The twins are yours. I’m yours. Like it’s that simple.”
“It is that simple.”
“Nothing about this is simple.”
“Then we make it simple. You’re my wife. They’re my children. We’re a family. Complicated or not.”
She makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be a sob. “A family. We barely speak to each other. The twins don’t trust either of us. Your son hates me. This is the worst family I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s still family.”
“Is it? Because most families don’t have hate-sex in studies and sleep in separate rooms and lie to each other constantly.”
“Most families aren’t built on forced marriage and hidden paternity. We work with what we have.”
She reaches up and touches the side of my face. Her hand is cold. Shaking slightly. “I hate that you defended me tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes everything harder. It makes it harder to hate you. Harder to keep walls up. Harder to remember that you’re the man who forced this marriage and threatened to take my children.”
“Then stop trying so hard.”
“Stop trying to hate you?”
“Stop trying to fight reality. We’re married. We have children. We’re in this whether you like it or not. Fighting it just makes both of us miserable.”
“We’re already miserable.”
“Less miserable, then.”
Her thumb brushes across my jaw. Her eyes are searching my face for something. I don’t know what. “What are we doing?” she whispers.
“Right now?”
“All of this. This marriage. This family. Pretending we can make this work when we both know it’s broken.”
“We’re not pretending. We’re trying.”
“Trying to do what?”
“Figure it out. One day at a time.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“It’s the only plan we have.”
She leans forward and rests her forehead against my chest. I can feel her exhaustion in every line of her body. “I’m so tired,” she says. “I can’t keep fighting like this.”
“Then don’t.”
“Don’t fight you?”
“Don’t fight us. This. Whatever this is becoming.”
She pulls back enough to look up at me. “And what is it becoming?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s honest.”
She stares at me for another moment. Then she kisses me.
It’s different from the other times. Softer. Less driven by anger and more by something else. Need, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or the desperate desire to feel something other than the chaos of the past few hours.
I kiss her back. Pull her closer.
It starts tentatively. Her lips brush mine like she’s testing whether I will push her away. I don’t. I let her lead. My hands settle on her waist, light, giving her room to decide. She presses closer, mouth opening slowly, tongue touching mine in a soft sweep. A small sound escapes her throat.
I kiss her back the same way. Slow. Careful. My fingers slide under the hem of her sweater, finding bare skin. Warm. Soft. She shivers but doesn’t pull back. Instead, she deepens the kiss, hands coming up to frame my face. Her thumbs brush my jaw, trembling slightly.
We stand like that for long minutes. Just kissing. Breathing each other in. No rush. No fight. The study fades until it’s only her mouth on mine, her body pressing closer, her heartbeat thudding against my chest.
She breaks the kiss first. Forehead resting against mine. Breathing unsteady.
Her hands move to my shirt. Fingers work the buttons one by one, and when the last one gives, she pushes the fabric open, palms sliding over my chest. Skin on skin. She traces scars she has touched before in anger. Now her touch is gentle. Learning me without the barrier of hate.
I mirror her, hands under her sweater again.
I lift it inch by inch. She raises her arms. The fabric slips over her head and falls to the floor.
No bra underneath. Just her. Soft curves.
Nipples already peaked in the cool air. I cup one breast, thumb brushing the tip. She gasps quietly. Arches into my hand.
We undress each other without hurry. Her sweatpants slide down her legs. My pants follow. Underwear last. Until we are both bare. Standing in the low lamplight. Vulnerable. Exposed in every way.
I walk backward to the desk. Sit on the edge. Pull her with me. She straddles my lap without hesitation, knees bracketing my hips. Her heat settles against me. Not entering yet. Just pressing. Warm. Wet. She rocks once. Slow. Testing. A soft moan slips from her lips.
My hands settle on her hips. Not gripping. Guiding. Letting her find the rhythm. She leans in, kisses me again. Deeper this time. Tongue stroking mine. Her hands slide into my hair, fingers threading through, holding me close.