Chapter 163 Chapter 163 My Son
The exchange at the front of the villa was awkward, for lack of a better word. Awkward, tense, and loaded with things no one wanted to say out loud. I know I set off a damn bomb the moment I stepped out of that car with Constantine. I can already imagine the hushed conversations, the whispers behind closed doors, the speculation. Ivan didn’t say shit when I walked past him, not a word, not even a breath in my direction. Constantine, on the other hand, made sure to spit one more time before finally, reluctantly, shaking my father’s hand—and then Illia Sr.’s.
Illia Sr. almost looked like he was about to cry. I’ve never seen that kind of emotion on his face before, not even close. It unsettled me more than anything else tonight. I know the questions are coming. Hard ones. Ones I won’t be able to dodge forever. But for now, we’re getting ready, and I’m holding onto that small window of quiet before everything explodes.
I slide into my black silk dress. It’s more modest than what I usually wear, covering more skin, softer lines—but somehow it still feels like a revenge dress. Maybe it’s the way it fits, or the way I carry it. My hair falls in soft waves down my back, my skin sun-kissed, makeup minimal. Effortless, but deliberate.
When I step out of the bathroom, I find Constantine struggling with his tie, his little fingers fumbling with it, frustration written all over his face.
“You look so handsome in your suit,” I tell him, and he gives me one of those rare smiles.
Those smiles are reserved. Only for me. And sometimes for his aunties.
I step closer and fix the tie for him, smoothing it out, adjusting it so it sits just right. I had his suit tailored—it fits him perfectly, sharp and clean, like he belongs in rooms like this. And he does.
I take his small hand in mine and open the door.
Ivan is standing in the hallway.
Of course he is.
He straightens the second he sees us, like he wasn’t just lingering there waiting. My jaw tightens immediately. I can already feel the headache forming behind my eyes.
Constantine looks between us, his gaze sharp and curious. Then comes that little growl he does when he’s irritated.
“What are you staring at?” he snaps, and spits on the floor.
Jesus Christ.
“Constantine, if you spit one more time…” I pause, trying to think of a punishment that will actually mean something. “…I am not going to let you wear your jersey anymore.”
Ivan chuckles.
“Sorry, Mother,” Constantine mutters, but the look on his face says he’s not sorry at all.
I don’t linger on Ivan. I can’t. Fuck him. The fact that he still smells amazing, that he somehow looks even better than before—it’s infuriating. Prison agreed with him in all the worst ways.
Constantine and I walk past him, turning the corner. Ivan follows, keeping his distance just enough for me to breathe.
We’re on the first floor. Only a few bedrooms line this hallway before it opens up.
Ivan moves quickly to open the ballroom door for me, but I beat him to it. Our hands brush, and that familiar spark hits me—sharp, electric. Goosebumps rise instantly along my skin.
I ignore it. I refuse to let him see any reaction.
Then—
Silence.
The kind that falls all at once, heavy and absolute.
All eyes on us.
The room looks exactly the same. Like stepping back in time. Illia Sr.’s fifty-fifth birthday—it all blurs together. Four bars. Buffet tables. Round tables dressed in black cloth. The hardwood floor gleaming under soft light. Large windows draped with sheer red curtains. The music, the tension.
And the people.
Too many people I don’t want to see.
They all watch as we walk across the floor, slow and deliberate, toward my father’s table. He’s already waving us over.
My brothers stand first. One by one, they hug me, telling me they miss me like we ever had that kind of relationship. We didn’t. We don’t. Their buzz cuts are identical, their posture rigid. Military through and through.
My father stands next, pulling me into an awkward hug.
Constantine growls.
“Don’t touch my mother,” he snaps.
My father releases me instantly, stepping back like he’s been burned.
Illia Sr. lets out a deep, booming laugh.
“He is so much like his father.”
Constantine scowls, dropping into his seat, mumbling under his breath.
“I don’t have a father.”
His eyes flick to Ivan’s table, and he tries to spit again.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, turning his face toward me. “What is wrong with you tonight? What is with the attitude?”
He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring in that direction.
I follow his gaze. Dimitri is there, sitting with his wife—Marie, I assume. Sal, Leo, Can, Jax, and his girlfriend. Familiar faces. Complicated history.
“I’m going to get you some food,” I say, softening my tone. “Maybe you’re just hangry.”
He nods, but grabs my hand before I can step away.
“Why is everyone looking at me?” he asks quietly. “Is it because of my father? He is my father, isn't he, mother?”
I lean down closer to him. “Because you’re beautiful and yes partly because of your father.”
“Mother,” he whines, embarrassed.
I smile despite everything.
As I walk away, I can already hear my father and Illia Sr. interrogating him about his life, his routines, everything. Their curiosity is relentless.
And everyone is still watching.
The table full of Illia’s ex-wives is especially focused. Christina—Ivan’s mother—doesn’t even try to hide it. Marta waves me over, but I shake my head slightly, mouthing that I need to feed my son first.
I grab a plate and start filling it—meat, vegetables, whatever looks decent. People around me I don’t recognize drift in and out of my peripheral vision. My sister and her prince are nearby too, but I don’t look at her. We haven’t spoken in too long.
Then I feel it.
Him.
That presence behind me, close enough to feel the heat of his body.
I hate how my body reacts. Hate the instinct to lean back into him, like nothing ever happened, like I didn’t build an entire life without him.
“When were you going to tell me about my son?” Ivan’s voice is low, smooth, sliding into my mind.
I glance over my shoulder, not at him—but at Yulia. She’s sitting frozen, wide-eyed, her gaze bouncing between Ivan and Constantine.
Of course she is.
“That day I came to see you,” I say quietly, my voice steady despite everything. “But once again, you chose someone else.”