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XXIII
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2025-01-07 21:04:19
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His Son, Her Secret MINE
They say a kid won’t remember their fifth birthday.Clearly, they never met Max Romanov.The mansion tucked between the pine forests was barely visible from the entrance road now, thanks to the absolutely ridiculous amount of decorations. Silver robot-shaped helium balloons, neon lights, and a giant sign at the edge of the lawn that screamed, “MAXIMUS PRIME TURNS 5.”I planned all of it. Hired a Moscow decor crew that usually handled oligarch weddings. Even had my team build a small stage with hidden speakers directly synced to Max’s personal playlist.Because today....today was about him.My son. And I wasn’t half-assing it.Naturally, Max was far too busy chasing after two kittens, one gray, one orange, that he’d just received from Igor, who declared them “a personal gift from my Siberian cabin.”He named them Luna and Zuko, and was now desperately trying to get them into miniature capes and onto the driver’s seat of his toy car.“Come on, Zuko! You be the driver! LUNA, YOU'RE HIS B
His Son, Her Secret THE END : coffee, dictatorship, and you
Pascha.The pine trees outside the window swayed gently as the northern wind swept through their tops. The cries of winter gulls echoed faintly from the valley below, mingling with the creaking of hard-packed snow on the wooden rooftop.Or… mansion, as Belva would call it. But I still think that’s pretentious. It’s just a house. A house with a private sauna, a helipad, and a secret elevator to the basement, sure—but still just a house.I sat in my favorite leather chair, Max’s pick, staring at a projected P&L report on my tablet. The numbers were not pretty. But they were less infuriating than the fact that my father, Alexandr Romanov, had just handed over full control of Romanov International to me… and then jetted off on a second honeymoon to the Faroe Islands.“Perfect timing,” he said in that granite-carved voice of his.Translation: it’s time I stop being “the troublesome second son” and start acting like the head of the family.Unfortunately, he was right. Even more unfortunatel
His Son, Her Secret CCLXI : what i never said in time
“I... want to see Mikaela.”He just shifted slightly, turning to face me completely, one brow arched. “The nurse said her contractions came back briefly last night.”“Exactly,” I murmured, swallowing the weight that suddenly thickened in my chest. “I need to see her.”“You feel guilty.”“She was taken because of me. Dragged into Ben’s chaos because of me. And she almost lost her baby because of... everything.” I stood, smoothing down the sweater I’d been wearing since morning.“Bee.” He chuckled under his breath. “You don’t have to pay for other people’s wounds with your own body.”I looked at him, sharp. “If I don’t try to calm her, who else will? She’s been used by Ben for so long. Threatened. Silenced. Manipulated. So don’t tell me I don’t owe her anything.”Pascha lifted one corner of his mouth. “You know… I bought them an island.”I blinked. “What?”“A private island,” he said casually. “For Ronan and Mikaela. A wedding gift... or a ‘hey, you almost died twice this year’ kind of
His Son, Her Secret CCLX : May God Strengthen You
The first thing I saw when the door opened was Max, standing on a little step stool beside the bed, spoon-feeding porridge to Pascha with an expression so serious, you’d think he was taming a tiger that might bite at any second.“Daddy, stop faking,” Max commanded. “It’s good. Chew. I see your right molar’s still not doing any work.”Pascha groaned and opened his mouth, chewing with the dramatic expression of a war martyr. “Tastes like prison food…”“You’ve never been to prison,” Max cut in without mercy. “So don’t lie.”I bit back a laugh and stepped inside. But before I could say anything, my attention was drawn to the far corner of the room, where Mischa was standing with her hands on her hips, nose-to-nose with her mother.Tatiana, hair swept into a pristine updo and dressed in a pastel spring ensemble that looked more runway than recovery room, was staring at her daughter with a mix of frustration and confusion.“I only said maybe you could consider going back to summer ballet,”
His Son, Her Secret CCLIX : Men Who Try
I slipped back into Pascha’s room after making sure Mischa and Max were fed and half-asleep from the tiny war they’d waged in the lounge with Clara.Pascha was already curled up in bed like a lazy burrito, the hospital blanket tucked up to his chin. His eyes narrowed the second he saw me standing in the doorway with a cup of tea in hand.“Bee,” he groaned, raspy, and dripping with manipulative drama. “I think… I’m going to die tonight.”I raised an eyebrow. “You had porridge, soup, and you’ve been complaining every two hours. That doesn’t qualify as ‘near death.’”He sighed dramatically, then shifted slightly to face me. In a whisper that was equal parts theatrical and pathetic, he said, “I need… my wife’s touch to fall asleep in peace.”I snorted, setting the tea down on the side table. “Your wife’s touch, or Max’s cookie stash in the left drawer?”He gave a crooked smile, half mischief, half something I could never quite read. “Both.”I laughed quietly and sat down on the edge of hi
His Son, Her Secret CCLVIII : slow-motion heroes
This room… was far too big to be called a hospital room. The ceiling stretched high above us, the glass windows opened onto a private garden, and the sheer white curtains fluttered gently in the breeze from a near-silent ventilation system. The walls didn’t look anything like a hospital’s, they looked more like a five-star hotel suite.And all of it… was because of one name.Romanov.The hospital director greeted us last night with a smile so tight, I was convinced he iced his face the moment we left. Within five minutes, the entire upper wing of the hospital was cleared and sanitized. Nurses were switched out. Two specialists were called in at four in the afternoon.All because Alexandr Romanov said, “My son will be here.”Now, that son was sitting up in bed like a spoiled patient who’d watched too much daytime TV.Pascha was wearing a loose white t-shirt and joggers, a blanket draped over his lap. A tray of hospital chicken porridge sat on a movable table across his bed.“Who made t
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