Chapter 11
680 Words
Olga POV
Sunday afternoons are quieter in the mansion.
No meetings. Fewer guards moving through the halls. Even the air feels slower, softer, like the world itself has agreed to pause for a few hours.
Angelica and I are sitting on the floor of the living room, pillows scattered around us, tea cups forgotten on the low table. Her son is in my arms, warm and solid and endlessly curious. I make exaggerated faces at him—wide eyes, puffed cheeks, crossed eyes—and he rewards me with loud, delighted laughter.
That laugh.
It does something to you.
Angelica smiles as she watches us, her chin resting on her knees. “You’re very good with him,” she says.
“I like him,” I reply softly. “He doesn’t judge.”
“He absolutely does,” she says dryly. “He just hasn’t learned how to express it yet.”
I laugh, bouncing him gently as he grabs at my fingers.
Then I feel it.
Her gaze.
Focused. Quiet. Too knowing.
“You’ve changed,” Angelica says after a moment.
I freeze internally but keep smiling at the baby. “People change.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “But this is… different.”
I sigh.
There’s no point lying to her. There never has been.
“I think I’m falling for someone,” I say quietly.
Angelica doesn’t react immediately. She just watches me, waiting.
“Ivan,” I add before she can ask.
Her eyes soften—not with surprise, but recognition.
“I won’t do anything about it,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out. “I won’t cross any lines. He’s not interested, and even if he were, it wouldn’t be smart. Or safe. Or—”
“Olga,” she interrupts gently.
I stop.
She reaches out and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear the way she used to when we were girls. “You don’t have to justify feelings. They happen.”
“I know,” I whisper. “That’s the problem.”
I look down at the baby, who’s now gnawing happily on my thumb.
“He’s not like that,” I continue. “He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t open doors that don’t already exist. I think… I think I just see something in him that isn’t meant for me.”
Angelica’s lips part slightly, like she wants to say something.
She doesn’t.
She looks conflicted.
“There are things,” she starts, then stops. She exhales slowly. “There are things I can’t tell you yet.”
That makes my chest tighten.
“But,” she continues, firmer now, “I can tell you this—Ivan Volkov is not a man who feels lightly. And he is not a man who lets go easily.”
I swallow.
“I don’t want to be someone’s weakness,” I say. “Or their mistake.”
“You wouldn’t be,” she says immediately.
Before I can respond, footsteps echo from the hallway.
Heavy. Familiar.
I look up just as Alexander and Ivan enter the living room together.
Alexander’s presence fills the space effortlessly, but it’s Ivan my eyes find without permission.
He stops when he sees us on the floor.
Angelica.
Me.
The baby in my arms, laughing as I make another ridiculous face.
Something unreadable flickers across his expression—so fast I almost miss it.
He looks away first.
Alexander smiles. “I see we’re interrupting.”
“No,” Angelica says warmly. “You’re just in time.”
Ivan says nothing.
His gaze lingers on the child for half a second longer than necessary… then shifts to me.
Our eyes meet.
The air tightens.
Nothing about his face gives him away—no smile, no frown, no reaction at all.
And yet, my heart stumbles like it’s tripped over something invisible.
I look away first this time.
Because I meant what I told Angelica.
Whatever this is—
I won’t chase it.
Even if part of me already knows…
It might already be too late.
- Writer
