Page 125 of Mile High Daddy

And suddenly, my father’s smirk flickers.

Mikhail tilts his head slightly, his voice still calm. “You’ve done your part. You can leave now.”

My father scoffs, but it’s forced. “Come on, no drinks?”

Mikhail doesn’t even blink. “Leave.”

For the first time, I watch my father’s confidence waver, like he’s just now realizing that he’s out of his depth.

He clears his throat, adjusting his cuffs like he was already planning to go anyway. “Fine. I have better places to be, anyway.”

Mikhail doesn’t move as my father steps past him, heading toward the door.

But just before he leaves, he looks over his shoulder and says, “Don’t forget who made this happen, daughter.”

I don’t respond.

I just stare at him until he finally walks out and shuts the door behind him.

My mother touches my hand. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head, laughing dryly. “I just can’t believe I’m related to that man.”

Mikhail mutters, “Neither can I.”

And somehow, that actually makes me laugh.

The next morning,the house is quiet.

Mikhail has stepped out, but my mother and I sit at the small breakfast table, two steaming cups of tea between us.

I feel lighter today. Maybe because she’s here. Maybe because, for the first time in months, I don’t feel like I’m constantly looking over my shoulder.

But the moment she speaks, I realize this peace won’t last long.

“Lila,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “I’m worried about you.”

I stir my tea absentmindedly, not looking up. “I know.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” she continues, lowering her voice, as if Mikhail might walk in at any moment. “I don’t understand why you’re still with him. He took you from everything you knew.”

I hesitate for just a beat before answering. “He took care of me.”

My mother’s head snaps up, her sharp eyes narrowing in surprise. “What?”

I sigh, finally meeting her gaze. “He took care of me. After I left, after everything—I was alone. I was sick. And then he found me.”

Her expression hardens. “And you think that excuses everything?”

I open my mouth, then close it.

I don’t know how to explain it.

I don’t know how to make her understand that the lines between enemy and protector, captor and husband, love and hate?—

They blurred a long time ago.

I stare into my cup, my fingers curling around the warm ceramic.

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