Chapter 162 Chapter 162 5 Years
Five years later, and the pain is still there. It hasn’t dulled the way people promise it will. It just sits quieter, deeper, waiting for the wrong moment to rise up again. I’m sick of it. Sick of carrying something that should have died a long time ago. I hate that a part of me still feels anything for Ivan at all.
He’s been out for a year now. A year of silence, or what I tried to make silence. Gemma told me he reached out to her, asking about me, trying to find where I disappeared to. Of course he did. Ivan never lets anything go.
Tish is back home now with her husband, Andrew. They have a baby. Erika stayed in New York, still single, still doing whatever Erika does best—living freely, without attachment. Gemma and Alek? They’ll never have kids. They’re too busy enjoying each other, and honestly, it suits them.
For the last two years, Constantine and I have lived at the villa. It’s ours now in a way that feels real. He loves taking care of the chickens—it’s his chore, something he insists on doing himself every morning. The cows and pigs are gone. Too much work, too much responsibility for just me and Maria. She still lives in the small house on the property, still helps when we travel, still watches over things like she always has.
I love this life. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Mine.
Only a handful of people have my European number. Everyone else gets social media updates and nothing more. I’ve never brought anyone here. Not once. The villa is still my secret, my sanctuary, untouched by the chaos I left behind.
Maria’s nephew still visits sometimes, though not as often. Constantine doesn’t like him. Actually, he doesn’t like any man who looks at me too long or speaks to me in that tone. He gets protective in a way that both amuses and concerns me.
He’s my little man.
And I love him more than anything.
Sure, I get lonely sometimes. It creeps in late at night, or in the quiet moments when there’s no distraction. But it passes. It always does.
The rent from my apartment covers all of our expenses, so I don’t have to touch my savings. We spend our days taking care of the property, reading, exploring, existing in a way that feels… whole. It’s a good life.
In two years, he’ll have to start school. I haven’t decided what that will look like yet—homeschooling, something in Sofia, maybe even boarding school. The thought of sending him away twists something inside me, but I know he needs to be around other kids more. He’s too serious. Too aware.
“Mom, are we there yet?” he asks from the backseat.
“No,” I answer for what feels like the hundredth time.
We flew into Florence, caught a football game—him in his little FC Barcelona jersey, matching mine, proud of it like it means something important. And now I’m driving toward the compound.
Why?
Why am I doing this?
Why am I about to let all those people back into my life?
It’s my father’s sixty-fifth birthday. Illia Sr. is hosting it for him, which means everything will be over the top. My father is working for him again. I don’t know what he does, and I don’t ask.
He wants to see his grandson.
I couldn’t hide Constantine from him forever. My dad knew before Constantine turned one, he was one of the best sitters, he loves him like he never loved me.
My brothers are in the military—we were never close, but I know they’ll be there. My mother is gone. My sister, my cousins, aunts, uncles… everyone.
I just hope we’re the last to arrive.
Gate one comes into view.
Taylor.
I park and step out of the car, and before I can say anything, he’s already pulling me into a hug, lifting me off the ground like no time has passed.
“You tall-ass fatherfucker,” I laugh. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” he grins, setting me down. “But not as good as you. Are you aging backward, Elle?”
“Stop teasing.” I glance past him, my expression tightening. “Is everyone here already?”
“Oh yeah,” he says. “It’s bad.”
Of course it is.
“You know Dimitri is married now, right?” he adds casually. “French girl. Marie.”
“Good for him,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.
“Everyone’s seeing someone,” he continues.
I nod slowly. “Well… I have my own man.”
Taylor tilts his head, confused, glancing at the empty passenger seat. I walk to the back door and open it.
“Constantine,” I say softly. “Say hello to Taylor.”
My son looks at him, then gives a small nod.
“This is my son.”
Taylor blinks, clearly trying to process it.
“He looks like—”
“Yes,” I cut him off before he can finish.
He exhales slowly. “You better get going. Sun’s setting.”
He pulls me into one last hug before stepping back.
I take a deep breath and climb back into the car. Taylor calls ahead, and the gates open one after another without stopping. No checkpoints. No delays.
Just a straight path in.
And with every turn of the tires, something tightens in my chest.
This place.
This is where Ivan tore me apart.
And now I’m bringing my son here.
What the fuck am I thinking?
This is a mistake. A stupid, reckless, emotional mistake.
I’m a grown woman still making stupid girl decisions.
Then—
I see him.
Like no time has passed at all.
Ivan leans against the antique double doors of the villa, smoke curling lazily above him, like the world hasn’t touched him in five years. He’s dressed in black, head to toe, like he’s attending a funeral instead of a birthday. His eyes track my car as it approaches, but the windows are too dark for him to see inside.
Then I spot my father. And Illia Sr.
“There she is,” my father calls as I step out of the car. “I told you not to go to the match. Now you have to rush upstairs to get ready.”
I wave him off. “Constantine wanted to see it too,” I say. “Although he’s picking up bad habits.”
I open the back door, and my son hops out. Behind me, I hear Ivan choke—sharp, unexpected.
I don’t turn.
I open the trunk instead, pulling out our bags, dragging them across the gravel. Constantine stands beside the car, still, watching everything.
“Go say hello to your grandfather,” I tell him gently.
He doesn’t move.
All three and a half feet of him, planted in place.
Then he grunts—and spits on the ground.
I sigh. “What did I say about spitting?”
He turns, scowling at me, completely unapologetic.
“Sorry, Dad,” I say lightly, glancing toward my father. “He saw one guy do it once, and now he spits everywhere.”
I laugh, but it feels thin.
Finally, I look up.
Illia Sr. looks like he might actually have a heart attack.
And Ivan—
Ivan looks like he forgot how to breathe.