Chapter 164 Chapter 164 Don't Follow Me
Jax managed to distract Ivan long enough for me to slip away and get back to my son, but I know this isn’t over. There’s no version of this night where Ivan just lets it go. We will have to talk. And honestly? I don’t owe him anything. Constantine is my son. I adopted him. I raised him. I built a life for him without Ivan in it.
And yet…
I know Constantine needs a father. Even a bad one is better than none, or at least that’s what people say. The thing is, I don’t think Ivan would be a bad father. He’s been terrible with me—reckless, selfish, destructive—but with Constantine? I have this sinking feeling he’d be… good. Protective. Present. The kind of man who would give everything.
And that terrifies me more than anything else.
I set the plate down in front of Constantine, and he immediately starts eating, focused and silent.
“He doesn’t like to talk, like Ivan?” Illia Sr. asks. I’m not sure if it’s a question or just an observation.
“Constantine talks plenty,” I reply, watching my son carefully. “When he’s comfortable. When it’s about things he likes.” I tilt my head toward him. “Ask him about his chickens.”
That does it.
His eyes light up instantly. He drops his fork and launches into a full explanation—each chicken by name, what kind of eggs they lay, how he feeds them, how he cleans up after them, how many times I make him wash his hands. He’s animated, expressive, completely different from the quiet boy who just sat there.
Illia Sr. and my father hang on every word like it’s the most fascinating thing they’ve ever heard.
Constantine pauses just long enough to take a few bites before continuing, now talking about the villa, about Maria, about the hot springs he loves swimming in. His voice carries, steady and proud.
I make the mistake of looking up.
Ivan’s eyes meet mine.
Just for a second.
I look away immediately.
The music shifts, picking up into something livelier, and people begin drifting toward the dance floor. The energy in the room changes, loosens.
Arms settle on my shoulders—firm, familiar, but gentle. I turn and find Marta behind me. I straighten slightly as she pulls me into a hug. Constantine watches closely, his expression tightening like he might intervene if he decides he doesn’t approve.
I introduce them, but Marta doesn’t say much. She doesn’t need to. Everything is written across her face—shock, curiosity, something deeper.
She sits beside Constantine, listening to him talk like everyone else.
No one has asked the question yet.
Not the real one.
Who is his biological mother?
Constantine knows the truth, in the way a child can understand it. He knows I didn’t give birth to him. He knows his mother couldn’t keep him and trusted me to raise him.
That’s enough for now.
Christina moves closer, and something about her feels… softer. Less guarded than I remember. Constantine surprises me by asking her for a hug. He doesn’t usually do that—he prefers handshakes, small, controlled interactions.
She kneels in front of him, and he slides out of his chair, wrapping his arms around her.
The entire table goes quiet.
We watch her melt into him, her hands holding him a little tighter than necessary. There’s something fragile in the way she clings to him, like she’s holding onto something she lost a long time ago.
It’s… sweet.
He lets go first, then turns to me, arms raised.
I pick him up, settling him into my lap.
Christina takes his seat.
Constantine keeps talking for a while—back to his chickens, always his chickens—but his voice slows, softens. His body relaxes against mine. Within minutes, he’s asleep.
His head rests against my chest, his small hands gripping the fabric of my dress like he needs to anchor himself. His lips part slightly as he breathes, slow and even.
I brush his blond hair back, just watching him.
“He is beautiful,” Christina says quietly.
“I can’t take credit for that,” I reply with a faint smile. “But everything else is me.”
She leans closer, lowering her voice. “Who is the biological mother?”
She pauses almost immediately, shaking her head slightly. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. He’s yours.”
I mouth a silent thank you.
I don’t want to talk about Vladimira. I’m glad she isn’t here tonight.
Illia Sr. and my father disappear toward the dance floor, already laughing, already pulling girls far too young into their orbit. My brothers drift off to talk with Stanislav and some of Dimitri’s men, all of them in black suits, blending into one intimidating cluster.
Christina and Marta keep me at the table, asking about my life, about the villa, about anything that will keep me seated a little longer.
“Does he have any other kids?” I ask before I can stop myself.
The second the words leave my mouth, I regret it.
“No, baby,” Christina says softly. “He got snipped months before he went to prison. He didn’t say much, just that he made a mistake.”
Of course he did.
“Have you talked to him?” Marta asks.
I look up before I can stop myself.
Ivan is sitting alone now. Miroslav slides into the seat beside him, leaning in, speaking low. But Ivan isn’t listening. His eyes are still on me.
They don’t move.
“No,” I say, forcing my attention back to Marta. “I haven’t. Not since Dimitri and I went to see him that one time.”
I take a slow breath.
“I have nothing to say to him.”
I stand, adjusting Constantine in my arms so he stays comfortable.
“I’m going to put him to bed.”
“Come back and have a drink with me,” Christina says.
I nod.
As I turn, I feel it before I see it.
Ivan stands.
I glance back just enough to catch his movement.
Don’t follow me, I mouth silently.
But I already know it doesn’t matter.
Ivan never listens.
And sure enough—
He’s right behind me.