Kat
Iwake up starving.
Not just normal morning hunger either. I’m ravenous. A sharp, insistent pang gnaws at my stomach, and the only thing that sounds even remotely satisfying is fried potatoes with onions from Belov’s.
I groan, rolling onto my back, staring at the ceiling as my stomach growls in protest. I haven’t had cravings like this since… I shake my head, banishing the thought.
This is ridiculous. I can make my own damn potatoes. They won’t be the same—nothing ever tastes quite like Belov’s buttery, golden-fried perfection—but it’ll have to do.
I climb out of bed, stretching as I pad across the room. The penthouse is quiet. It’s early, the morning light still soft as it filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I don’t know why I thought Pavel would still be in bed. He’s never in bed when I wake up.
After grabbing a glass of water, I find him in his home office, the door slightly ajar. He’s standing near his desk, putting on his cuff links, his suit pristine, tailored, and perfect. An image of power and control. He glances up when he hears me, a slow smirk curving his lips. “You’re up early,” he says. “Miss me?”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. “Not exactly.”
His smirk deepens. “Liar.”
He gives me a once-over, and I realize that I’m in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and a pair of panties. Judging by the wolfish look on his face, he’s enjoying the view. I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m going to ignore the size of your ego. The truth of the matter is that I woke up starving.”
He lifts a brow. “Starving? For what?”
I hesitate for half a second, feeling absurd for even saying it out loud, and sigh dramatically. “Fried potatoes with onions from Belov’s.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s quite specific.”
“I know.”
“Want me to have them delivered?”
I blink. That was unexpected, thoughtful. Something a real husband would do. For a second, I almost say yes, but then I shake my head. “No need to spend a hundred dollars having a guy on a bike bring them to me. Though, I appreciate the effort. I can make them myself.” Then, tilting my head playfully, I add, “You want me to make extra for you?”
He glances at his watch and sighs. “Tempting, but I have too much shit to deal with today. And I already ate.”
Something about the way he says it gives me pause. There’s tension in his jaw, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, like he’s trying to hide something. “Everything okay?” I ask.
There’s a brief hesitation before he says, “It will be.”
He’s deflecting. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed; it’s been happening often lately. Whatever’s going on, it’s weighing heavily on him. I open my mouth, about to press the issue, but he smoothly changes the subject.
“What’s on your agenda today?”
I hesitate for half a beat, then force a smile. “Thinking about going to see Vlad. Maybe doing a little shopping.”
He studies me for a long moment, and I wonder if he knows I’m lying. I shift my weight, watching Pavel as he smooths the front of his suit jacket, looking effortlessly put together, even though I know his mind is miles away, tangled in whatever Bratva disaster he’s about to walk into.
Still, when he looks at me, he’s focused and present. Like I’m the only thing that matters in the moment.
‘That’s all you’re going to do today?’ he asks.
I hesitate. I don’t know how much I should tell him. The truth is, I’m going to see Ana, but I’m not ready to share her with him yet. Maybe someday, but not now. All the same, I need to throw him off the trail. For some reason, he seems extra skeptical today.
“That’s all,” I confirm. “I was planning on keeping it pretty low-key.”
“You don’t have to keep it low-key if you don’t want to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go have a girls’ day out. Spend some time with your friends.”
I pause, blink in mild confusion, then chuckle lightly, shaking my head. “Friends? I don’t really have any.”
His brow furrows. “You don’t have any? Why not? You used to.”
I shrug. “We just drifted apart after high school, I guess. Some went to college, others got married and moved on.”
And some had secret babies, then stayed away for six years.
Pavel leans against his desk, arms crossed over his chest as he watches me. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
I exhale, considering his words. It never used to. “Not really,” I lie. “I have Vlad; we’ve always been close.” My voice trails off as I roll my water glass between my hands, the condensation cool and grounding.
Just then a realization settles in, one I can’t ignore.
I don’t want Ana to grow up the same way.
I almost voice my thought out loud, right then and there. I nearly slip up, telling him about my best-kept secret. Thankfully, I catch myself at the last moment.
Pavel’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes narrow, like he’s picking apart my words, and examining the weight of them. I look away, my throat tightening. I can feel Pavel’s eyes on me, studying me. I worry that he sees right through my lies, that he knows I’m hiding something. Would I be able to keep the secret if he were to outright ask what was on my mind?
I’m not sure.
He checks his watch. “Shit. I gotta run. Got a meeting to get to.”
He comes over to me, taking my hands in his own. His touch soothes me in just the right way.
I look down, unable to meet his eyes. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve been able to keep myself together so well these last few weeks. But at that moment, my hands in his, I’m on the verge of breaking.
