Page 86 of Wicked Proposal
—Wait, what?
“Kalinda,” he croons, like he’s savoring it. “I hope you won’t mind if I call you that. Such a beautiful name is not made to be shortened,mademoiselle.”
Next to me, Yulian’s foot starts tapping. Never a good sign.
“Quit pretending you’re French,” he barks at Maksim. “No one’s buying it.”
“I lived in Marseilles for two years,” he says proudly. “I’m French-adjacent.”
He still hasn’t let go of Kallie’s hand. To make things worse, Kallie is blushing furiously, like she’s suddenly turned back into a schoolgirl.
I’ve known her for five years, and I haveneverseen her like this.
“W-well, we really need to, uh… get going now. It was lovely to meet you, Maksim.” She flicks her gaze to the side. “Yulian.”
Yulian’s eyes narrow. Shit—was I not supposed to tell Kallie his name? Was there an NDA somewhere in all those papers? Am I going to be sued for all I’ll ever own?
But Yulian just says, “We’re late.”
“Right,” I interrupt, finding my voice again. “Thanks for the phone, guys. Bye!”
“Bye, Mommy!” Eli waves. “Bye, Maksim! Bye, Yulian!”
Yulian blinks, caught off-guard. But soon enough, Eli disappears back into the building with Kallie, and it’s just us again.
Cue the crickets.
“Look,” I blurt, “I’m sorry about?—”
“Let’s go.”
He doesn’t sound particularly angry, but I also don’t want to test it. There’s still something off about him. Something that began the second he saw my son.
I tell myself to forget it and climb into the car.
27
YULIAN
“So, um… got any kids?”
Mia’s question catches me off-guard.
“What?” I ask.
“Kids,” she repeats, like she thinks I didn’t hear her the first time. Her cheeks, even in the darkness of the car, are red like summer cherries. “I was asking if you’ve got them. You met mine, but I realized I never asked you if…” She trails off, face burning, eyes downcast.
Fucking hell.Of all the topics of conversation, this is the one Mia had to choose for tonight’s awkward car ride. I’d much rather she be silent.
“No,” I answer shortly. “I don’t.”
Mia nods. Her hands are twisting the fabric of her skirt, betraying how nervous she feels. “And do you… want them?” she ventures. “Kids, I mean?”
Kids? Don’t make me fucking laugh. Children, family—the possibility of any of that has been taken from me the day the tablecloths in my mansion were soaked red.
Ihada family.
It’s gone now.
