Chapter 1

Arianna's Pov

The first thing I noticed when I woke up that morning was Noah's breathing. It was wet and sounded like he was having difficulty breathing.

I pressed my hand to his forehead, and the heat burning through my palm confirmed what I already feared. He was running a fever.

"Mama." His voice was small, and hoarse. He opened his eyes slightly, squinting them to block the sun.

"I'm here." I smoothed his hair back and forced a smile even though my heart was doing something ugly in my chest. "Mrs. Kate next door is going to watch you today, okay? Just for a few hours. I need to go to work today."

"But mum, you promised to stay home today with me." He said, voice small, and it made my heart feel heavy. I had promised to stay home today with him to make up for not attending his school's PTR meeting, last week.

"I promise baby, just for today. I'll get you lots of goodies. I promise. Then maybe we could go to the park this weekend. Good?" He raised a brow, brushing a strand of his hair backwards.

He pouted out, and I had to exhale to relive myself. Four years old, and he's quite understandable…..or pretending to be. His hazel eyes catching a glint of sunlight.

God. He had his father's eyes. Those eyes that once made me feel complete. Now looking at them, I can't help but remember him.

He nodded and closed his eyes again, too tired to argue.

I got dressed in the dark, pulled on the uniform, tied my hair back, and swallowed two painkillers for the headache I'd already had for three days straight. Then I sat on the edge of the bed for just a second, and let myself feel the weight of everything before I packed it back down where it belonged.

I crossed the street over to Mrs Kate's building. She answered on the second knock. A woman in her late fifties with kind eyes, came out. She looked at Leon bundled against my side and opened the door wider without a word, like she knew what I was about to do.

"Thank you," I said. The words felt thin compared to what I actually meant.

She just waved me off. "Go. Don't be late."

I kissed Leon's forehead, told him I'd be back before dinner, and stepped out into the cold.

I hurried, heading towards the subway. I was going to be scolded again today. For the fifth time in a week. James is gonna kill me.

I bit my lips, anxiety kicking in. I thought of all the possible things to say to him, but none. I couldn't afford to lose this job, not for anything.

I disembarked from the train, and trotted.

I took a deep breath as soon as I got to the door, counted one, two, three, and pushed it open.

The kitchen smelled like grease, and heat the moment I walked in, the sharp clang of metal on metal filling the room. I slipped behind the prep station and grabbed my apron from the hook, my fingers already moving to tie it.

"You're late."

James didn't look up from the cutting board. Well, he obviously didn't need to. I could feel the irritation radiating off him from ten feet away.

"Seven minutes," I said. "I'm sorry, my son.."

"I don't care." He set the knife down then, and that was never good. James with a knife in his hand was annoyed. James without one meant he was actually angry. He turned and looked at me with a flat, tired expression, the one that shows he had run out of patience weeks ago. "Arianna, This is the fifth time."

"I know."

"I have a kitchen to run. I can't keep covering for you when you stroll in whenever you feel like it."

"Seven minutes," I said again, quieter this time.

He picked the knife back up. That was the end of it. "Get on the salad station, and don't touch anything in the cold section until you've washed your hands twice. We had a health inspection last week."

"Yes. Sorry."

I moved to my station and got to work without another word.

I had been working at the Meridian for eight months. It wasn't glamorous, it wasn't meant to be. It was a hotel restaurant that catered to business lunches and the kind of people who ordered wine by the bottle without checking the price. I washed dishes, prepped salads, and occasionally helped the line when they were short-staffed. It paid better than the laundry job, and it had benefits that technically existed.

Liam had gotten me the position. Except he hadn't framed it that way, he'd handed me a card and said the hiring manager owed him a favor, and that I should call if I wanted it. He didn't make it a big deal. That was how Liam was. He had a way of helping people that didn't leave them feeling small.

I had done him a favour, according to him. On my way back from an interview, years back, I had stumbled upon an old woman struggling with bad eyesight, and needed to get to a certain destination. I had helped out of generosity, and had carefully guided her to the location. And it turned out to be Liam's grandmother. She had Alzheimer, and always found it hard to remember certain things.

