Chapter 27 Ivy
IVY
Ican’t shake it.
Even after we leave the park and get home, that prickling awareness clings to me like a second skin. I go through the motions on autopilot, slipping Leo’s jacket from his small shoulders, hanging it by the door, setting a pot to boil on the stove.
He chatters on about the swings and how he “almost touched the sky”, his hands flying everywhere as he describes it. Lettie laughs and I smile, nodding in all the right places.
I help him with his spelling homework, coax him through writing out a few sentences before my parents return home for dinner, but the whole time, that feeling stalks the edges of my mind.
The worst part is this isn’t the first time I’ve been feeling like this.
It’s been happening for weeks now. Long enough that I can’t chalk it up to a passing mood anymore. Ever since Leo turned six, the unease has been living under my skin.
I don’t know why, but that milestone felt heavier than the others. It was as if a hidden switch flipped inside me.
Paranoia? Maybe. I’ve asked myself that more than once.
But it doesn’t stop me from checking over my shoulder when I’m loading groceries into the trunk.
It doesn’t stop me from slowing down on our evening walks, pretending to tie my shoe while my eyes sweep the street behind us.
It doesn’t stop me from feeling my heart kick hard against my ribs when the back of my neck prickles, only to find the sidewalk empty when I turn.
It’s always nothing.
Just me, looking like an idiot, double-checking my surroundings for the tenth time.
I don’t know how to stop it.
By the time Leo is tucked into bed, my whole body is dragging with exhaustion. I clean up the kitchen, say goodnight to my parents and Lettie, and then collapse into my own bed. The silence of the house presses in around me.
When I finally drift off, it’s not into the deep, dreamless sleep I crave. It’s into something more vivid.
Maksim is there.
His voice comes first. Low and commanding. That faint rasp of it dragging across my nerves. It winds around me like smoke, impossible to ignore how deep it chokes me from the inside out.
Then his touch.
Rough palms, callused and unyielding, skimming over my body. It’s not tentative, not soft. It’s the way he always touched me back then, demanding everything from me and possessing me completely.
Once, that touch had been enough to make me forget everything else. Once, I’d let it anchor me. Burn me. Consume me until there was nothing left but him.
In my dream, my heart aches, almost painful in its clarity.
In my dream, there’s no fear. No Bratva, no danger to pull him away from me and ultimately be his demise. It’s just us in some imagined version of our life where we are happy and raise our son together.
I wake up in tears.
The ache in my chest is still there. It’s despair, but also something deeper. Mourning what could have been. Mourning the fact that I never got to see him hold our son.
It’s cruel in an ironic way. One life traded for another.
When morning comes, I can barely drag myself out of bed.
The mirror doesn’t lie when I stare into it.
My eyes are swollen, shadows bruised beneath them.
My skin is pale and dull, like every ounce of color has drained out of me.
I dab concealer under my eyes, brush powder across my face, swipe on lipstick, but it’s a losing battle.
The ghost staring back at me can’t be disguised.
Still, I try because Leo doesn’t need to see his mother unraveling, and Lettie doesn’t need another reason to worry.
But the moment I step into the kitchen, she’s there, leaning against the counter, coffee mug in hand, watching me like a hawk. One glance at me and I know I’m not slipping past her with the usual excuses this morning.
Her eyes narrow. She’s already decided I’m not getting away with my usual excuse.
“Talk to me,” she says finally. Her arms fold across her chest, patient but immovable.
I sigh, fiddling with the hem of my sweater. “Lettie…”
“Ivy.” Her tone sharpens, and I feel the weight of her stare.
I drop into a chair at the table. I don’t have the strength to fight her this morning. Not after the dream. Not after weeks of that gnawing, prickling dread following me everywhere I go. “I don’t know… it’s stupid. I’ve just been feeling weird lately.”
Her brows draw together instantly. “Weird how?”
I hesitate, chewing the inside of my cheek. If I say it out loud, it’ll sound insane. But there’s nothing else I can think of that won’t get me called out again. “Like… like I’m being watched.”
That gets her full attention. Her coffee mug lowers slowly. “By whom?”
“I don’t know.” My laugh is forced. I wave a hand trying to brush it all away. “It’s nothing. I’m probably just imagining it.”
“You need to go to the police. If someone’s following you—”
I cut her off before she can get worked up. “Lettie, I have no proof. What am I supposed to say? ‘Hi, officer, I have a bad feeling’? They’ll think I’m crazy.”
Crazier than I already feel.
Her jaw tightens, the muscle in her cheek ticking. I can tell she wants to argue, to protect me the way she always does.
“Just… drop it, okay? I’m fine.”
She sighs back at me.
I drop Leo off at school, watching him sprint toward the entrance with his backpack bouncing against his shoulders. He doesn’t look back. He never does, and a part of me is grateful for it. He’s too full of innocence to carry the weight I’ve been shouldering these past few weeks.
These past few years, actually.
Once he disappears inside, I head for the diner.
My shift is ordinary like it always is. It blurs into every other morning.
The clatter of plates, the hiss of the griddle, the same old men sitting in the corner booth nursing their coffee like it’s a sacred ritual.
The biggest event is a regular ordering a stack of pancakes without syrup, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it.
The monotony is almost comforting.
If I let myself lean into it, I can forget the tight, buzzing unease that’s been crawling under my skin for days. For a few hours, I focus on refilling cups, scribbling down orders, and wiping counters until they shine. It’s mechanical, mindless work, but it gives me something to cling to.
By the time I clock out, I’ve convinced myself the feeling will pass. That it’s just paranoia, exhaustion from not sleeping, nerves for my child slowly growing older and time feeling so damn fleeting.
Whatever the reason, I’m determined to shake it off.
The house is quiet when I pull into the driveway. Lettie’s still at work, my parents mentioned errands this morning, and Leo won’t be home for another couple of hours. The silence that greets me as I unlock the front door is ordinary, unremarkable—exactly what I expect.
I push the door open, stepping inside with my bag still slung over my shoulder. I’m already planning the next thing—change into something warmer, maybe make some tea to settle my nerves, maybe fold the laundry still sitting in the dryer downstairs.
Small, ordinary thoughts that keep me moving.
But then for some reason, my entire body locks up. Because there’s someone sitting in my living room. A tall man, broad-shouldered, dark haired, still as stone in the armchair over by the window. He doesn’t stand when I enter, just waits as if he’s been here waiting for my return.
It’s not just any man, any stranger, who’s invaded my house.
It’s the one man I swore I’d never see again.
Maksim Antonov.