27. Cora
27
CORA
One week later…
T he scent of new wood, fresh paint, and something warm fills my lungs the moment I step inside.
This isn’t the restaurant I left behind when Ivan dragged me out a lifetime ago.
The floors gleam, polished to perfection. The walls are freshly painted. The old, battered bar has been fully restored, its deep mahogany surface shining beneath the soft overhead lighting. The kitchen—where I spent hours dreaming of something bigger—is spotless, upgraded, ready for something new.
My fingers tremble as I reach out, trailing them along the smooth surface of the bar. It doesn’t feel real. It feels like a dream, like something I should wake up from any second now, only to find that the floors are still cracked, the walls still broken, my dream still hanging by a thread.
My pulse pounds as I turn sharply, the air rushing from my lungs when I see him.
Ivan.
He stands near the far end of the bar, arms crossed, his broad frame casual, at ease, like he’s just another customer waiting for a drink. Like he hasn’t just single-handedly brought my dream back to life.
His face is impossible to read, his cool blue eyes watching me carefully, like he’s measuring my reaction.
Like this is nothing.
I can’t find my voice at first. My throat is too tight, too full of emotions I don’t know how to name. When I finally manage to get the words out, they come quiet, breathless.
“You—?”
Ivan shrugs, the movement lazy, effortless.
“You got out of hospital a week ago. When did you have time for all this?”
“I know some people. They’ve been working on it since you joined me.”
I gape at him, searching for something in his impassive expression, something that makes sense. An explanation. A reason.
“Why?”
His voice drops to something low, quiet, intimate.
“Because you want to own a restaurant.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “And I don’t want you under my feet all day. When your morning sickness fades, you’ll want to get back to work, right? Or maternity leave more your kind of thing? Say the word and I’ll hire staff to run the place for you.”
Something inside me breaks.
I clench my jaw, trying to keep myself together, but it’s too much.
No one has ever done something like this for me.
No one has ever believed in me enough to give me this.
No one has ever simply given me something because I wanted it.
It was always conditional. Always something to be earned, something to be fought for.
I exhale sharply, forcing down the lump in my throat, trying not to let the tears burning behind my eyes spill over.
I meet his gaze, lips pressed together, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.
“You think you can buy my forgiveness for locking me in?”
“No.” His gaze latches onto mine, something dangerous and deeply certain sparking in his expression.
He steps even closer.
I don’t move.
His smirk deepens, his voice dropping to something dark, edged with amusement.
“I think I already have it.”
I kiss him.
I pour everything into it—every ounce of pain, of love, of gratitude. Of the fact that, somehow, after everything, we both survived.
His grip tightens at my waist, pulling me against him, the heat of his body making my pulse spike. My hands tangle in his hair, yanking him closer, my heart slamming against my ribs as he responds.
When I finally break away, my breath comes fast and uneven, my forehead resting against his. His fingers flex at my hips, his chest rising and falling just as sharply as mine.
I don’t even hesitate.
I whisper it against his lips.
“I love you.”
His grip flexes against my waist. “I love you too, printsessa.”
I barely have time to let the joy settle before the moment is completely ruined.
A dramatic gagging noise shatters the silence.
“God, you’re disgusting,” Maxim groans, leaning against the doorway, looking thoroughly appalled. “You’d never find me fawning over a woman like that.”
Ivan doesn’t even bother turning around, but I can feel his exasperation in the way his fingers flex against my waist.
Elena, standing beside Maxim, smacks his arm. “Shut up, or I’ll tell them about the cat costume you like me to wear.”
Maxim chokes, his entire face twisting in horror. “Elena! What the fuck?”
Ivan, grinning, crosses his arms. “I think it’s romantic. Meow Maxim.”
I laugh, shaking my head, feeling lighter than I have in months as Ivan’s hand slips into his pocket.
And when he pulls it out—it’s small. Silver. Timeless.
A ring.
He places it in my palm, his expression unreadable, his blue eyes locked onto mine with a quiet intensity that makes my chest ache.
“Marry me. Again. Properly this time.”
My fingers tighten around the ring.
My pulse hammers.
I look up at him.
“Is that a request?”
His gaze darkens.
His voice is low. Absolute. Unshakable.
“No.”
The ring slides onto my finger, fitting so perfectly it feels like it’s always belonged there. Like I was always meant to wear it, to have this claim on me, this permanent, undeniable mark of who I belong to.
My heart hammers against my ribs, my breath coming too fast as I stare at it for a long moment, running my thumb over the smooth silver band. It’s simple, sleek, timeless—just like him.
A smirk tugs at my lips, heat curling low in my stomach as I tilt my head slightly, feigning consideration, stretching out the moment just because I can. Because I like seeing him wait for me, even if just for a few seconds.
“I’ll only marry you if you help in the restaurant when I’m short-staffed.”
One dark brow lifts, slow, calculating. The shift in his expression is subtle, but I feel it like a warning. Like I’ve just stepped into dangerous territory.
His fingers tighten just slightly on my waist, an almost imperceptible flex, and when he finally speaks, his voice is as smooth as silk.
“Is that a request?”
I let my head tilt to the side, let my own voice drop lower, more deliberate. Let my smirk deepen just enough to be a dare.
“No.”