“You sure you’re alright?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want me to order you some Belov’s?”
That gets a small smile out of me. “I’m sure; there are potatoes and onions here. Might do me some good to cook for myself for once.”
He places his hand beneath my chin, tilting it up. I instantly get lost in those eyes, those gorgeous, sparkling blue eyes. The eyes of a killer. Something I too often forget.
“I’ll be back soon.” He kisses me quickly, then leaves. I listen to his footsteps going down the stairs, the chime of the elevator seconds later. Then just like that, he’s gone.
The moment Pavel leaves, I want him back, want my hands in his again. I want him to hold me, to tell me everything is going to be alright. A part of me hates the way I need him, but another part wants to give in every time.
I shove the thoughts aside, the grumbling of my stomach propelling me forward. I make my way to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of tea. Next, I pull a few golden potatoes from the pantry. Grabbing a peeler, I work quickly, stripping them of their rough skins, letting the thin curls fall into the sink. Once they’re smooth, I rinse them off, then take my knife and begin dicing them into small cubes, each piece uniform in size.
I grab a large yellow onion from the counter, slicing off the ends before peeling away the papery skin. As soon as I cut into it, the sharp, sweet scent hits me, causing my eyes to water slightly. I halve it, then slice it thin, letting the delicate ribbons fall onto the cutting board.
I then move to the stove, setting a heavy cast-iron skillet over medium heat. I drop a generous pat of butter in the pan. It sizzles instantly when it hits the surface, melting into a golden pool. The moment it begins to foam, I toss in the onions, stirring them gently with a wooden spoon, watching as they turn translucent, their edges beginning to caramelize.
The smell is intoxicating. Warm, rich, and familiar. It takes me back to Belov’s, a cozy little Russian restaurant tucked into a quiet corner of the East Village. We used to go there as kids. Vlad, Piotr, and me would be crammed into one of the corner booths, while our parents lingered over tea and conversation with friends and family. It was one of the few places where we weren’t expected to sit and be quiet, where we were allowed to just be children. The owners knew us by name, and our father, always generous, let us order whatever we wanted.
For me, it was always the potatoes and onions: crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, perfectly seasoned with salt and black pepper, the onions cooked just right. I’d devour them as soon as they were set in front of me, burning my tongue in my impatience, while Piotr and Vlad stole bites from my dish, laughing as I swatted their hands away. I hadn’t been back for years.
Standing here, cooking this meal for myself, the memories cling to me as thickly as the scent of butter and onions filling the kitchen.
Once the onions soften, I add the potatoes, spreading them in an even layer. They hit the hot butter, causing an immediate sizzle that fills the quiet space around me. It’s perfect; exactly what I wanted.
I grab a plate, slide a generous serving onto it, then sink into a chair at the kitchen table. My recollection from this morning while lying in bed slams into me again, so vivid and sharp, it almost knocks the air from my lungs.
I was pregnant with Ana the last time I craved this dish. Not just craved—obsessed over it. For weeks, all I wanted was fried potatoes and onions. Morning, noon, and night.
My fork stills, hovering near my lips. My stomach tightens. It’s simply a coincidence. It has to be. But my hands are already shaking as I set the fork down. My brain scrambles to do the math. Pavel and I have been married almost five weeks. If I got pregnant the night of our wedding…
Oh, dear God, that’s enough time.
A rush of heat surges through me, my heart pounding so fast it makes me lightheaded. I stare down at the plate, my stomach twisting. The food that smelled so heavenly just moments ago now feels impossible to eat.
I press a hand to my abdomen, swallowing hard. I need to be sure. I press my other hand flat against the cool surface of the kitchen table, my breath coming in shallow, uneven waves. If I’m pregnant, I’m carrying Pavel’s second child. He still doesn’t know he has a first.
The thought leaves me dizzy. This marriage—this mess we were thrown into—was never meant to be real. It was a political move, a necessary evil, a means to an end, but now? Now, it’s become something else. Something definitely real. And the most terrifying part is that I want it to be.
I trust Pavel more than I ever expected to, more than I probably should. I’ve been watching him, studying his every move, and everything in my gut tells me the same thing: Pavel Fetisov didn’t kill my parents.
Piotr has always been so certain. But he’s also always been…Piotr. Controlling. Ruthless. Willing to twist the truth into whatever shape serves him best. But if I let myself believe that about Piotr, what does that mean for everything I’ve built my life around?
I glance down at my hands, realizing they’re shaking. Slowly, I lift my T-shirt and press both of them to my stomach, fingers splayed over the soft skin.
Pavel needs to know the truth about Ana. My chest tightens, the weight of the secret pressing down on me harder than ever. I have to tell him.
And I have to do it soon.
