The door closed behind me with a quiet, final click.
I leaned back against it, eyes shut, breath shallow and uneven.
“Do not appear in front of me again. I need space. Real space.”
Her words replayed in my head, again and again, each repetition a fresh wound—crushing my hope, draining my strength, leaving only the hollow ache of heartbreak.
Chapter 13
PENELOPE
Five days.
Five long, agonizingly quiet days since Dmitri Volkov had knelt on my doorstep and cracked himself open at my feet, spilling apologies that still rattled through my skull like distant thunder I couldn’t outrun.
The sound of his voice—raw, stripped bare of arrogance—had followed me into sleep and haunted my waking hours, surfacing at the most inconvenient moments.
While brushing my teeth.
While watching Vanya eat breakfast.
While lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering when exactly my life had turned into something so painfully complicated.
That first evening, I’d sat Vanya down at the small dining table, choosing my words with surgical care.
I told him his father was in Greece. Close, but not intrusive. Here, but not demanding.
I watched his face carefully as I spoke—those wide, observant eyes that mirrored Dmitri’s so perfectly it made my chest ache.
He listened without interrupting, legs swinging gently beneath the chair, absorbing everything.
When I finished, he nodded once, solemn and thoughtful in that way children get when they understand more than they’re saying.
“I want to see him,” he said after a pause. “But only when I feel ready.”
I hadn’t argued. Hadn’t pressed. Hadn’t mentioned that Dmitri was literally next door—that a single wall separated father and son, thick enough to hold back years of damage, yet thin enough that I sometimes imagined I could feel his presence through it.
Like a ghost. Like an unresolved wound.
Every morning since, without fail, I’d opened my door to find a single flower resting on the threshold.
Never two. Never anything extravagant.
Sometimes it was a white lily—pure, understated, almost painfully symbolic.
Other days, a red rose, its thorns carefully stripped away as if to say I will not hurt you again.
Beneath it, always a folded letter. No name. No flourish. None needed.
Dmitri’s handwriting was unmistakable, the kind of script that spoke of discipline and restraint even when the words themselves trembled with emotion.
He never showed his face.
He respected the boundary I’d set—probably because he was terrified that one wrong move would have Ruslan’s men escorting him out of Greece before he could blink.
Smart. Cautious. Almost... decent. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I’d begged for this version of him once—quiet, attentive, controlled—and now that he existed, I didn’t know what to do with it.