Page 95 of Sinful Blaze

“I almost named you Ekaterina,” Asya muses. “Almost. But the more I carried you, the more you felt like a Sofiya.”

“Perfect choice.” I smile at the two and offer up a little prayer that the right name will come to mind, eventually. Preferably before I go into labor.

“Anyway, no pressure. So, Daphne. That’s such a beautifully classical name.” Sofi takes a sip of her lemon water. “Is there a special meaning behind it?”

Fuck if I know. I shrug and try to think of a way to divert the conversation away from my parents and how they make any of their decisions. “My parents were blessed with their own interesting, classical names. But weirdly enough, my sister was given a pretty normal name by comparison. Still Greek, and ironically, it fits her better than I think anyone intended.”

Which is true. We had a good laugh about the fact that the black sheep of the family has a name that literally means “black” in ancient Greek.

Sofi furrows her brow. “Your sister?”

“Yeah. She’s pretty much the only person in my family I’m close to. We try to keep in touch, like, weekly FaceTime. She is so excited to be an auntie.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask?—”

Asya silences her daughter with a sudden hand plastered to her wrist. “Don’t look now.”

Obviously, that makes both of us really want to look.

So I do, as slowly and casually as possible, in the direction Asya was just glancing before she froze.

Shit.

Double shit.

… Triple, quadruple fucking shit.

My mother is locked in on my location and weaving a blazing path of barely-contained fury between tables and chairs.

To get to me.

Because she’s not only seen me, and seen that I’m here—the one place she refused to invite me to—but that I’m having a great time with people who definitely don’t like her.

It’s pretty obvious the sentiment is mutual.

“What is she doing here?” Sofi hisses to her own mother. She glances at me, but I’m frozen to my seat.

I can feel my mother’s presence draw nearer.

I can almost hear her mind preparing a scathing lecture about loyalty and “the family.”

I can definitely smell her perfume now—she’s so close.

I think I’m gonna pass out.

But then Sofi glances over my shoulder. Nods to someone. Flicks her wrist to subtly indicate Ophelia Hamish.

And before she can descend upon our table, my mother is cut off by two giant men in sharp business suits.

“Ma’am, if you’ll come with us…”

I’m very much not looking in her direction, so I can only glean her reaction from the reflection in the window and off the polished silverware. She gasps, indignant, and tries to look over their broad shoulders.

“Let me through! I have a reservation!”

“There seems to be a mix-up, ma’am. Please, come with us.”

“You have to let me through! I am a patron of this establishment!”

---