I nodded, unable to trust my voice, and we continued down the path together. Behind us, I knew—without looking—that Dmitri was still watching.
Still frozen at the window. Still absorbing every small movement, every step that carried his son farther away from him.
The weight of that gaze followed us like a shadow until the fountain disappeared behind a bend in the garden.
An hour later, the sky had softened into shades of lavender and pale blue, the sun dipping low enough to cool the air.
The breeze carried salt from the sea and rustled through the olive trees.
Vanya’s steps were lighter now, the contented looseness of a child who’d spent the afternoon outside, pockets full of small discoveries.
Then I heard it.
Footsteps—quick, purposeful—crunching over gravel behind us.
I turned just as Edward rounded the curve in the path. The butler’s usual composed elegance was gone, replaced by urgency etched deep into his features.
My stomach dropped before he even opened his mouth.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, already bracing myself.
“Mr. Volkov,” Edward said, slightly out of breath, “he collapsed. He’s been taken to the private clinic.”
The world tilted.
A cold wave rushed through me, sharp and immediate, leaving my limbs trembling. “Where?” I asked, my voice barely steady. “Where is he exactly?”
“The clinic wing,” Edward replied. “Would you like to see him?”
Of course. The answer burned through me instinctively, despite everything.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
I looked down at Vanya, who still held my hand, his eyes wide now but calm—watching me, not frightened so much as alert.
“Do you want to come with me?” I asked gently.
He nodded without hesitation.
Edward led us to one of the estate’s sleek electric utility carts—low-slung, six-seater models painted in muted olive green, the kind that glided silently across the grounds without disturbing the air, the gardens, or anyone else in sight.
We climbed in; Edward took the wheel with a precision that reminded me of his years managing every nuance of this estate.
The cart hummed quietly beneath us, the soft vibration the only sound against the whispering breeze and distant cry of gulls over the Aegean.
I stared straight ahead, pulse hammering in my ears like a drum echoing through a canyon.
Minutes ago, he had been there—standing, watching, alive, breathing, filled with that burning intensity that always made me feel simultaneously terrified and needed. And now... now he was unconscious. Collapsed. Just like that.
My fists clenched in my lap, nails biting into palms, the small, muted hum of the cart doing nothing to soothe the chaotic storm inside me.
Guilt? Stress? The weight of waiting? The fury of restraint?
I had no answers, only the ache that threatened to hollow me out entirely.
Edward drove swiftly along the winding service paths, the asphalt slick with late afternoon dew, the cypress trees forming dark, watchful sentinels along either side.
Each turn brought us closer, yet I felt the distance widen in my chest.