3. Guess whos coming to motherfucking dinner? – Sasha
CHAPTER THREE
guess who's coming to motherfucking dinner?
SASHA
“Co myslí? tím, ?e máme hosty na ve?e?i? Nikdo sem nikdy nechodí.”
The words leave my mouth sharp and fast as I lean against the kitchen island, watching my mother move around the penthouse like she’s preparing for the fucking royal family instead of dinner.
She takes her apron off, revealing a beautiful pink dress to match her flawless makeup, and a pair of bubblegum pink heels.
“Sa?enko.” She sighs, that soft accent curling around the word as she glances at me over her shoulder. “Be nice when they arrive.” She glides towards me, palm reaching up to cup my cheek gently. Her blue eyes glisten, pleading with me. “They’re already on the way up.”
Her phone rests against her ear for another second before she pulls it away and places it back on the marble counter carefully then goes right back to stirring the pot on the stove.
She turns briefly to the chef cutting garnishes on an adjacent countertop. “Savanna please, make sure everything is garnished before the servers bring them out, and don't let the reduction burn.” My mother smiles warmly.
Savanna nods, with a smile that is all teeth. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Savanna.” She embraces our chef as if she were family, she might as well be. Savanna has worked for us for a long time. Though you couldn’t tell by just looking at her, the spritely woman is a Michelin star at the age of twenty-nine.
They’ve cooked until the entire penthouse smells like garlic, rosemary, and fresh bread—a simple warmth that spreads through the apartment from the moment you arrive.
My mother could make even the coldest places feel alive, and her glow resonated in everything and everyone around her.
Golden light spills across the massive kitchen, reflecting against windows overlooking the city below. Music hums softly from the speakers while steam curls from simmering sauce on the stove.
But today, it makes me uneasy.
I fold my arms over my chest. “You’re avoiding the question.”
“No,” she says lightly, smiling to herself as she grabs the wooden spoon again. “I am choosing not to answer it.”
“That’s avoiding it,” I scoff.
“Sasha.” Her tone sharpens just enough to be a warning before softening again almost instantly. “Please.”
There are very few people on this earth capable of calming me down. My mother is one of them, mostly because disappointing her feels worse than violence ever could.
Still, suspicion crawls beneath my skin as I watch her move around the kitchen. She’s nervous. Trying not to show it, but nervous enough that she’s checked the table settings in the other room three times in the last ten minutes.
She reaches for a basket of fresh bread before nodding toward the counter. “Take the salad into the dining room for me.”
I grab the large wooden bowl reluctantly and follow her through to the dining room.
The whole scene looks ridiculous. Candles already lit, crystal glasses catching the light while plates are perfectly arranged like a goddamn magazine spread.
I narrow my eyes immediately. “Mama…”
She places the bread down carefully in the center of the table. “Hm?”
“Who’s coming?”
“A friend.” She smiles, eyes never meeting mine.
I bark out a dry laugh. “Since when do you make a full spread for friends?”
She ignores me completely, adjusting one of the napkins instead. And all my suspicions turn into irritation. Fast.
“Mama.” I huff out an exasperated sigh.
Finally, she looks up at me, sea blue eyes soft but firm, sweeping soft blonde curls over her shoulder. “You are going to behave.”
That answer tells me everything and absolutely nothing at the same time—whoever is coming is important, but she’s hiding something.
I set the salad bowl onto the table harder than necessary. “You’re scaring me now.”
“Oh please,” she mutters with a wave of her hand. “You should have been scared after you wrecked your motorcycle last month, and yet…” She trails off, with a giggle.
“Funny.” I smirk despite myself, swinging my arm over her shoulder and tugging her into a hug. “Very funny, pip squeak.”
“I know.” She laughs softly, while taking a final inventory of her spread. “I’m a riot.”
Ding.
The private elevator opens somewhere behind us. And my mother’s entire face changes.
Softens. Brightens.
I turn slowly toward the sound, already feeling something ugly coil low in my stomach before I even see who stepped through the doors.
I don’t move at first, simply observing. I’m not sure if it’s shock that wont make my feet move or if it’s the fact that my mother is blushing as if she were a besotted schoolgirl.
Vahan Arakelian.
The moment he steps into the penthouse, it's as if he owns every molecule of air within it. His tailored charcoal suit hugs broad shoulders, jet-black oxfords gleaming beneath the chandelier’s glow.
He stands perfectly still for a heartbeat—so controlled, so practiced—that you almost forget the danger beneath the polished veneer.
Just behind him, his son, Raffiel, follows.
