Page 85 of Single Mom's Daddies
Victor glances at the other two, and Roman nods. So Victor admits, “We spoke to her cardiologist before coming in. He’s in agreement. He’ll still coordinate her treatment plan with Dr. Vlad. I keep a helicopter on our property for fun. Now, it will be retrofitted for her needs so I can fly us here the moment we get the call.”
My head is swimming. “You already talked to him? When?”
Roman nods. “You walked into the room. We spotted Dr. Belleville in the hallway and had a chat. He was…agreeable. Eventually.”
I glance down at Ivy. Must have been in here longer than I thought. Panic is funny that way. Time has no meaning when it comes to Ivy. Her little face is relaxed in sleep, lashes resting on flushed cheeks, IV line taped carefully to the back of her hand.
And I think about this morning. Kissing her forehead goodbye. Believing she was safe. I could’ve lost her today. Over a bite of chocolate.
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. “Okay. Okay. Let’s do it.”
Victor exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night. Nik too. Roman steps forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “We do this as a family. You hear me?”
I nod, unable to speak. My throat’s too tight. Because for the first time in years, someone is helping carry the weight. It feels off, like they’re taking something from me. Something heavy I’ve lugged around for so long. But it’s mine.
Now, it’s ours.
22
ROMAN
The main househasn’t been this loud in years.
It’s not chaos—yet—but the kind of structured movement that reminds me of the old days. Back when we had to relocate the whole operation overnight because a rival Pakhan forgot how treaties work. This time, it’s pill organizers, hospital bags, stuffed animals, and a frazzled mother with dark circles under her eyes who keeps thanking everyone even though none of us want her to.
We want her here. More than anything. We don’t need a side of gratitude with that. We’re the grateful ones in this equation.
I stand in the front hall, arms crossed, watching the loading team finish carrying Saffron’s things from the guesthouse. She only packed a few bags, but I made damn sure the staff brought everything—pillows, blankets, the white noise machine Ivy uses to cover the sounds from the monitors, her toys, her clothes, her books. And the stuffed pink owl that looks like it’s survived a war.
“This her room?” Melanie asks.
She’s in scrubs, hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, tablet under one arm, a thermal mug of what I suspect is straight espresso in the other. Private nurse. Mid-thirties. Calm under pressure. The only person on our vetting list who passed every background check without a single hitch and who Saffron liked.
“For now,” I say, leading her down the second-floor hallway. “Same hallway as ours. Secure windows. Direct comms to Dr. Vlad’s office on the first floor. Saffron wishes it was in her cottage out back, but there isn’t quite enough room for all the equipment.”
Melanie whistles low. “This isn’t a sick ward. It’s a bunker.”
“That’s the idea.”
She walks the room slowly, eyes scanning everything—the filtered air vent system, the biometric lock on the med cabinet, the emergency panic button by the nightstand. Her hand brushes over the edge of the hospital-grade mini fridge we had installed for Ivy’s meds.
“It’s solid,” she says finally. “Ivy’s going to be okay here.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Downstairs, Saffron is still on the phone with the insurance adjuster, trying to get billing straightened out. Again. Evidently they don’t know what to do when they’re not needed, and since we’re footing the bills now, they’re still trying to sink their claws into Ivy’s case, even if only the billing. Ivy is sitting cross-legged in the sunroom with Mila and Alex, all three of them with juice boxes and crayons spread across the floor like some miniature diplomatic summit.
For her, today is a good day, so she gets to see her half-siblings. The room smells like lemons and sugar cookies—both sugar-free, thanks to Mrs. Popovich. I gave her Ivy’s requirements, and she sprang into action, happy to have another child to spoil, even if it means using artificial sweeteners instead of real sugar.
Mila’s in charge, as usual. She’s explaining how to draw a horse with hearts for hooves. Alex is chewing on the end of a marker while Ivy giggles at whatever he just said.
She looks…happy. Not distracted. Not sick. Not scared. Just happy.
It hits me in the chest.
Dr. Vlad arrives just after lunch, dressed like he always is—collared shirt, thin sweater vest, black trousers, and a face that hasn’t smiled since 1982. He goes over Ivy’s file with Melanie in my office while I stand by and answer the occasional question.
When I step out, Saffron’s waiting in the hall, arms crossed. “She’s good?”
