Page 135 of Single Mom's Daddies
She runs everywhere these days. She doesn’t walk anymore if she can help it. She bounds. Shetrustsher body again. She runs for fifteen, even twenty feet before she has to stop. And she always looks back and grins at whoever she left in her dust before she starts walking again.
There’s a lightness in her that wasn’t there before. Not just in her steps, but in her laugh, in the way she colors, or tickles Mila and Alex.
Tonight, she’s got one knee propped on her dining room chair, helping Mila braid her hair in little twinned coils. Mila giggles and calls her a “hair tyrant,” and Ivy responds by flinging a napkin at her.
Alex ducks as it sails by, then points dramatically. “Mom! Ivy started a food fight!”
I gulp hard. He’s started calling me Mom lately, and every time, something pinches in my chest. I love it and hate it at the same time. Love it, because of course I want to be his mom, but hate it, because I don’t want him to forget his own mother.
But he was one when she died. Of course he doesn’t remember her. Still, I’m not trying to replace her. No one can replace a mom.
I raise an eyebrow. “Nobody’s thrown food, Alex.”
“Yet,” Nikolai says, chewing a breadstick with mock menace.
It’s family dinner night at the compound. The table is full—overflowing, really. Grandpa is here. So is Lolita, laughing between Max and Yuri, both of whom have turned into shameless charm machines. Aunt Olenna is perched at the far end of the table, glowering at Max like she’s trying to decide whether he’s flirting too much or too badly.
I’m at the head of the table.
That took me a minute to accept. I tried to take a side seat the first time they set up the dining room like this. Roman gave me a look like I’d kicked a puppy. Victor physically pulled out the head chair for me. Nikolai said, “We’re not starting dinner until you sit in the throne, Saff.”
Now it’s just where I sit.
It’s loud. The kids argue. The men argue louder. Someone always spills juice. And I’ve never been so full in my life—not from food, but fromthis. This impossible, beautiful life I thought I’d never have.
After dinner, as everyone lingers in that warm haze of second helpings and too much laughter, Grandpa finds me by the doorsleading to the terrace. He holds a mug of tea in both hands and watches Ivy playing tag around the fountain with Alex.
“Your parents reached out,” he says without preamble.
I freeze. “What?”
“Called me a week ago. Asked how you were. Wanted to know if you’d…be open to talking.”
A wave of nausea rolls through me. “No.”
He nods like he expected that. “They said some things they can’t unsay.”
“They told me Ivy was a mistake,” I say quietly. “Said she was proof of my shame. That I wasn’t their daughter anymore. I have nothing to say to them.”
Grandpa doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he sips his tea. “Figured that’d be your answer. But if you ever change your mind…I’ve got their number.”
I nod.
He watches me for another beat, then looks toward the men—my men—sitting by the firepit. Victor’s feeding the flames. Roman’s sipping a drink, eyes scanning the backyard. Nik is in the grass, getting gently tackled by Ivy and Mila. Well, Mila’s doing most of the tackling. Ivy is supervising.
“I’ve never seen you this happy,” Grandpa says softly.
I smile. “I’ve neverbeenthis happy.”
He breathes out through his nose. “Puts my heart at ease. I know what kind of people they are.”
I cut in quickly. “That’s all behind them. They’re not?—”
“I was going to say loyal and protective.”
I flush. “Oh.”
Grandpa chuckles softly, his shoulders loosening as he watches Ivy squeal with delight. “I had a feeling you’d assume the worst. But no—I meant it. Loyal. Protective. Orlovs always were, even when they weren’t trying to be.”
