Page 88 of Nine Months to Love
But sitting here, in this cold basement, across from a woman who’s dedicated years of her life to ruining mine—somehow, this feels like the right moment.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “I do.”
Her eyes widen. She wasn’t expecting honesty. “You actually mean that.”
“I do.”
“I don’t think you know how to love people, Stefan. You only know how to use them.”
“Maybe that was once true. Before her.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, matching Mila’s posture. “Now, tell me why you did all this. You spent eight years working for me, pretending to be loyal, when you were planning to destroy me the whole time. That’s a hell of a long con with no clear payoff.”
She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is different. Softer. Almost vulnerable.
“Because you killed my sister.”
I close my eyes and breathe. It’s the only way to process what I knew was coming and tried to pretend couldn’t be true. But it is true. My worst fears, my greatest mistakes, all coming back to spit in my face and laugh at me.
“The body we buried,” I say slowly. “From the cabin. That was Mikayla Vladislav.”
“Yes.”
I close my eyes. Fuck. I knew it, but hearing it confirmed makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.
“I didn’t kill her,” I say. “Not on purpose. I thought I was killing my mother.”
“But Mikayla died anyway, didn’t she? She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you put a bullet in her head without even checking who she was.”
“It was dark. The car was on fire. I couldn’t?—”
“You could have checked!” she cries out, anger breaking through the calm. “You could have made sure! But you didn’t, because you were so consumed with revenge that you didn’t give one single fuck who got caught in the crossfire.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. I’ve known it for weeks now, ever since we discovered my mother was still alive.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. “I’m sorry your sister died because of my mistakes.”
“Sorry doesn’t bring her back.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
We sit in silence for a moment. The bulb overhead flickers.
“She was all I had,” Mila says quietly. “Our mother died when we were young. We only had each other. And then your mother came along and offered Mikayla a job. ‘Good money,’ she said. ‘Easy work.’ Just drive her places, keep her safe. Mikayla was thrilled. She thought it was her big break. A chance to make something of herself.” Mila’s hands clench in her lap. “She didn’t know what she was getting into. Didn’t know who your mother really was or what she was planning.”
“And you?”
“I was younger. Still in school. Mikayla sent me money every month. Told me to focus on my studies, that she’d take care of everything.” Her jaw hums with tension. “The night she died, I was home studying for an exam. I didn’t even know something was wrong until the police showed up at my door.”
I can picture it. A teenage girl, alone, being told her sister is dead. No body to identify. No closure. Just strange cops with unkind faces and impossible news.
“They told me there’d been a car accident,” Mila continues. “Mikayla died on impact, they said. But I knew something was off. Mikayla was a good driver. And the story didn’t make sense.”
“So you investigated.”
“Yes. Took me months, but I pieced it together. The connections to your family. The timing.” She looks at me. “I knew you’d killed her. I just didn’t know why.”
“And when you found out?”
“I wanted you dead. To make you suffer the way I suffered.” She pauses. “But I was smart enough to know I couldn’t just walk up and shoot you. You had too many people watching your back.”
