4. A Romanov Always Fulfills a Promise #3
As I walked out, I heard something shatter against the apartment floor behind me.
* * *
Returning to the office hadn’t been on my schedule, nor had home, but the sedan pulled beneath the executive entrance anyway.
“I’ll only be a minute,” I said.
Lev didn’t question it, simply remaining beside the vehicle as I crossed the lobby and slipped into the elevators.
The office looked exactly as I’d left it that morning, littered with half-finished contracts, a portfolio resting on the corner of my desk, and the treaty file I’d promised to review before tomorrow’s board meeting.
I picked up the file and checked that everything was inside, but nothing else truly demanded my attention.
For a moment, I simply stood there. There wasn’t any pressing reason to leave, but equally, there wasn’t any pressing reason to stay—and that realization caught me off guard.
Months ago, work had been the place I chose whenever there was nowhere else worth being, while the penthouse was merely somewhere to sleep between meetings.
Now, I found myself looking toward the office door instead of the paperwork in my hands.
Home.
The thought surfaced so naturally that it almost irritated me.
There wasn’t really anything waiting for me there, and Fyodor certainly wasn’t; he tolerated my presence only because circumstances required it, nothing more.
Even so, I wanted to return, not because I expected conversation or gratitude, but simply because someone was there.
I grabbed the file, switched off the office lights, and walked out.
Lev looked up from the driver’s seat as I climbed back into the sedan. “Home, sir?”
“Yes,” I said, without a second’s hesitation.
* * *
The penthouse was quieter than usual when I returned though the television was on—a detail that made me pause, given that Nikolai preferred books and rarely touched the remote.
Fyodor sat on the sofa with one knee drawn up, watching a history documentary with an intensity that suggested he was studying it rather than passing time. The volume was turned down so low the narrator was little more than a whisper.
I loosened my tie, walking into the kitchen where a small saucepan rested on the stove, steam curling lazily beneath the lid.
“You’ve taken an interest in herbal tea?”
Fyodor looked over briefly. “Chamomile and lemon. It helps.”
He stood and crossed the room, reaching for two mugs without another word. I watched him measure out the tea before grabbing the honey—one spoonful, then another, dropped not into the first mug, the second.
“You take honey?” I asked.
“I don’t,” he said, sliding the less sweeter mug toward me.
“Nikolai does. He sleeps better after tea.”
I looked down at the mug. He spoke about Nikolai as if describing another person he likes honey, he sleeps better after tea—never once confusing the two of them.
There was something quietly tragic about watching a man reduce himself to a caretaker inside his own body; I hadn’t been prepared for it, yet even now, he was still looking out for him.
I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic. “You look exhausted.”
“So do you.”
“I know.”
There wasn’t an ounce of complaint in his voice, and we drank in silence until he reached for the remote and muted the screen.
“Will you leave early tomorrow?” he asked.
“I’ll have to.”
“For work?”
I shook my head. “My mother.”
He nodded once, displaying no curiosity beyond that.
“I’ll be back before evening,” I added, and when another quiet settled between us, I pushed a step further. “You could come. My mother is fond of you.”
His eyes lifted, catching my eyes for a second before dropping back to his mug. “No. She’s fond of Nikolai not me.”
“You’d rather stay here?”
“Yes.”
I accepted it with a nod. He wasn’t avoiding my mother; he was avoiding the Romanov name entirely, there was a distinction.
I finished the last of my tea and set the mug down. “You’ve become considerably more accommodating.”
He frowned slightly. “I have?”
“This morning, you slapped me.”
A faint flush climbed the tips of his ears. “You deserved it.”
“I probably did,” I conceded, taking off my coat. “This evening, you made me tea.”
“I made tea.”
“For two.”
“I assumed you’d come home tired.”
I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “How thoughtful.”
The color in his ears deepened almost unnoticeably as he blurted out, “I was making tea anyway.”
The answer came too quickly, wrapped in defensive edge, so I decided not to spare him.
“Perhaps” I said quietly, meeting his eyes as they snapped to mine.
“You still poured me a cup.”
For the briefest moment, he looked completely stunned by my reply.
“You’re reading too much into it.”
“Maybe.”
I stood, collecting my empty mug. “Good night, Fyodor.”
He remained where he was, staring at the muted screen. “…Sleep.”
It sounded almost like an order.
“I intend to,” I said, turning toward the hallway.
Halfway there, I glanced back once. He had already unmuted the documentary as though our conversation had never happened—only his tea sat untouched beside him, slowly growing cold.