Liam had thanked me. I told him anyone would have done it. He said that wasn't true.

He had offered me money then, and I hadn't taken it. I didn't need money, I'd told him. I needed stability. Somewhere consistent, where the hours were predictable enough that I could plan around Noah's daycare schedule.

He had nodded slowly. Three weeks later, the card.

The lunch rush came and went in a blur of orders and cursing and James barking at the new line cook who kept oversalting the pasta. I kept my head down and my hands moving. That was how I survived most days. If I kept moving, I didn't have time to think too hard.

It was just after two when the manager, a thin woman named Celia who always looked like she vaguely disappointed in everyone, appeared at the kitchen door.

"Arianna." She looked around the kitchen like she wasn't sure she wanted to be in it. "Mr. Reyes needs someone for the VIP floor. One of his girls called in sick."

James looked up. "She's on prep."

"Prep can wait." Celia looked at me. "Can you manage it?"

I didn't know what Mr. Reyes's girls were being asked to manage exactly, but I knew that the VIP floor paid a service supplement and I knew that Noah needed medication.

"Yes," I said.

Celia handed me a small card with the room number on it. "Upstairs,in the private lounge. You go in, you serve what's asked, and then you leave. You don't linger, you don't make conversation, and you don't look directly at the guests unless they're speaking to you." She paused. "Mr. Reyes's instructions."

"Understood."

She looked at me for a second longer, like she was deciding whether I was up to it, then she turned and left.

I changed into the spare black uniform in the staff room, pinned my hair back more carefully, and took the service elevator up.

The VIP lounge was different from the restaurant downstairs. Everything here was more expensive, low lighting, leather seating, a bar. It smelled like expensive cologne and old money.

There were three men already inside when I entered. Two of them were seated at the far end of the room, laughing about something. The third was standing near the window with his back to me, and his phone to his ear.

I moved quietly to the cart near the bar and began setting up the service tray. I kept my eyes down, the way Celia had said. I was efficient about it. Pour, arrange, don't look, don't linger.

"Hey." One of the two seated men was looking at me. He had a loosened tie on, his florid face looked like that of someone who had already been drinking before he arrived. "Come here."

I crossed to him with the tray. "Can I get you something, sir?"

"I'll have another. And…." He reached out and caught my wrist.

The tray wobbled, but I steadied it. My whole body went still in the way it did when I needed to think fast and react slowly.

"You're very pretty," he said, like this was a new information I'd be grateful for. "Leave the tray."

"Sir." I kept my voice flat and professional. "I'm here to serve drinks."

His friend laughed. "She's telling you no, Marco."

"She's not telling me anything." His grip tightened. "Sit down."

"Let go of my wrist."

"Or what? You gonna spank me"

"Or I will."

The voice came from behind me. It was quiet and completely levelled. The kind of calm that doesn't need volume because it already knows it's the most dangerous thing in the room.

Marco let go of me, and I turned.

The man who had been on the phone near the window was now standing a few feet away, his phone gone, his hands in his pockets. He was looking at Marco with an expression that wasn't anger, but more like he was patient.

And then I saw his face, and the breath left my body.

It's been five years. Five years and a faked death and a city between us, and the first thought my brain produced was: he looks the same. The second thought was: run.

I didn't run. My legs had stopped working.

Nikolai looked at Marco for another second, just long enough to make the point, and then he looked at me. Something moved through his expression, quick and unreadable, and then gone.

"She's mine," he said simply. "I don't like people touching my things."

Marco muttered something and reached for his drink. His friend had gone very quiet.

Nikolai hadn't looked away from me yet. I couldn't read what was behind his eyes. I didn't know if that was better or worse.

"Niko…." I started.

"Careful," said the man who had been standing near the door the whole time. I hadn't noticed him until now. He was watching the exchange with a faint, private amusement. He raised his glass slightly. "Voss's wife might have something to say about that."