Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
But then, in a quieter moment, he says it differently: “I never slept so well as I did that night with you. You can stay, Ruthie. You don’t need to go to the guest room. Stay here with me. Let’s get some rest.”
And I know what he means. Not just physical rest but the kind of rest that seeps into your bones. The letting go of everything—worry, grief, the gnawing fear about what’s coming next.
"Yeah," I whisper, "let’s get some rest."
Even as I say it, my mind refuses to still, already bubbling with questions. What did we just do? Where do we go from here? What does this even mean? But the feel of his heavy arm draped across my waist settles me more than anything else could. It makes my muscles soften, making me sink deeper into the mattress. He falls asleep long before I do, his breathing heavy and even, his body a warm, solid line at my back. And I find myself hoping—aching—that somewhere, somehow, Mariah will forgive me.
Chapter 12
RUTHIE
I wake up the next morning tangled in sheets heavy with the scent of him.
The warmth of last night still lingers, and I roll over instinctively to find him—but he’s not there. The space beside me is cool. Empty.
And for one second, I fear it all—I stepped too far. He doesn’t want me. I was only a temporary replacement for the loneliness he felt, and I—
Then I hear it, the running water in the bathroom. He’s in the shower.
Oh god.
Way to catastrophize things again, Ruthie.
I sit up quickly the moment I hear little footsteps padding down the hallway and then—the sound of Luka’s door opening. My heart jumps into my throat.
Oh my god. Is he old enough to understand what it means if I come out of Vadka’s bedroom like this?
I scramble, tugging on a sweatshirt, my hair wild, my heart pounding, and bolt out of the room just in time—ducking into the guest room a second before Luka rounds the corner.
I throw the door open casually, stretching like I’ve been there all along, arms overhead, pretending I haven’t just staged a hasty escape from his father’s bed.
“Good morning,” I say brightly, forcing a calm smile.
He looks adorable, cheeks rosy, his hair an unruly mop of sleep-tangled curls.
“Good morning.” He grins, all teeth and innocence. “I’m hungry.”
“Of course you are. Let’s get you something to eat, buddy.” I glance toward Vadka’s room, but he’s still in the bathroom. A flicker of uncertainty passes through me. Are we going to talk about what happened last night? Do I even want to?
I know Luka’s routine now; I’ve been around long enough. I get him settled at the kitchen table with some toast, a sliced banana, and a cup of milk. His feet swing happily under the chair, his little face full of quiet contentment.
“Can you stay here today?” he asks, almost shyly. “I don’t want to talk to the mean lady.”
I know who he means. His nanny. And the guilt hits me harder than it did over anything I did with Vadka last night.
“Yeah, honey, I can stay today. I’m not sure what Papa has planned, but…”
“She’ll be here soon though,” he says.
“She’s mean. She says mean things about Papa.”
I sit up straighter, narrowing my eyes at him. “What do you mean, she says mean things about Papa?”
“Who does?” Vadka’s voice cuts in from the hallway. And when he walks into the room, god help me, my ovaries combust.
He’s freshly showered, his dark hair still damp and slicked back. His skin is flushed from the heat, and he looks like he just stepped out of some sultry, forbidden dream. He’s in a charcoal-gray button-down, open at the collar—no tie, just confidence. His slacks are a shade darker, perfectly tailored, hugging every muscle like they were sewn onto him. He’s devastating. And standing next to his son, with that intense gaze fixed on me, he looks even more dangerous, even more magnetic.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is feel.
He moves toward me, braces his hands on either side of my chair, and kisses my cheek—slow, intentional, soft. It’s not just affection. It’s a message. A declaration. He doesn’t regret a single damn thing we did last night.
I smile, my eyes flicking to his.
Neither do I.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel free.
Even if my hair’s a wreck, my clothes rumpled, thighs still sticky from the night before. It all feels deliciously dirty—wrong in a way that makes my breath catch. The power dynamic, the imbalance, it makes me pause. It makes me wonder what comes next.
“Good boy, Luka,” Vadka says, ruffling his son’s hair. “Your mama would be proud of you for drinking your milk.”
My chest tightens. I remember when Luka was two or three, how Mariah used to beam every time he finished a cup. That ache is always there. But it softens in moments like this.