He enters with a slower deliberation, surveying the room as if he were a trained bodyguard. Tall, broad-chested, every hair on his head perfectly in place. An earth angel if you’ve ever seen one up close, as if he belonged in the pages of a magazine in the best Tom Ford suit.
He carries himself with an infuriating ease of a man who believes he belongs in every space he occupies. And the class valedictorian, on track to graduate summa cum laude, always fits in everywhere he goes. It’s infuriatingly disgusting.
How do I know all of this you might ask?
They always say keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer. And well, I like to keep mine within shooting range.
You see, Mr. Perfect and I go to Vanderbilt University together. Not by accident, but by my design.
My mother’s lips curve into a smile the instant she sees him, almost as if she’s been waiting years for this moment. Anger coils in my chest.
“Come in, please,” she says, her voice warm and soft as spun honey. “Dinner will be ready soon.”
Vahan inclines his head politely with rehearsed charm. “Thank you for having us,” he says, his voice low and smooth.
Raffiel mirrors his father’s formality, bowing his head slightly, but can’t keep his gaze still.
His eyes flick across the room, drinking in the cream-colored walls, and the plush emerald settee in the opposite hall.
Soon after, they briefly land on me, just long enough to mark my presence.
Which is just long enough to annoy the shit out of me before his gaze falls, as if I’m unworthy of his attention.
True to form, my mother assigns places with precise gestures, turning this into a ceremony instead of the awkward, tense gathering it is. And naturally, I’m seated directly across from Superman with his Clark Kent curl.
The table groans under platters of food, brought in by servers dancing across the room, ensuring everything is served precisely to my mother's liking.
Perfectly grilled medium rare steak glistening with juices, seared broccolini, potatoes silky enough to put Andrew’s to shame, and wine glasses filled to the brim with ruby-red Bordeaux, courtesy of Vahan and his minion.
A hush falls. Not an uncomfortable silence for Vahan or Raffiel—only for me.
But my mother leans forward, her voice gentle. “How was the drive? Did everything go smoothly?”
Vahan replies effortlessly, ever the gentleman. “Yes, thank you. No trouble at all.”
Raffiel says nothing, merely lifts his knife and fork, slicing his steak with methodical precision. His posture remains flawless, spine straight, shoulders even—an image of disciplined calm.
I study him carefully. The way he lines up each cut of meat before sliding it into his mouth, the steady rhythm of his chewing, the faint tightening around his jaw. A soldier’s restraint. It almost makes me laugh—quiet repression is always his speciality.
Soon, my mother breaks his solace. “Raffiel,” she says, with a bright smile that makes the corner of her eyes crinkle. “You’re at Vanderbilt too, yes?”
His head snaps up, eyes sharpening. “Just Raffi is fine, and yes, ma’am.”
“Please,” my mother interrupts with a gentle wave. “Call me Alina.”
“Alina,” he repeats—respectfully, perfectly. It makes my skin crawl.
Her smile widens as she turns to me. “Sasha, maybe you’ve noticed him in the halls?”
Grabbing my glass of wine, I lean comfortably back in my seat and I can’t help but notice the way Vahan’s jaw twitches. “Doubtful. I don’t notice weirdos.”
“Sa?enko!” My mother gasps, swatting my arm. “Be nice.”
A wet sputter comes from across the table as if someone is choking, and my gaze slices into Raffiel. “Something funny?” I cock a brow.
He lifts his napkin to his lips, concealing a chuckle before dabbing the corners of his mouth under his father's burning scowl. “No, no.” He stands, a wave of his hand and I get back to my steak. “Can I trouble you for directions to your restroom?”
I swear he’s talking to my mother until she jabs me with a hard manicured nail to the side. “Raffi is speaking to you, Sasha.”
My eyes lift to meet a starry gaze that ignites anger in the pit of my chest. “What?”
“The, um, the restroom.” He stumbles over his words. “Would you mind showing me?”
Letting loose a disgruntled huff, I rise from my chair. Slouching all the more to upset Vahan as I pass by. “Come on, Mr. Perfect,” I grumble. “Let’s go.”
“Sasha!” I hear my mother snip from behind.
Hard footfalls trail behind me, while I hear her whisper to Vahan.
“I’m so sorry about Sasha.” She sighs. “We haven’t had men in the house since…
well, since his father passed.” I don’t miss the way she chokes out the words.
And it makes me want to go back in there and rip his spine out through his throat.
Made worse when his tone dips with concern. “Don’t fret, im ser.”
My love? Now why the fuck would he call her that?
By the time we make it across the living room and to the guest bathroom at the end of the apartment, I’m seething. I don’t even realize the fucker is talking to me. “What?”